You would think that 19 laps on push bikes around the public park may induce dizziness, fatigue and not a little bit of boredom.
Granted, the first two symptoms did in my case present themselves but that is not unusual for someone of my age taking a good bit of exercise after a few weeks of relative sloth.
It is not a tight circuit. At 0.7 miles a lap it is a reasonable distance and with enough variation in the road surface and a few fixed and random hazards to keep concentration high and with that a bit of adrenalin and determination.
At 10am on a Sunday morning the park is pretty busy.
There are a few stragglers making their way home after the night before. Those who did go out for their Saturday social but had a sudden pang of guilt and conscience are jogging and trying to fight back a feeling of nausea.
There is a small collection of outdoor gym equipment in gawdy paintwork on which a few brave souls gyrate, Nordic ski, thrust and pump.
A solitary figure is on one leg and makes various quite artistic poses with flailing arms but I not really sure if he is actually doing any recognised form of meditative exercise. He may just be drunk or high and has an urge to stretch and marvel at the sunlight through the park trees. He seems happy enough.
One parked car has self adhesive signage in the back window advertising a ladies only fitness instructor. Nearby one thin energetic muscly female and three less energetic but determined chubbier ones are moving around a series of cones in an organised routine with hand held weights and medicine balls followed by groaning sessions as they lie down on thin foam mats on the dewy grass legs raised.
On the opposite side of the park it is American Football practice with large and stout males with over the head shoulder pads practicing short play tactics with a fair amount of the posturing and attitude of their sporting heroes.
After a wind blown night a few mums and dads search around for fallen conkers in preference to the labour intensive process of lobbing large sticks into the lower boughs of the horse chestnut trees. The accompanying children are excited in finding a spiky green body but underwhelmed by its contents, however fresh, glossy and smooth.
The trees around the edge of the road on which we cycle are looking in a sorry state from the early autumn battering . Our tyres crunch through the remains of crushed conkers. On occasion we can feel the impact of a conker as it is released in the gusty breeze and hits us directly or bounces up into our spokes.
For the first time since, I cannot really recall, one enterprising and entertaining parent is running along having launched a small traditional kite. A small dog chases at his heels and a child is either laughing or crying at the situation. Laughing because the whole thing looks very comical. Crying because only the dog and the man are really having the fun.
In the strengthening morning sun the café is open and its outdoor tables are already taken up with readers of the papers taking slow sips of their teas and latte's.
The reptile house has just opened by the lake. It is not a very inspiring building but those passing through the exit chatter with delight at what they have just seen in the form of lizards and tropical fish. It is quite a little treasure and its own humid micro-climate is welcoming on a sharp September day.
The statue of Queen Victoria in white marble is perhaps the most flattering representation of that great monarch who always seems to be depicted in a dour and dark pose in other civic settings.
Noises are increasing from the large children's playground now fully accessible after the park attendants have cleared away the usual accumulation of drinks cans and fag ends which materialise as if by magic every morning.
This is the setting for our 60 minutes of fast pedalling around the park circuit. We blend in quite well with all the activity. I think that hardly anyone noticed us at all.
Monday 30 September 2013
Sunday 29 September 2013
Not Out for The Count
It will prove to be, without doubt in my opinion, the greatest menace to the ongoing viabilty of the Western World?
There are countless other factors at play in the social and economic balance which could as easily be influential.
Take the escalation of domestic energy costs, loss of meaningful industrial production, the underlying increase in unemployment, racial tensions, shortages of natural resources and general dissatisfaction with life, for starters.
Lets face it, we have in the West enjoyed the ascendancy in lifestyle and fortunes that goes with an industrial based revolution and it is sadly over.
It has been replaced by the ironic use of the word "industry" attached to the offerings of a wholly Service based sector.
Our largest employers are now call centres, banking and administrative conglomerates, insurance and on-line global corporations.
Within these very organisations lurks the menace that I have alluded to.
It is the domain of the badly thought out and composed E-mail.
I am a bit of a dinosaur when it comes to the medium of an e-mail.
I remain resolute, in the face of ridicule, in the sanctity and provenance of a properly composed and set-out letter and only such a carefully forged and personally signed document will leave my desktop.
Colleagues in the office bang E mails out for everything from inter-workstation chatter and gossip even up to and including the most important of contractural documents on which the future operation of the company and the satisfaction, well being and wealth of our customers ultimately depends.
The audible signal from PC's upon the deposit in the inbox of a new message is a staccato accompaniment to the long working day. It is a badge of honour to acculmulate a good few hundred unopened E- mails and a hot topic of conversation around the water cooler or in the smoking room relates to the content of your Spam Quarantine Filter.
There is an immediacy and urgency to anything arriving as an E-mail and it is a form of competition to respond as quickly as possible. The inevitable sacrifice in this process is the abandonment of thought, rationality, common sense, compassion and grammar.
More working hours are taken up in repairing the damage and havoc wreaked by impulsive, inappropriate, offensive, inflammatory and all too revealing E mails than actual bona-fide work.
I have benefitted a few times from the unwitting disclosure from an E mail correspondent of the complete thread of a conversation which has, scrolling down through the 'CC's' and 'BCC's' been none too polite about me or otherwise quite flattering in making me out to be a contender or worthy adversary.
The Local Authority provided me with a complete mailing list of one of their Departments that overlapped with my sphere of work. Admittedly, it was in the days pre-Spam regulations and it was put to good use through what I understand to have been something called the mail-merge process.
The E mail has also contributed to a breakdown in staff morale and relations in some companies through cyber bullying or other forms of intimidation which if attaining the Enquiry or Tribunal stage can cost a tangible proportion of the annual profit.
A personal E-mail emanating from a workstation can have deep ramifications if accidentally (or intentionally) copied in to fellow employees. Forthcoming date nights, liaisons, sexual peccadilloes and intimate nicknames can be thrust into the public domain to cause distress, embarassment or equal quantities of surprise, notoriety and inter-office celebrity.
To a certain extent the emergence of social media has provided a communication channel to bypass the E-mail particularly in, again, personal chatter but on the downside for the balance sheet is the loss of productivity as private matters are pursued in working hours.
I have been inspired to write on this subject by a recent appeal by BBC 6 Music's Radcliffe and Maconie for listeners to send in their personal experiences of one particularly prevalent E mail trait, that of the incorrectly keyed single letter in a message.
The sheer volume of offerings was testament to the lurking menace and insidiousness of this all powerful form of communication even if a genuine mistake or with cold, cruel intent.
Sarcasm in a message following a poor service from an on line computer helpdesk was somewhat lost in "many thanks for the assistance, Kind Retards ......"
A Dating Agency contacted one of its unattached Clients wishing them a "Lonely weekend".
An employee E-mailing a height challenged boss over their delayed arrival at an appointment concluded with "see you shorty".
My favourite one. A meeting of friends would not be possible as the writer was tired out after "a long, hard and difficult eight hour shit"
I tank you for your attention,
Saturday 28 September 2013
A Case for Animal Welfare in South East Europe
There is a set of four lines from a poem by the American humourist Josh Billings in 1870 which more than adequately defines my family.
"I hate to be a kicker, I always long for peace,but the wheel that does the squeaking is the one that gets the grease".
You may be familiar with the saying as it does surface on occasion in the popular press.You might even have thoughts along the very same lines if an apt situation arises or you may just have the CD of the greatest hits of the singer songwriter and just great James Taylor.
There is considerable debate over the true definition of the last two parts of the phrase but it has its best application in describing an awkward, noisy, self importance and demonstrative type of person who by kicking up a fuss always gets attention.
In polite language such people can be referred to as "go-getters" or "high flyers" when in general terms I would call them pushy, rude and not a little bit ignorant.
I have of course been extremely envious of such attributes in those situations in my life that have demanded that I speak up, make myself known or just kick up a bit of a rumpus.
I am just not that type of person and that also applies, in the majority, to my immediate and wider family.
We were brought up, returning to the first part of the Billings poem, not to kick and to always adopt the peaceful way. Again, not in itself a sign of weakness or a timid nature and in my personal experience often still by far the best way to deal with a specific event or situation. It is just that we are perceived as being a bit placid, no real trouble, unlikely to cause a ripple or whip up a storm and so on.
For some reason we exude this aura even though we have no other distinguishing traits to suggest such. Trying not to be too paranoid but this is picked up by those around us in key roles or where we are simply seeking some assistance.
Consequently we can find ourselves ignored, sidelined and placed well down on the order of priority in such day to day scenarios as shopping, queuing, ordering things on line, being served in an eatery or bar and in one hundred and one other predicaments.
I know all too well the first indicators of becoming the invisible family.
If there is any kind of gathering or a crowd we just take on a sort of camouflage and disappear from the plain sight of those in charge.
This was illustrated on an overseas holiday when for our first night in a rented Villa we decided to take the short walk in the cool evening air into the nearest town. Around the picturesque harbour we found a very quaint restaurant where we could sit under the stars.
The waiter pounced immediately and we ordered drinks and a few nibbles with no apparent problems of comprehension or language barrier. As is the custom in those parts the surrounding seating filled up as the night went on and the clientele were obviously well known regulars of the establishment, locals, even close neighbours or relatives.
After three hours our glasses had dried up and we could not eke out any more residue of olives or bread from our canapes but however much we assumed an air of willingness to order our main meal we could not convey this fact to the waiter even though he was up and down and around the terrace every few minutes.
There is a brief passage of time, perhaps a few seconds, in such situations when it is imperative to make a noise, in a friendly non aggresive tone and make contact with the outside world.
I well knew when that window of opportunity arrived. In fact I could see it looming up a long way off as the children and my wife became increasingly fidgety and agitated from lack of sustenance after what had been a very long and hot day of travelling.
Unfortunately I missed the chance and that was down to my genetic disposition not to be a sqeaky wheel.
That 180 minutes took on the guise of purgatory or so it seemed before the waiter took it upon himslef to approach us.
No doubt he was a little annoyed that an English family had occupied a prime table for all that time for the sum purchase of two glasses of wine, three cokes and had plundered the gratuities of local produce including his mother's dough bread.
Parties of townsfolk were milling about by the quay ready to take up our place and we had outstayed our welcome.
In somewhat more broken English than he had much earlier displayed he said that he thought we were only there for drinks and the view and not for food.
I was by now livid, protective towards my starving family and with irrational feelings of Xenophobia (ironically as I was the foreigner) but this came across outwardly in just a red face and the first trickles of Mediterranean climate induced perspiration on my nose, under my arms and in that ultimate sign of human weakness, a line of damp under the man-boobs.
My true emotions surfaced some way down the cobbled street and around a corner where I could have, if a poor unfortunate animal had been in the vicinity, kicked a donkey quite hard.
My children, now all young adults have thankfully learnt a lot from my meekness and reluctance to cause a squeak. They are all well balanced, polite individuals with not a bad bone in their bodies but can get served, noticed and acknowledged at such times as their invisibility cloak would otherwise enclose them and make them disappear. They say such characteristics skip a generation, like ginger hair, freckles and bed wetting so I am a bit fearful of being seen out in the future with any grandchildren.
"I hate to be a kicker, I always long for peace,but the wheel that does the squeaking is the one that gets the grease".
You may be familiar with the saying as it does surface on occasion in the popular press.You might even have thoughts along the very same lines if an apt situation arises or you may just have the CD of the greatest hits of the singer songwriter and just great James Taylor.
There is considerable debate over the true definition of the last two parts of the phrase but it has its best application in describing an awkward, noisy, self importance and demonstrative type of person who by kicking up a fuss always gets attention.
In polite language such people can be referred to as "go-getters" or "high flyers" when in general terms I would call them pushy, rude and not a little bit ignorant.
I have of course been extremely envious of such attributes in those situations in my life that have demanded that I speak up, make myself known or just kick up a bit of a rumpus.
I am just not that type of person and that also applies, in the majority, to my immediate and wider family.
We were brought up, returning to the first part of the Billings poem, not to kick and to always adopt the peaceful way. Again, not in itself a sign of weakness or a timid nature and in my personal experience often still by far the best way to deal with a specific event or situation. It is just that we are perceived as being a bit placid, no real trouble, unlikely to cause a ripple or whip up a storm and so on.
For some reason we exude this aura even though we have no other distinguishing traits to suggest such. Trying not to be too paranoid but this is picked up by those around us in key roles or where we are simply seeking some assistance.
Consequently we can find ourselves ignored, sidelined and placed well down on the order of priority in such day to day scenarios as shopping, queuing, ordering things on line, being served in an eatery or bar and in one hundred and one other predicaments.
I know all too well the first indicators of becoming the invisible family.
If there is any kind of gathering or a crowd we just take on a sort of camouflage and disappear from the plain sight of those in charge.
This was illustrated on an overseas holiday when for our first night in a rented Villa we decided to take the short walk in the cool evening air into the nearest town. Around the picturesque harbour we found a very quaint restaurant where we could sit under the stars.
The waiter pounced immediately and we ordered drinks and a few nibbles with no apparent problems of comprehension or language barrier. As is the custom in those parts the surrounding seating filled up as the night went on and the clientele were obviously well known regulars of the establishment, locals, even close neighbours or relatives.
After three hours our glasses had dried up and we could not eke out any more residue of olives or bread from our canapes but however much we assumed an air of willingness to order our main meal we could not convey this fact to the waiter even though he was up and down and around the terrace every few minutes.
There is a brief passage of time, perhaps a few seconds, in such situations when it is imperative to make a noise, in a friendly non aggresive tone and make contact with the outside world.
I well knew when that window of opportunity arrived. In fact I could see it looming up a long way off as the children and my wife became increasingly fidgety and agitated from lack of sustenance after what had been a very long and hot day of travelling.
Unfortunately I missed the chance and that was down to my genetic disposition not to be a sqeaky wheel.
That 180 minutes took on the guise of purgatory or so it seemed before the waiter took it upon himslef to approach us.
No doubt he was a little annoyed that an English family had occupied a prime table for all that time for the sum purchase of two glasses of wine, three cokes and had plundered the gratuities of local produce including his mother's dough bread.
Parties of townsfolk were milling about by the quay ready to take up our place and we had outstayed our welcome.
In somewhat more broken English than he had much earlier displayed he said that he thought we were only there for drinks and the view and not for food.
I was by now livid, protective towards my starving family and with irrational feelings of Xenophobia (ironically as I was the foreigner) but this came across outwardly in just a red face and the first trickles of Mediterranean climate induced perspiration on my nose, under my arms and in that ultimate sign of human weakness, a line of damp under the man-boobs.
My true emotions surfaced some way down the cobbled street and around a corner where I could have, if a poor unfortunate animal had been in the vicinity, kicked a donkey quite hard.
My children, now all young adults have thankfully learnt a lot from my meekness and reluctance to cause a squeak. They are all well balanced, polite individuals with not a bad bone in their bodies but can get served, noticed and acknowledged at such times as their invisibility cloak would otherwise enclose them and make them disappear. They say such characteristics skip a generation, like ginger hair, freckles and bed wetting so I am a bit fearful of being seen out in the future with any grandchildren.
Thursday 26 September 2013
SSHHHH I.T. Happens
There are many challenges in a 21st Century lifestyle, arguably more than in the last century and almost certainly during my own lifetime covering a mere 50 years.
The standard of living and other key factors such as general health and life expectancy have surged forward but in tandem there has also been a great increase in the cost of living and with the inevitable downside of a tangible decline in family values, neighbourly relations and empathy for those less well off than ourselves.
We expect a lot nowadays even if we have not strictly earned or in fact deserve it.
Ours is a bit of a throw-away existence not just in the extravagant and wasteful squandering of daily consumables but in respect of what the previous generation of our parents would regard as high value and luxury goods such as TV's, the latest model of mobile phone, our cars, electronic equipment and those essential gadgets to supposedly help us to cope with an increasingly busy, hectic but above all uncontrollable life.
We may not be able to escape the culture of "must have" that is all pervading in the service industry dominated western world in spite of a deep desire and longing to rid ourselves of material things and motives. There are the early spring shoots of a purge of our extravagance in such practices as recycling, making do and mending or a fascination with what can be acquired for next to nothing on E Bay or Gumtree, at a Car Boot Sale, Charity Shop or fished out of someone's kerbside rubbish skip in the hours of darkness.
There is a cult movement, very much underground, whereby those subscribing to it limit their worldly possessions to 100 items at any one time. This can be quite a challenge as acquisition of any new thing inevitably pushes something else out of the system and so on and so forth.
The rest of us are just in far too deep to attempt such a radical move although from time to time we may show an affinity to a spartan but adequate lifestyle through a cleaning spree, a sought out and chuck out or in just giving away a few objects to family, friends or deserving strangers.
We certainly need some inspiration and assistance in coping with a 21st Century lifestyle if we are to make the most of our worldly status and possessions.
This has, in my own personal experience been the case with a new designation of acquaintance whom we shall henceforth call a "Technical Friend".
Our family have one such person.
We have known him for some years. I first came across him when he sent out a circular to businesses seeking contract work for his speciality field of Information Technology and all that the term encompasses in computers, mobile phones and general connectivity with the general public. He was starting up a new company as a self employed technician. The letter I opened up one morning in my office was not actually addressed to me but ironically to a main competitor in error.
Coincidentally I was in the market for a major upgrade of our systems and so it transpired that I assumed the position of being Client Number One in placing an order.
In the firmament of IT, I acknowledge that I was extremely small fry but nevertheless being the first on the ground floor, in effect on the doormat of someone's new enterprise I could as easily have been a customer on the scale of a multi-national global conglomerate.
In the following years our business relationship and friendship developed but the "Technical Friend" label persists.
You may be able to appreciate the great benefits of having such a friend if you have ever had to converse with the Helpdesk of the maufacturer of your home PC or related software. They speak a different language not just in terminology but in a strange dialect of fast and incomprehensible gibberish to which you find yourself nodding ( on the phone), whilst perspiring heavily onto the keyboard or keypad trying to follow the mysterious instructions for re-booting or restoring the factory settings.
Imagine the feeling of utter power and control in making contact with the bodyless voice at the end of the line and then handing everything over to your Technical Friend to be sorted out.
It is a wondrous thing to behold, two like minded and skilled individuals duelling verbally and trying to outdo and outwit each other but at the same time in an atmosphere of mutual respect and understanding. Just put "Technical Friend" on your wish list and you will find your 21st Century Life so much easier.
The standard of living and other key factors such as general health and life expectancy have surged forward but in tandem there has also been a great increase in the cost of living and with the inevitable downside of a tangible decline in family values, neighbourly relations and empathy for those less well off than ourselves.
We expect a lot nowadays even if we have not strictly earned or in fact deserve it.
Ours is a bit of a throw-away existence not just in the extravagant and wasteful squandering of daily consumables but in respect of what the previous generation of our parents would regard as high value and luxury goods such as TV's, the latest model of mobile phone, our cars, electronic equipment and those essential gadgets to supposedly help us to cope with an increasingly busy, hectic but above all uncontrollable life.
We may not be able to escape the culture of "must have" that is all pervading in the service industry dominated western world in spite of a deep desire and longing to rid ourselves of material things and motives. There are the early spring shoots of a purge of our extravagance in such practices as recycling, making do and mending or a fascination with what can be acquired for next to nothing on E Bay or Gumtree, at a Car Boot Sale, Charity Shop or fished out of someone's kerbside rubbish skip in the hours of darkness.
There is a cult movement, very much underground, whereby those subscribing to it limit their worldly possessions to 100 items at any one time. This can be quite a challenge as acquisition of any new thing inevitably pushes something else out of the system and so on and so forth.
The rest of us are just in far too deep to attempt such a radical move although from time to time we may show an affinity to a spartan but adequate lifestyle through a cleaning spree, a sought out and chuck out or in just giving away a few objects to family, friends or deserving strangers.
We certainly need some inspiration and assistance in coping with a 21st Century lifestyle if we are to make the most of our worldly status and possessions.
This has, in my own personal experience been the case with a new designation of acquaintance whom we shall henceforth call a "Technical Friend".
Our family have one such person.
We have known him for some years. I first came across him when he sent out a circular to businesses seeking contract work for his speciality field of Information Technology and all that the term encompasses in computers, mobile phones and general connectivity with the general public. He was starting up a new company as a self employed technician. The letter I opened up one morning in my office was not actually addressed to me but ironically to a main competitor in error.
Coincidentally I was in the market for a major upgrade of our systems and so it transpired that I assumed the position of being Client Number One in placing an order.
In the firmament of IT, I acknowledge that I was extremely small fry but nevertheless being the first on the ground floor, in effect on the doormat of someone's new enterprise I could as easily have been a customer on the scale of a multi-national global conglomerate.
In the following years our business relationship and friendship developed but the "Technical Friend" label persists.
You may be able to appreciate the great benefits of having such a friend if you have ever had to converse with the Helpdesk of the maufacturer of your home PC or related software. They speak a different language not just in terminology but in a strange dialect of fast and incomprehensible gibberish to which you find yourself nodding ( on the phone), whilst perspiring heavily onto the keyboard or keypad trying to follow the mysterious instructions for re-booting or restoring the factory settings.
Imagine the feeling of utter power and control in making contact with the bodyless voice at the end of the line and then handing everything over to your Technical Friend to be sorted out.
It is a wondrous thing to behold, two like minded and skilled individuals duelling verbally and trying to outdo and outwit each other but at the same time in an atmosphere of mutual respect and understanding. Just put "Technical Friend" on your wish list and you will find your 21st Century Life so much easier.
Wednesday 25 September 2013
Wholly Moley
Daniel Hooper is one of those individuals who did something quite remarkable.
He has, to a certain extent been made to pay for his actions ever since.
His act of protest and defiance borne out of a real concern for environmental issues thrust him into the public perception and celebrity spotlight. That was back in 1996 when, at age 22 he entombed himself, with other activists in a woodland hole which at great additional cost briefly and temporarily thwarted the construction of the A34 bypass around his home town, Newbury in Berkshire.
The establishment and the contractors have however had the longest laugh with that stretch of road now carrying significantly higher volumes of traffic than it was ever anticipated to. It may even be a case of adding extra lanes to cope with the increasing demand.
After his defiant last man stand before being forcibly evicted from his burrow Daniel Hooper enjoyed a few moments as a darling of the media. His supporters on the front line may not have agreed with his new found role as reported by the Sunday Times as representing a "rediscovery of rebelliousness among Britain's Bourgeoisie" and many felt he sold himself out. A dip in his popularity was salvaged by the own goal remarks by a former Government Transport Minister that he would like to see the lad buried in concrete as punishment for embarrassing those in power. This comment helped restore Daniel Hooper's position in history, folklore and in the vanguard of enviromentalism now very much a popular listing on a CV and in everyday conversation amongst the chattering classes in our society.
As recently as last week a mainstream TV News Programme sent off a reporter in search of Daniel Hooper.
A milestone has been reached, not so much on an arterial road this time, but down to the fact that the 22 year old is now a mature aged 40.
Rather than being a whimsical and retrospective piece along the well tried and trusted route of "Where are they now?", I found the tone of the news feature quite offensive, disparaging and disrespectful to someone who acted out of a real belief in an issue on his own doorstep. He was ahead of his peer group at the time who would otherwise be engrossed in video games or customising their hot hatchbacks and thumpy in car sound systems.
The angle of the feature was not so much to flush out Daniel Hooper implying that he was living off the back of society as a ne'er do well and a benefit parasite as to shame him by showing him as a quiet, unassuming family man with his kids attending a State School as though trying to firmly bury or deny his past. The worst insult in the opinion of the News programme would be to show him as normal.
The whole report backfired splendidly as, true, Danial Hooper is a fully grown adult with dependants and outgoings but critically he still has the brightest and best environmental credentials in that he lives under canvas under a wide open sky and leaves the barest of discernible carbon footprints that you could ever hope to attain.
The relentless pursuit of the man can be seen in the archives of the press and media. At his 30th birthday another intrepid team were despatched to dig up some dirt, perhaps hoping to find him driving a gas guzzler of a 4x4, voting for the Tories and buying shares in non-renewables.
They will have been disappointed in uncovering his lifestyle of dedicated self sustainability in a woodland commune with another negligible impact on the ozone layer and natural resources.
He has, even under tremendous pressure to conform, maintained his ethics and committment as an Eco-Warrior and thereby been an inspiration to others, even if it only to make a gesture or to lend a signature to a petition against those entirely profit driven interests seeking to rape and pillage the planet of its treasures and in increasingly beautiful and vulnerable locations of forest, tundra and polar continents.
Ironically Daniel Hooper singularly failed to stop any of the schemes at which he protested but it must not be forgotten that he made a gallant effort and in a passive and peaceful manner.
Happy 40th Swampy. You are a modern day hero.
He has, to a certain extent been made to pay for his actions ever since.
His act of protest and defiance borne out of a real concern for environmental issues thrust him into the public perception and celebrity spotlight. That was back in 1996 when, at age 22 he entombed himself, with other activists in a woodland hole which at great additional cost briefly and temporarily thwarted the construction of the A34 bypass around his home town, Newbury in Berkshire.
The establishment and the contractors have however had the longest laugh with that stretch of road now carrying significantly higher volumes of traffic than it was ever anticipated to. It may even be a case of adding extra lanes to cope with the increasing demand.
After his defiant last man stand before being forcibly evicted from his burrow Daniel Hooper enjoyed a few moments as a darling of the media. His supporters on the front line may not have agreed with his new found role as reported by the Sunday Times as representing a "rediscovery of rebelliousness among Britain's Bourgeoisie" and many felt he sold himself out. A dip in his popularity was salvaged by the own goal remarks by a former Government Transport Minister that he would like to see the lad buried in concrete as punishment for embarrassing those in power. This comment helped restore Daniel Hooper's position in history, folklore and in the vanguard of enviromentalism now very much a popular listing on a CV and in everyday conversation amongst the chattering classes in our society.
As recently as last week a mainstream TV News Programme sent off a reporter in search of Daniel Hooper.
A milestone has been reached, not so much on an arterial road this time, but down to the fact that the 22 year old is now a mature aged 40.
Rather than being a whimsical and retrospective piece along the well tried and trusted route of "Where are they now?", I found the tone of the news feature quite offensive, disparaging and disrespectful to someone who acted out of a real belief in an issue on his own doorstep. He was ahead of his peer group at the time who would otherwise be engrossed in video games or customising their hot hatchbacks and thumpy in car sound systems.
The angle of the feature was not so much to flush out Daniel Hooper implying that he was living off the back of society as a ne'er do well and a benefit parasite as to shame him by showing him as a quiet, unassuming family man with his kids attending a State School as though trying to firmly bury or deny his past. The worst insult in the opinion of the News programme would be to show him as normal.
The whole report backfired splendidly as, true, Danial Hooper is a fully grown adult with dependants and outgoings but critically he still has the brightest and best environmental credentials in that he lives under canvas under a wide open sky and leaves the barest of discernible carbon footprints that you could ever hope to attain.
The relentless pursuit of the man can be seen in the archives of the press and media. At his 30th birthday another intrepid team were despatched to dig up some dirt, perhaps hoping to find him driving a gas guzzler of a 4x4, voting for the Tories and buying shares in non-renewables.
They will have been disappointed in uncovering his lifestyle of dedicated self sustainability in a woodland commune with another negligible impact on the ozone layer and natural resources.
He has, even under tremendous pressure to conform, maintained his ethics and committment as an Eco-Warrior and thereby been an inspiration to others, even if it only to make a gesture or to lend a signature to a petition against those entirely profit driven interests seeking to rape and pillage the planet of its treasures and in increasingly beautiful and vulnerable locations of forest, tundra and polar continents.
Ironically Daniel Hooper singularly failed to stop any of the schemes at which he protested but it must not be forgotten that he made a gallant effort and in a passive and peaceful manner.
Happy 40th Swampy. You are a modern day hero.
Tuesday 24 September 2013
Walkabout
At the "old place", or where we used to live until about 4 weeks ago me and Will (or The Boy as I referred to him until he started to borrow my shaving kit) had a tried and tested walking route that we would set out upon if it was too wet, windy or otherwise unfavourable to go out on our first choice activity of cycling.
It was a challenging route involving sharp uphill turns, a few long drags and then the relief provided by a downward slope albeit a bit of a strain on my half century old knee joints. Will walks like he cycles, just that half a step ahead of me that is quite infuriating.
For all the ascending and descending it was not too stimulating in terms of local or wider history, places and personalities of interest or in architectural terms in spite of the main roads travelled being of late Victorian and Edwardian housing of some character, pomp and style.
Points of any interest were few and far between.
There was the rendered detached house that someone had painted, I kid you not, bright and lurid purple. A few yards further on was a boarded up and derelict semi and yet on one of the best streets in the town. Surely something juicy or tragic had taken place behind that metal shuttering.
Close by a small electricity transformer buzzed as it sat quietly but ominously in an indentation in a back garden.
We would revel in setting off the passive infra red light sensors on gates and front walls and then try, on a purely speculative basis to crack the entry code for those ostentatious residences with one of those sliding electric gates which were, frankly, ridiculous and impractical.
There was a justified thrill and reverence at the sight of the north tower of the Humber Bridge as it loomed up out of the low cloud and then back to mundane and boring footways and urban street scenes.
The first downhill would be through a wide tree lined avenue. Such was our familiarity with the individual houses that we would comment on the sight of a different car to normal on the driveway with the latest registration or perhaps down simply to hosting a visit from relatives.
We soon got to know behind which bay window lurked a nervous dog or under which hedge a lazy but jumpy cat was resting ahead of a fruitful nocturnal hunt.
In the interests of modesty and politeness it was necessary to avert our gaze from certain house windows where a lack of thought or just plain and shameless exhibitionism had prevented the realisation of a clear glass window onto a bathroom or shower cubicle in plain sight of hapless pedestrians.
The walk was not all through residential areas. A couple of footbridges took us over the busy ring road and down to the shoreline of the tidal river. On some days, such was the strength of the prevailing westerleys that it was immensely difficult and uncomfortable to make any headway unless stooped low and huddled against the whipped up gravel on the narrow track.
Respite only came in the form of the underpass of the rail line and the comparative shelter of the country park formed from the old chalk quarry on the outskirts of the town.
By now, on any one of our regular trips me and Will would be tired and tetchy in each others company.
The final stretch, all downhill would invariably be conducted in mutual silence.
So, we have now moved house and there is a completely new set of routes to be initially explored and enjoyed.
The old place, by comparison, was nouveau riche, bland and superficial.
In fact there is no common ground with where we are now.
Our starting point is a City Park, an oasis and refuge of greenery donated by a benefactor and philanthropist in 1860.
One of the first houses we pass was the residence of the poet Philip Larkin and the inspiration for many of his best works.
Within a few hundred yards we come across the blue Civic plaques for the film director Anthony Minghella, the actor Ian Carmichael, the pioneering aviator Amy Johnson, playwright Alan Plater and even Joseph Boxall, the second in command on the Titanic.
Other names we are not really familiar with but we are encouraged to make that little bit of effort to find out, sometime over the coming years. It will be an interesting and enriching experience.
It was a challenging route involving sharp uphill turns, a few long drags and then the relief provided by a downward slope albeit a bit of a strain on my half century old knee joints. Will walks like he cycles, just that half a step ahead of me that is quite infuriating.
For all the ascending and descending it was not too stimulating in terms of local or wider history, places and personalities of interest or in architectural terms in spite of the main roads travelled being of late Victorian and Edwardian housing of some character, pomp and style.
Points of any interest were few and far between.
There was the rendered detached house that someone had painted, I kid you not, bright and lurid purple. A few yards further on was a boarded up and derelict semi and yet on one of the best streets in the town. Surely something juicy or tragic had taken place behind that metal shuttering.
Close by a small electricity transformer buzzed as it sat quietly but ominously in an indentation in a back garden.
We would revel in setting off the passive infra red light sensors on gates and front walls and then try, on a purely speculative basis to crack the entry code for those ostentatious residences with one of those sliding electric gates which were, frankly, ridiculous and impractical.
There was a justified thrill and reverence at the sight of the north tower of the Humber Bridge as it loomed up out of the low cloud and then back to mundane and boring footways and urban street scenes.
The first downhill would be through a wide tree lined avenue. Such was our familiarity with the individual houses that we would comment on the sight of a different car to normal on the driveway with the latest registration or perhaps down simply to hosting a visit from relatives.
We soon got to know behind which bay window lurked a nervous dog or under which hedge a lazy but jumpy cat was resting ahead of a fruitful nocturnal hunt.
In the interests of modesty and politeness it was necessary to avert our gaze from certain house windows where a lack of thought or just plain and shameless exhibitionism had prevented the realisation of a clear glass window onto a bathroom or shower cubicle in plain sight of hapless pedestrians.
The walk was not all through residential areas. A couple of footbridges took us over the busy ring road and down to the shoreline of the tidal river. On some days, such was the strength of the prevailing westerleys that it was immensely difficult and uncomfortable to make any headway unless stooped low and huddled against the whipped up gravel on the narrow track.
Respite only came in the form of the underpass of the rail line and the comparative shelter of the country park formed from the old chalk quarry on the outskirts of the town.
By now, on any one of our regular trips me and Will would be tired and tetchy in each others company.
The final stretch, all downhill would invariably be conducted in mutual silence.
So, we have now moved house and there is a completely new set of routes to be initially explored and enjoyed.
The old place, by comparison, was nouveau riche, bland and superficial.
In fact there is no common ground with where we are now.
Our starting point is a City Park, an oasis and refuge of greenery donated by a benefactor and philanthropist in 1860.
One of the first houses we pass was the residence of the poet Philip Larkin and the inspiration for many of his best works.
Within a few hundred yards we come across the blue Civic plaques for the film director Anthony Minghella, the actor Ian Carmichael, the pioneering aviator Amy Johnson, playwright Alan Plater and even Joseph Boxall, the second in command on the Titanic.
Other names we are not really familiar with but we are encouraged to make that little bit of effort to find out, sometime over the coming years. It will be an interesting and enriching experience.
Monday 23 September 2013
The Weather Girls, Two Dogs and Me
I am fascinated by weather systems.
My particular interest is not in the pictorial and rather patronising representations of big raindrops, oversized snowflakes or huge directional arrows for prevailing winds which the Met Office feel we are only able to cope with and comprehend in their brief broadcasts and finger in the wind forecasts after the news but the actual system as it passes overhead and in clear view.
I often point out to family members that it must be raining "over there" as I enthusiastically point at some distant black cloud or fuzzy horizon. If we subsequently travel to and through an unexpected downpour some minutes later I secretly mark the experience down to my practical and common sense approach to weather prediction.
In the same theme and sentiment as ' red sky at night, shepherd's delight' and the more ominous premonitions of bleary eyed farm workers if the day starts a bit ruddy looking I advocate that if it looks like it's going to rain, it jolly well might.
There is a majestic splendour in the contrast where a clear blue sky meets a sweeping mass of cloud in the approach of a new weather front. On a sunday in late June 2007 my son and I were basking in the hot sun under an unobstructed sky at a car boot sale. By about 11am we were commenting on the arrival of some of the largest cumulus nimbus I have ever seen. Towering fluffy white mountainous clouds. My son took some photo's which are still somewhere on my phone memory card. At 2pm this assault front opened up and in the next 36 hours caused large areas of Hull and the East Riding to disappear under water.
I enjoyed two full weeks of interesting weather systems on a family holiday on the Isle of Skye.
The micro-climate of the island guarantees rain. Our rented farmhouse was on a rocky bluff and a high point locally which was a definite positive on the basis that anuual rainfall can be as much as 7 feet a year. It rained, honestly, for the full 2 weeks our our stay with very few clear sky respites. The house had a conservatory on the west side and from here I could observe the waves of rainfall surge across the surface of the bay as they swept inland from the distant Rhum and Eigg island masses, bounce against the Cuillin mountains and then veer towards my vantage point.
I stopped announcing the progressive downpours when our 3 children threatened a mutiny to curtail their disastrous housebound vacation.
I did introduce my two daughters, at an early age, to the sheer terror of being caught in a nasty weather system. We had set off for a walk along the Humber shore, myself, two small girls and our two dogs, initially in reasonable and dry weather.
The plan was for a good circular walk from Hessle to North Ferriby on the river path and then the return leg along the main road. The dogs ran free on the safety of the track and I ambled along with the girls. My attention was drawn to a bank of very dark and ominous clouds coming towards us from the backdrop of the cement works across the river. In a minute the factory chimney was obscured by a squally cloud. The mile wide river was soon under the black shadow of the cloud and then a mini tornado hit us.
The stinging rain was horizontal and speckled with hailstones. Instinctively the dogs gathered around us looking worried. I gathered up the girls and we crouched down in a huddle with my back to the airborne tide. The dogs nosed in between us.
The noise and volume of downpour was terrific.
The raindrops and icy pellets thudded down on the ground and splashed up our legs so that we were soaked through from below as well as above. I think we may have offered up a small, quiet prayer for salvation at that stage.
The whole experience felt like an hour but was over in a few minutes as the wind carried over and northwards. Humans and dogs alike stood up and dripped.
The girls had light anoraks but these were saturated so that they were now purpley dark rather than the original red. The air temperature had dropped dramatically in the vanguard of weather. I was now fearful of the girls catching a chill as they were starting to shiver.
Wind cheaters were improvised from the orange Sainsbury bags I usually carried to pick up dog pooh but fortunately had not used so far. The bottom seam of each bag could be pulled apart without ripping the polythene. The girls, against all previous parental guidance, put the now open bags over their heads like a blouson and their little arms through the handle straps. Practical considerations and an instant improvement in warmth outweighed any considerations of a tailored fit.
Next thing was to get moving. My dilemna was whether to turn back and retrace our steps to Hessle or carry on to Ferriby and arrange for my wife to pick us up. I did not have my mobile phone with me so we could not get things organised ahead of our arrival at relative safety.
Drip-dry onward stiff leg walking to Ferriby got my vote and we struggled along . The dogs were more than happy to be back on the lead and close by.
The last part of the river path was built over a former landfill and the storm had washed out parts of the river bank to expose waste and debris which added to our feeling of desolation. We had seen no other persons since leaving Hessle.
At last we reached the village sewage works and a hard sufaced roadway up to the first houses of the village. We all squashed into the white telephone box outside the church and made the call to be collected. By the time my wife arrived to collect us in the car we had well steamed up the kiosk in the early stages of drying out and amongst an overpowering odour of damp dogs.
My particular interest is not in the pictorial and rather patronising representations of big raindrops, oversized snowflakes or huge directional arrows for prevailing winds which the Met Office feel we are only able to cope with and comprehend in their brief broadcasts and finger in the wind forecasts after the news but the actual system as it passes overhead and in clear view.
I often point out to family members that it must be raining "over there" as I enthusiastically point at some distant black cloud or fuzzy horizon. If we subsequently travel to and through an unexpected downpour some minutes later I secretly mark the experience down to my practical and common sense approach to weather prediction.
In the same theme and sentiment as ' red sky at night, shepherd's delight' and the more ominous premonitions of bleary eyed farm workers if the day starts a bit ruddy looking I advocate that if it looks like it's going to rain, it jolly well might.
There is a majestic splendour in the contrast where a clear blue sky meets a sweeping mass of cloud in the approach of a new weather front. On a sunday in late June 2007 my son and I were basking in the hot sun under an unobstructed sky at a car boot sale. By about 11am we were commenting on the arrival of some of the largest cumulus nimbus I have ever seen. Towering fluffy white mountainous clouds. My son took some photo's which are still somewhere on my phone memory card. At 2pm this assault front opened up and in the next 36 hours caused large areas of Hull and the East Riding to disappear under water.
I enjoyed two full weeks of interesting weather systems on a family holiday on the Isle of Skye.
The micro-climate of the island guarantees rain. Our rented farmhouse was on a rocky bluff and a high point locally which was a definite positive on the basis that anuual rainfall can be as much as 7 feet a year. It rained, honestly, for the full 2 weeks our our stay with very few clear sky respites. The house had a conservatory on the west side and from here I could observe the waves of rainfall surge across the surface of the bay as they swept inland from the distant Rhum and Eigg island masses, bounce against the Cuillin mountains and then veer towards my vantage point.
I stopped announcing the progressive downpours when our 3 children threatened a mutiny to curtail their disastrous housebound vacation.
I did introduce my two daughters, at an early age, to the sheer terror of being caught in a nasty weather system. We had set off for a walk along the Humber shore, myself, two small girls and our two dogs, initially in reasonable and dry weather.
The plan was for a good circular walk from Hessle to North Ferriby on the river path and then the return leg along the main road. The dogs ran free on the safety of the track and I ambled along with the girls. My attention was drawn to a bank of very dark and ominous clouds coming towards us from the backdrop of the cement works across the river. In a minute the factory chimney was obscured by a squally cloud. The mile wide river was soon under the black shadow of the cloud and then a mini tornado hit us.
The stinging rain was horizontal and speckled with hailstones. Instinctively the dogs gathered around us looking worried. I gathered up the girls and we crouched down in a huddle with my back to the airborne tide. The dogs nosed in between us.
The noise and volume of downpour was terrific.
The raindrops and icy pellets thudded down on the ground and splashed up our legs so that we were soaked through from below as well as above. I think we may have offered up a small, quiet prayer for salvation at that stage.
The whole experience felt like an hour but was over in a few minutes as the wind carried over and northwards. Humans and dogs alike stood up and dripped.
The girls had light anoraks but these were saturated so that they were now purpley dark rather than the original red. The air temperature had dropped dramatically in the vanguard of weather. I was now fearful of the girls catching a chill as they were starting to shiver.
Wind cheaters were improvised from the orange Sainsbury bags I usually carried to pick up dog pooh but fortunately had not used so far. The bottom seam of each bag could be pulled apart without ripping the polythene. The girls, against all previous parental guidance, put the now open bags over their heads like a blouson and their little arms through the handle straps. Practical considerations and an instant improvement in warmth outweighed any considerations of a tailored fit.
Next thing was to get moving. My dilemna was whether to turn back and retrace our steps to Hessle or carry on to Ferriby and arrange for my wife to pick us up. I did not have my mobile phone with me so we could not get things organised ahead of our arrival at relative safety.
Drip-dry onward stiff leg walking to Ferriby got my vote and we struggled along . The dogs were more than happy to be back on the lead and close by.
The last part of the river path was built over a former landfill and the storm had washed out parts of the river bank to expose waste and debris which added to our feeling of desolation. We had seen no other persons since leaving Hessle.
At last we reached the village sewage works and a hard sufaced roadway up to the first houses of the village. We all squashed into the white telephone box outside the church and made the call to be collected. By the time my wife arrived to collect us in the car we had well steamed up the kiosk in the early stages of drying out and amongst an overpowering odour of damp dogs.
Sunday 22 September 2013
Snapshot of life in other peoples homes
I drift in and out of people's homes every working day.
In the busier times of the year this could be one property on the hour, every hour between 10am and 4pm allowing time for travelling, snacking, becoming distracted by the sight of a flock of geese in flight and the occasional stop for a power nap.
A common factor regardless of type, size and value is that somewhere in the house the television or multiple televisions will be switched on. I can therefore look forward to a snapshot of the broadcast content of daytime TV.
My overall opinion is that I am extremely thankful to be employed and therefore able to choose not to be subjected to the bland, meaningless and ultimately frivolent nature of the output.
My day of wandering voyeurism usually starts with being confronted by one of those programmes where members of the public willingly and gleefully reveal what they have been up to and with whom when they should know better and perhaps think about getting out and meeting people other than close relatives. It is quite compulsive viewing, however, and I may be seen to linger awhile in the room supposedly engrossed in the search for dampness, saggy floorboards or electrical sockets but otherwise absorbed in all the confessions of sordid and disgraceful behaviour. I invariably have to vacate the premises before the big reveal of the show where the results of a lie detector or paternity test are revealed to a studio audience either sobbing in sympathy or ready to form a lynch mob. I have however already come to my own conclusions on the guilt or not of persons involved from the snippets of information I have been able to assimilate by eavesdropping from various locations in the house. One day it would be interesting to compare my judgement with the actual outcome.
By my next appointment it is time for the first of the property programmes where presenters escort prospective, but ultimately doomed and failed, purchasers around a series of homes usually well beyond their budgetary range. It is a rich seam of themes and connotations with escaping to the country, escaping out of the country or just escaping from reality being most prominent. The wealthy house hunters have a budget of seven figures at their disposal and consequently the producers do not need to stray anywhere out of London and the Home Counties unless there is a small working class town to be had for the same sort of money up north.
Unfortunately most of the series shown today are hopelessly out of date and this is usually acknowledged in the final credits with the admission that prices mentioned were those from the boom years 2005 to 2008. In their favour the TV companies have moved with the economic times and day time content includes shows where someones home, hopes and aspirations, accumulated in the boom years, can be purchased at auction for a few pence following its Repossession by the mortgage company. Under the hammer it may be called but under the cosh it is more like.
By lunchtime it is casual chat show time. My favourite involves four women who discuss deep rooted and topical issues with considerable knowledge and compassion but always make sure that the subject is steered back to sex, their own middle age type, as quickly as possible.
Early afternoon marks the emergence of programmes loosely based on the antiques market.
This can range from strangers raiding your personal possessions, carefully archived in the loft, and forcing you to part with them thankfully and with grace in a Sale Room to haggling and pressurising already down at heel dealers to part with their stock at, frankly, a shameful discount. Not wanting to appear greedy in front of intrusive camera and production crews they always concede but may well cry into their Toby jugs and Lalique Vases in the back room of the shop later.
My conclusion from watching the antique themed programmes is that the demand for curious, collectibles and ephemera is virtually zero. Teams competing to sell at a profit always struggle to accumulate mere pence and suffer the humiliation at the hands of the cravat and blazer wearing experts for their purchases which are invariably based on emotion and nostalgia and not the latest Millers Antiques Price Guide.
There is often desperation in the voices of the so called experts as their own sourced, reasoned and validated star lots crash and burn at th auction rooms. Still, I could have told them that the market for embroidered quilted smoking jackets is a bit fragile at present, what with the recession, the health implications over tobacco and us being in the 21st Century and not the 19th.
The patter of many of the now celebrity status Specialists as they sit in a field and receive those hopefully bearing a previously unknown Rembrandt, Clarice Cliff rarity of a full set of Wade Whimseys probes cleverly to reveal the facts of the item.
One man turned up with a stuffed dog. The authority on taxidermy was enthralled and regailed the man on the rarity and beauty of his possession. It was a truly great find. "Did he know", the expert enquired "what it would fetch in good condition?". "Sticks" was the reply.
(First published as a blog exactly a year ago)
In the busier times of the year this could be one property on the hour, every hour between 10am and 4pm allowing time for travelling, snacking, becoming distracted by the sight of a flock of geese in flight and the occasional stop for a power nap.
A common factor regardless of type, size and value is that somewhere in the house the television or multiple televisions will be switched on. I can therefore look forward to a snapshot of the broadcast content of daytime TV.
My overall opinion is that I am extremely thankful to be employed and therefore able to choose not to be subjected to the bland, meaningless and ultimately frivolent nature of the output.
My day of wandering voyeurism usually starts with being confronted by one of those programmes where members of the public willingly and gleefully reveal what they have been up to and with whom when they should know better and perhaps think about getting out and meeting people other than close relatives. It is quite compulsive viewing, however, and I may be seen to linger awhile in the room supposedly engrossed in the search for dampness, saggy floorboards or electrical sockets but otherwise absorbed in all the confessions of sordid and disgraceful behaviour. I invariably have to vacate the premises before the big reveal of the show where the results of a lie detector or paternity test are revealed to a studio audience either sobbing in sympathy or ready to form a lynch mob. I have however already come to my own conclusions on the guilt or not of persons involved from the snippets of information I have been able to assimilate by eavesdropping from various locations in the house. One day it would be interesting to compare my judgement with the actual outcome.
By my next appointment it is time for the first of the property programmes where presenters escort prospective, but ultimately doomed and failed, purchasers around a series of homes usually well beyond their budgetary range. It is a rich seam of themes and connotations with escaping to the country, escaping out of the country or just escaping from reality being most prominent. The wealthy house hunters have a budget of seven figures at their disposal and consequently the producers do not need to stray anywhere out of London and the Home Counties unless there is a small working class town to be had for the same sort of money up north.
Unfortunately most of the series shown today are hopelessly out of date and this is usually acknowledged in the final credits with the admission that prices mentioned were those from the boom years 2005 to 2008. In their favour the TV companies have moved with the economic times and day time content includes shows where someones home, hopes and aspirations, accumulated in the boom years, can be purchased at auction for a few pence following its Repossession by the mortgage company. Under the hammer it may be called but under the cosh it is more like.
By lunchtime it is casual chat show time. My favourite involves four women who discuss deep rooted and topical issues with considerable knowledge and compassion but always make sure that the subject is steered back to sex, their own middle age type, as quickly as possible.
Early afternoon marks the emergence of programmes loosely based on the antiques market.
This can range from strangers raiding your personal possessions, carefully archived in the loft, and forcing you to part with them thankfully and with grace in a Sale Room to haggling and pressurising already down at heel dealers to part with their stock at, frankly, a shameful discount. Not wanting to appear greedy in front of intrusive camera and production crews they always concede but may well cry into their Toby jugs and Lalique Vases in the back room of the shop later.
My conclusion from watching the antique themed programmes is that the demand for curious, collectibles and ephemera is virtually zero. Teams competing to sell at a profit always struggle to accumulate mere pence and suffer the humiliation at the hands of the cravat and blazer wearing experts for their purchases which are invariably based on emotion and nostalgia and not the latest Millers Antiques Price Guide.
There is often desperation in the voices of the so called experts as their own sourced, reasoned and validated star lots crash and burn at th auction rooms. Still, I could have told them that the market for embroidered quilted smoking jackets is a bit fragile at present, what with the recession, the health implications over tobacco and us being in the 21st Century and not the 19th.
The patter of many of the now celebrity status Specialists as they sit in a field and receive those hopefully bearing a previously unknown Rembrandt, Clarice Cliff rarity of a full set of Wade Whimseys probes cleverly to reveal the facts of the item.
One man turned up with a stuffed dog. The authority on taxidermy was enthralled and regailed the man on the rarity and beauty of his possession. It was a truly great find. "Did he know", the expert enquired "what it would fetch in good condition?". "Sticks" was the reply.
(First published as a blog exactly a year ago)
Saturday 21 September 2013
Invaders from Mars.
You know in those blockbuster movies when everyone is desperately fleeing from the imminent threat in a steady stream of laden vehicles trying not to glance in their rear view mirror to see the wall of water, exposed tectonic plates or alien spacecraft?
There is usually one set of brave or foolhardy souls travelling counter to the flow on a mission to save the planet.
That was a bit how we felt, as a family, when we moved back to the city to live.
Statistically we may not have registered, given our limited numbers, as a shift or trend to repopulate the city but in our own small way I feel that we have caused a bit of a ripple.
It was an entirely voluntary and structured decision some two and a half years ago to sell up in the leafy suburb and head for the bright lights and sirens.
If the migration in the opposite direction is, as suggested, a representation of upwardly mobile and aspirational living then I cannot understand how and why it took the 29 months to find a buyer for our traditional stucco rendered and colourwashed semi detached in a nice residential area.
I suppose the state of the economy, lack of confidence in current employment status and wages, increasing domestic fuel costs and that nagging fear of not being able to keep up with the neighbours would be a valid explanation for the gradual fading of the Estate Agents colours on our gate mounted flag board. We actually got through three of them, boards not estate agents, in our prolonged exposure to the market. One collapsed in a westerly gale, another is probably taking pride of place on a student bedroom wall and the third did us proud in attracting the attention and motivating the young couple who eventually did buy our house.
It was a bit of a wrench to leave after a happy 18 years.
There were the usual pencilled height markings for our three children on the lounge architrave, a few scuffs and indentations from the few tantrums arising from living at close quarters (some from the children), abrasions on internal doors from our dogs, that dodgy bit of garden decking, a gaping hole where the boiler flue used to be but cleverley disguised behind a hanging basket and many other, what I call "character features" whereas others may call them defects.
We left them behind but hardly had time to reminisce as the Removers for the new owners were hanging about on the front path, keen to unload.
So, to the city.
My wife is from the place. I was bussed in to the area in the late 1970's and I admit, I lived in the nearest town but did develop an early affinity for the sights, sounds and attractions.
My first permament job in 1985 was in the city centre and apart from a couple of years "out of area" my livelihood and business has been generated by the activity of the occupants of the city and its outlying areas. I bought a share in an 1830's building slap bang in the city centre and that was my daily destination for 15 years until the company moved out onto a large business park on the edge of the urban area.
I had thought, more than a few times, about eventually living in the old office as it had been originally established as a town house but events transpired to thwart that idea.
There was a certain amount of peer pressure and expectation to just regard the city as a means of earning a wage or for a night out and so after 5.30pm on a week day I would make a strategic retreat to the cosy suburb of trimmed privet hedges and quiet enjoyment with the only disturbance being the firing up of a leaf-blower and the wafting odours of a gas fired barbecue.
We did become immersed in suburban life.
Local state schools were attended, we ran up a healthy account in the local newsagents, frequented the small group of local shops, displayed a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the porch and were on nodding terms with at least most of our near neighbours.
It was otherwise a case of being permanently in the car to drive to the nearest larger retail outlets, take children to their activities, visit the wider family or in fact to do anything not on the doorstep.
I found this most soul destroying especially after racking up a couple of thousand miles of driving every week in the course of my work. The engine block never cooled from monday morning to the following sunday evening.
You recognise that feeling of being very much like a hamster on a perpetually rotating wheel and yet not actually making any forward progress.
Some simply accept it as a fact of life. It is after all a lifestyle even if it is not much of an existence.
Others over-react, sell up and occupy a Spanish Villa, French Gite or a Greek goatherds hut with a camper van in readiness if it doesn't work out.
Our decision to move to the city was pretty straightforward, really.
(to be continued........)
There is usually one set of brave or foolhardy souls travelling counter to the flow on a mission to save the planet.
That was a bit how we felt, as a family, when we moved back to the city to live.
Statistically we may not have registered, given our limited numbers, as a shift or trend to repopulate the city but in our own small way I feel that we have caused a bit of a ripple.
It was an entirely voluntary and structured decision some two and a half years ago to sell up in the leafy suburb and head for the bright lights and sirens.
If the migration in the opposite direction is, as suggested, a representation of upwardly mobile and aspirational living then I cannot understand how and why it took the 29 months to find a buyer for our traditional stucco rendered and colourwashed semi detached in a nice residential area.
I suppose the state of the economy, lack of confidence in current employment status and wages, increasing domestic fuel costs and that nagging fear of not being able to keep up with the neighbours would be a valid explanation for the gradual fading of the Estate Agents colours on our gate mounted flag board. We actually got through three of them, boards not estate agents, in our prolonged exposure to the market. One collapsed in a westerly gale, another is probably taking pride of place on a student bedroom wall and the third did us proud in attracting the attention and motivating the young couple who eventually did buy our house.
It was a bit of a wrench to leave after a happy 18 years.
There were the usual pencilled height markings for our three children on the lounge architrave, a few scuffs and indentations from the few tantrums arising from living at close quarters (some from the children), abrasions on internal doors from our dogs, that dodgy bit of garden decking, a gaping hole where the boiler flue used to be but cleverley disguised behind a hanging basket and many other, what I call "character features" whereas others may call them defects.
We left them behind but hardly had time to reminisce as the Removers for the new owners were hanging about on the front path, keen to unload.
So, to the city.
My wife is from the place. I was bussed in to the area in the late 1970's and I admit, I lived in the nearest town but did develop an early affinity for the sights, sounds and attractions.
My first permament job in 1985 was in the city centre and apart from a couple of years "out of area" my livelihood and business has been generated by the activity of the occupants of the city and its outlying areas. I bought a share in an 1830's building slap bang in the city centre and that was my daily destination for 15 years until the company moved out onto a large business park on the edge of the urban area.
I had thought, more than a few times, about eventually living in the old office as it had been originally established as a town house but events transpired to thwart that idea.
There was a certain amount of peer pressure and expectation to just regard the city as a means of earning a wage or for a night out and so after 5.30pm on a week day I would make a strategic retreat to the cosy suburb of trimmed privet hedges and quiet enjoyment with the only disturbance being the firing up of a leaf-blower and the wafting odours of a gas fired barbecue.
We did become immersed in suburban life.
Local state schools were attended, we ran up a healthy account in the local newsagents, frequented the small group of local shops, displayed a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the porch and were on nodding terms with at least most of our near neighbours.
It was otherwise a case of being permanently in the car to drive to the nearest larger retail outlets, take children to their activities, visit the wider family or in fact to do anything not on the doorstep.
I found this most soul destroying especially after racking up a couple of thousand miles of driving every week in the course of my work. The engine block never cooled from monday morning to the following sunday evening.
You recognise that feeling of being very much like a hamster on a perpetually rotating wheel and yet not actually making any forward progress.
Some simply accept it as a fact of life. It is after all a lifestyle even if it is not much of an existence.
Others over-react, sell up and occupy a Spanish Villa, French Gite or a Greek goatherds hut with a camper van in readiness if it doesn't work out.
Our decision to move to the city was pretty straightforward, really.
(to be continued........)
Friday 20 September 2013
The Sea and The Sky.
Only one field left between the road and the crumbling cliffs. The old chap in the bungalow moved in with a good five meadow depth twixt him and the beach. He's 87 and is not that bothered about the drama of it all. It was a nice afternoon to capture the big wide blue sky and the North Sea across the horizon.
Cat on a Pitta Bread?
Culinary Quiz.
Answers on a postcard please;
What are the main food groups represented here?
Tuesday 17 September 2013
Monday 16 September 2013
Sunday 15 September 2013
Wednesday 11 September 2013
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Saturday 7 September 2013
Fanny and Johnny
Not quite settled at the new house to dedicate time to blogging so please be patient. As an essential precursor to normality I am cooking cauliflower cheese using what utensils have been so far found in the moving boxes just retrieved from the secure storage. I think it is called comfort food or as I now realise it is just new home cooking.
Thursday 5 September 2013
Boxing not so clever
Just moved house today but will catch up with you all when I locate and unpack the laptop.
Wednesday 4 September 2013
For Heifer and Heifer Amen
The cows roam about freely on the Common Pasture, the ancient grazing meadow which forms a beautiful approach from the west into the Yorkshire market town of Beverley. This year there seem to be more cattle than ever which may be an indication of hard times amongst the local farmers in exploiting the lush acres or just the exercising of the bylaws and rights of the Freemen and Women to keep animals on the undulating terrain.
The sight of a few hundred cows is striking but with the downside that they have no understanding of how to cross a busy road and no qualms about leaving large cowpat deposits in their wake.
The consequences for visitors and regulars alike are frequent emergency stops for vehicles and for care to be taken in footfalls for pedestrians.
A tight knit group of young heifers can be intimidating as they amble along with a sense of inquisitiveness in the humn activities of picnicking, walking the dog and throwing sticks into trees to dislodge the first conkers.
A prone figure, enjoying a quiet snooze can find themselves completely surrounded by a mass of muscley beef with menace for an intrusion into their territory.
I find the presence of the vast herd as a timeless feature in the place where I spent my formative years. Yes, a face full of cow dung on a sticky football is sobering and one of my schoolmates died after colliding with a beast on his motorbike but in a rapidly changing world there is still some reassurance from the sights, sounds and odours of the pasture.
The sight of a few hundred cows is striking but with the downside that they have no understanding of how to cross a busy road and no qualms about leaving large cowpat deposits in their wake.
The consequences for visitors and regulars alike are frequent emergency stops for vehicles and for care to be taken in footfalls for pedestrians.
A tight knit group of young heifers can be intimidating as they amble along with a sense of inquisitiveness in the humn activities of picnicking, walking the dog and throwing sticks into trees to dislodge the first conkers.
A prone figure, enjoying a quiet snooze can find themselves completely surrounded by a mass of muscley beef with menace for an intrusion into their territory.
I find the presence of the vast herd as a timeless feature in the place where I spent my formative years. Yes, a face full of cow dung on a sticky football is sobering and one of my schoolmates died after colliding with a beast on his motorbike but in a rapidly changing world there is still some reassurance from the sights, sounds and odours of the pasture.
Tuesday 3 September 2013
A Proper Horse Chestnut
I have been both disturbed and distressed by the disease of bleeding canker which is currently attacking the magnificent canopied horse chestnut trees throughout the country. I saw one sorry case in the front garden of a posh house in Newland Park. It looked as though the elbow of the main trunk divide had been painted with bitumastic but in fact the disgusting black morass was organic and septic, the equivalent of blood poisoning in humans. I remembered this terminal case after almost falling over from stepping on a newly fallen conker in the street earlier today. It would be a very sad day if the horse chestnut disappeared from our streetscapes, parks and broadleaved woods. Saying that, I don't think this species is as appreciated as much now as it was 'back in the day'. I remember, as a child, the excitement of the conker season approaching and the increasing levels of guile and cunning that were required to source a supply away from the most accessible and visible trees.There was a good run in to the season announced by the flowering of the candle shaped shoots amongst the greenery. Some parents were shameful in their quest for conkers. Many of the most well endowed trees were blatantly vandalised by the practice of almost factory farming. This usually entailed the hurling of a large branch or other dense object into the canopy of the tree and hoping it would displace or sever the armoured shells. This was even before the conkers had reached maturity. The other method was equally terrible. This involved violently shaking the branches and smaller boughs until they gave up and themselves fell to the ground or reluctantly gave up their prizes.The mostly dual onslaught left the trees looking as though they had been through an artillery barrage. The folklore and myth around the sport of conkers is rich and confusing. I spent many hours boiling my conkers in vinegar which was reputed to make them as hard as a ball bearing. As much time again was spent on careful drilling and stringing ready for the competition of the school playground. This stage of preparation usually involved gross misuse of hand tools including a brace and bit, workbench vice and any long sharp objects to push through the knot-ended twine. State Primary Schools, seeing an increase in conker related injuries and conker induced crime, soon enforced a blanket ban within their grounds. Consequently the sport went underground for many years before dying out against competition from clackers, the swopping of Pokemon cards and kiss catch. The variety of conker shapes was also interesting but the spiny green shells did not hint at whether their contents were of a superbly proportioned all-conquering example, a weedy half grown and half white one or, curse upon curse - a cheeser. This was a half rounded fully grown end but with a smooth flat face and of no use to anyone. This element of chance in the scramble for fallen shells was as exciting as having the niner, tenner or elevenser or more following a free milk crazed lunchtime orgy of conker fighting that was the late autumn sport in the junior schools of England.
Monday 2 September 2013
Portugal for the Inquisitive.
We took the road, northwards, from Portimao on the Algarve coast of Portugal and headed inland for the town of Silves. The guide book indicated an interesting town with a cathedral and a well preserved fortress castle. Nearing the end of our holiday it sounded like a nice place to explore. It had been a good holiday for the five of us. We felt like experienced world travellers although this was only our second ever trip abroad and the first one on our own without friends. Starting from scratch ,as travellers abroad ,our brand new luggage and going-away clothes from the previous years trip to Keffalonia, Greece were suitably battle scarred and we blended in very well at the airport and amongst the other travellers from Manchester Airport. What we were not used to was the heat and humidity of the south Portugal coast which hit us as soon as we landed in the early afternoon at Faro. We fired up the Fiat Punto hire car which struggled to cope with a full contingent plus the children's hard shell cases and the main wardrobe sized suitcase. It was just about dark when we bumped along a dusty, unmade track which, from my fraught navigation skills could as easily have led to the town dump than what was actually a really nice Villa. Two weeks of rest and relaxation were planned. The Villa was large and cool. Well equipped and with a good sized pool. The owners were English and although we had booked through an agency and a local rep we soon profiled our hosts on the basis of the contents of the bookshelves and the audio tape collection. Definitely associates of the Kray twins we thought as there was a strong East End of London theme to the non-fiction, mainly crime books and by the end of the holiday we had developed a cross between a cockney accent and posh home counties from listening to Round the Horne and other very stilted 1950's BBC radio broadcasts. The Villa was quiet and private and after chilling out for the first couple of days we set out to see what was beyond the brow of the hill which rose between us and the town. Within a few hundred metres of the Villa were the sprawling suburbs of Portimao, originally a fishing port but now over developed with high rise hotels, shopping malls and amusement parks. Lidl supermarket, rather than anything cultural, was our first stop. We then drove around a bit nearer the sea front. It was, disappointingly, a bit like Blackpool in parts and from the overheard noise of conversation most of that town were also on holiday there. There was plenty to see and do in the area and most days involved a drive out, getting hot, finding some shade, eating and then returning to the tranquility of the Villa and a welcome cooling off in the pool. Our only beach day was a contrast of roasting hot sands under foot and, shockingly for august, a perishingly cold sea. Of course, it was not the sun kissed Mediterranean but the Atlantic Ocean. After only a couple of minutes our newly sunburnt skin was blue and goose-pimpled. We must have been an amusement to the locals and other holiday makers as we were the only ones actually in the water. Westwards were some picturesque village harbours and stone fortifications, the latter dating from the transporting of slaves to the Americas. If it was too hot near the coast we would drive into the countryside and hills for some relief from the thick, humid temperatures although most afternoons were accompanied by hot, dry and high winds. Seville was about 150 miles away to the east by motorway and we spent half a day in travelling there and back but it was well worth climbing up the Giralda, seeing the World Expo buildings and Christopher Columbus's tomb amongst the thriving Cityscape. The two weeks were passing too quickly and to conclude our enjoyable experience of Portugal we started to think about presents for friends and family. Embroidered lace table cloths, painted ceramic tiles and rustic clay Christmas Tree angels were purchased from a large market hall. We could relax on that particular quest. So, the final trip out to Silves. The countryside on the way was rolling and with steep sided hills to the river which wound through the town. On foot we climbed our way through the narrow, cobble paved streets up to the Castle. Advertised was an exhibition of artefacts. I had read that the area had been settled by the Romans and the North African Moors and had great expectations of some interesting displays from these tumultuous times in history. The Castle courtyard set the tone of the exhibition. On a pole hung a large metal cage and hanging out between the bars, an authentic skeleton attired in rags and fake hair, a representation of the fly blown rotting remains of some ancient miscreant. My youngest daughter looked a bit pale, even in the knowledge that the 'thing' was a model. Over the next half hour we were assaulted and shocked by the implements and equipment of an exhibition of the tools of human torture. An iron maiden, various manicles, balls and chains and then the seriously hurty stuff. Homosexuals could face being severed vertically in half ,if caught, by the evidently symbolic two man operation of a big toothed saw. Adultery was similarly treated to horrendously painful and barbaric punishment usually by the attachment of things onto peoples things.There were industrial scale machines to decapitate, hang, draw and quarter, to extract organs and appendages, pull teeth or to extract a confession by scalding, branding, stretching or gouging. Where machines could not be sourced by the Castle there were graphic drawings, diagrams and blueprints for equally nasty appliances to do everything else required to satisfy but mainly thwart the church approved Inquisition or just the sadistic employees.I seriously think that even death by hanging wasconsidered a soft option and was out of fashion given the wide range of alternatives. I doubt that humans could actually think of anything else to add to that chamber of horrors to which we had unwittingly been exposed to. By this time our youngest daughter had fled the scene in sheer terror. The rest of our dumbstruck group sidled out trying not to faint or show too much distress. We blinked as we emerged out of the dungeon into the bright daylight , feeling as though we had been lucky enough to escape a fate certainly worse than the relief in death that would have followed for the poor wretches and souls brought to Silves. For the first time ever in our travels and a fact that remains to the current day we exited a visitor attraction through the gift shop without a single or group intention of making a purchase. We declined to buy a guide book not out of indignation or protest but because we just wanted to get out of the place. The drive back to the sanctuary of the Villa was very quiet. The children were quite clingy for the rest of the evening and extremely well behaved for the short remaining period of the hoilday. Understandably, Portugal has never been proposed for a return visit.
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