Years End

It is the last day of 2014.

It has been quite a year on all levels. I am grateful for that.

As it draws to a close I am troubled by the state of the world which seems to be more in crisis and in more regions than ever before.

It seems a bit petty and selfish to even think about my own Resolutions for the New Year given that they involve cutting back on otherwise plentiful food, giving up luxuries, taking more time to enjoy my home and local area, being nicer to people and more tolerant of others' views and outlooks.

As much of the conflict in the world is because of  shortages, restrictions or inequalities revolving around just the things I am giving up I am appreciative of the privileged position that I enjoy hour upon hour, day to day and week on week.

I wish everyone a peaceful and happy 2015 wherever they may find themselves.

Beside the Sea

(I must admit that this piece of writing is perhaps my own personal favourite from the last 3 years)

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

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

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

I am very spoiled for choice in my home area when it comes to beautiful coastlines. Top ranking must go to Filey, North Yorkshire. A compact crescent shaped cliff edged bay, established Victorian Promenade, white colourwashed town houses and, to the dismay of my children when younger, no brash or noisy amusements. The thought of keeping 1p and 2p coins in your pockets and out of the needy slot machines and penny falls is infuriating for children who expect such extravagance as a natural consequence of a trip to the seaside.

Unfortunately, this younger generation in associating Filey with an absence of fast food and fast living may be prejudiced in their future parenting choices for a day trip out.This matter should be brought to the immediate attention of the Town Elders and Tourist Board as a matter of concern to be addressed in the short to medium term. Disgruntled, frustrated and sad little faces are however a small price to pay for a good bracing walk along the lower Beach road, a saunter past the boat club, a sandwich based light picnic meal below the crumbling cliffs and a striking out with best foot forward through rock pools and interesting geological features to the natural promontory of Filey Brig. This strip of rock on low tide ,separates the genteel Bay from the rough and bullying North Sea.

On a breezy off shore windy day there is a faint mist of spray as the aggressive ocean batters the outcrop. It is always advisable to consult the tide tables ,which are clearly displayed on the walking route, when attempting the Brig expedition as, from personal experience, failure to do so can introduce an element of panic when a hasty retreat is closely accompanied by the rapidly approaching high tide. Fortunately I have not had to call into play the services of RAF Rescue.

I admit there have been some situations when inevitable Ministry of Defence budget cutbacks will have been sorely tested in airlifting a large family group off the receding rock shelf, disgruntled and sad faced kids, pockets bulging and weighed down with small denomination coinage,amongst them. There can be lingering anti-parental feelings from unfulfilled ambitions for children to gamble even with the prospect of a free ride in a bright yellow helicopter.

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

Financial Frolics

I get very excited if I find bits of loose change.

I do not mean that I constantly walk in a head down or stooping stance hoping to find the odd piece of coinage in public areas. Those days ended abruptly when I was fooled into trying to pick up a 50p coin which had been superglued to the pavement.My children found that very amusing and a bit pathetic.

What really excites me is the touchy-feely outline and density of a lone coin or better still a loose array of coins in the pocket of my trousers, my suit jacket or a coat. There is a certain thrill about guessing the accumulated total of more than a single coin as this can mean the difference between a lunch consisting of a mars bar or a full portion of chips midway through the working day.

The current sterling issue comprises small sized coins, mostly, so even initially suspected coppers pointing to a sparse chocolate luncheon could yield forth, actually, a good few pounds and, by definition a veritable feast. If a pocket-patting process is not successful then I usually strip out the car in search of monies.

First, the ash-tray, followed by the central console, CD compartment and then the actual coin-tray. Default setting is that the drivers seat is slid back as far as it will go to allow the voids and crevasses to be checked. Under the foot mat can sometimes prove rewarding. There always tends to be a small amount of currency wedged in between the seat tracking rail and the handbrake mounting but if firmly esconced then I will usually leave it for another day when a knitting kneedle or chopstick are to hand. This coin search initiative (CSI) is repeated for the surrounds of the front and rear passenger seats in strict rotation. A properly thorough search does involve taking up a large area with all car doors wide open so I can be found strip-searching the car in the far corner of many supermarket car parks, in deserted lay-bys or in field gateways. To a passing vehicle this must look very strange and I am sure that my registration and description will be on some Police watch-list. This daily routine, if I have not pre-planned my working lunch, has led me to reconsider my attitude towards money.

This was very aptly illustrated during the Christmas period with the confusing choice of buying and later receiving foil wrapped chocolate coins. The gold coins are very alluring in their appearance. After a period of mass production in Euro mimic form these have now returned to the old fashioned neutral designs or to the Spanish Doubloon remeniscent of high seas naval battles, treasure trove and damsels in flouncy sleeved gowns being fought for or over by alternate brigands and swashbuckling heroes.

However, I find myself drawn more in favour and flavour to the silver foil covered coins now depicted as the infamous 'Pieces of Eight'. The invariably white milk chocolate is right up there in terms of a reason for my preference for silver coinage but I am also seduced by the legend behind the real 'peso de ocho reales'.

This was well explained to me through the BBC radio broadcasts of 'The History of the World in 100 objects' produced in conjunction with the archives of the British Museum. Up until the discovery by the Spanish of vast reserves of silver during their conquering of Mexico and the native south american countries there was very little of that precious metal to use as a medium of trade and exchange. The production of the Pieces of Eight took place from the 1570's with the ore sourced from the Silver Mountain , or Potosi , formerly in Peru but now in Bolivia and minted there in such quantities to enable it to spread fully around the known world of the time to become a global currency.

By 1600 a single coin could command an equivalent of around fifty pounds of goods and services and, remarkably was accepted just about everywhere in the world. The human cost of production was excessive so much so that with the depletion or working to death of the indigenous population a huge flow of replacement labour was sourced from the slave trade from Africa. The output from Potosi provided obvious wealth to the Spanish monarchy for extravagance as an expression of power, expansionism through military strength and importantly a very good line of credit with the money men financiers.

The Spanish Empire came thus into direct competition and conflict with the other main and ambitious European powers. Amazingly the Potosi mine remains operational today. 16th and 17th century Spanish influence spread into the Pacific region and Asia and eventually the coins found their way into China with a destabilising effect on the economics of the area. Pieces of Eight have been found over-stamped by nations as their own legal tender and as far apart as Tobermoray in Scotland from an Armada wreck to Australia and over a period of some 400 years.

The catalyst for the global acceptance was the volume of production, billions of coins in number, being likened to the modern day credibilty of Visa or American Express. The downside of abundant money was of course inflation and current day problems were more than evident at that time with great wealth but no goods to provide substance and sustenance when the cash coinage leaked out of the economy. An empire based on contract deeds and bills of exchange was always destined to fail regardless of the perception of great wealth.

The proliferance of that chunky silver coin showed that a global economy was possible but took many more centuries to develop to a level of maturity.

I hesitate, given the financial turmoils of the last 3 years or more, to use the word security in any form linked to money. Not all lessons from the past have been taken to heart. I do however remember not to leave silver foil wrapped chocolate coins in my pocket as that leads to a meltdown.

No Business like Snow Business

In search of snow.

I can only recall, perhaps, half a dozen Christmas Days in my lifetime of 51 years (of course disregarding the first few infant years when I had no awareness of the stuff), when the lightening of the dawn revealed a magical layer of white amongst a hard glaze of frost.

I got a bit confused by the December in 1978 in which major power shortages in the Winter of Discontent meant prolonged periods of candlelight coupled with a heavy fall of snow giving the impression of a month long festive period.

I clearly remember one particular Christmas when our local Co-Operative Store burnt down providing a strong sensory experience that lives on even today and is reactivated with the faintest whiff of smoke, be it from an extinguished candle or the output of an urban chimney pot.

About three years ago, or it could have been longer, there was a 6 week cold snap which saw a temperature range from minus 8.5 degrees Celsius overnight to barely minus 4 during the day. It was a complete white-out and eerily quiet as for once the majority of road users took on the advice of the authorities and decided that all journeys were non-essential, even the usual quick drive to the corner shop for fags and milk. There were tremendous icicles hanging off the eaves of the houses and it was possible to see which home owners had not yet lagged their loft spaces from the slow,melting progression of the thick layer of compacted snow down the roof slopes.

My reliance on the absolute minimum of insulation proved foolhardy as the resultant cascade of snow took with it a few slates and the heavy cast iron gutters on both the front and rear causing damage and a hefty bill.

In the UK, or at least in the lowland areas, the purchase of a sledge for Christmas is not top of the shopping list and consequently any fall of snow of suitable consistency and duration for recreation brings out the enterprising use of alternative means of riding the slopes.

A favourite would be a heavy duty plastic bag, those lying around the garden with a bit of fertiliser left in the folds being most suitable followed by good quality refuse bags and finally sheets of corrugated cardboard although the latter was very much a compromise given its tendency to get wet and turn into a coarse pulp mid hill.

All of the above gave little protection to the bum and spine from the rough ground under the snow on the way down any slight gradient. Any shouts and exclamations of exhilaration of a fast descent were rather grimaced as a consequence.

Snowfall is still a relatively rare climatic condition in my own experience of living in Britain.

Much of my 5 decades has been lived on the eastern side of the country in Lincolnshire and East Yorkshire. If the weather fronts bring in snow from the west then we receive only a light sprinkling. Most of it does not make it over the Pennines. The whitest Christmas periods have been from the arrival of dense clouds and cold Arctic air from the north east and east putting the east of England on the front line.

In the run-up to the end of the year I do keep a watch on the long range weather forecasts in the forlorn hope of a gradual decline in temperatures which would make a fall of snow more likely.

This has not been the case and indeed we have seen unusually high figures of 12 to 14 degrees in the first couple of December weeks. The lowest point has only been around 4 degrees and a frost has been largely absent.

Christmas Day 2014 was bright, clear and snow free where I live.

I did get excited on Boxing Day by the sight of a Premier League Football Match in the Midlands caught in a flurry of snow. I apologise for my glee upon the news of motorists in Sheffield having to abandon their vehicles due to impassable iced-up roads. I did feel a pang of jealousy for the members of a coach trip who had to spend the night in a church hall after getting stranded near Rotherham.

I have regularly searched the skies over local rooftops and the City Hospital in the direction of South Yorkshire for any signs of cloud formations associated with the imminent arrival of snow but have had to abandon the vigil as the dusk drew in.

The rainfall around tea-time just fell as rain although the thermometer was beginning to show a trend towards the low single figures. I expected the faint gurgling from gutters and downpipes to lessen with a fall in temperature until silent but nothing happened to suggest a snowfall overnight. Peering out of the bedroom curtains this morning was disappointing as there was only a pale white frost covering on the ground.

Nevertheless, I am determined to seek out some snow if it will not come to me here. The car will be prepared for difficult conditions and it is off in the direction of the latest news reports of traffic mayhem and chaos.

                Success after a 128 mile round trip to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Wakefield

Channel '44 News

December.

Not the ideal time of year to embark on a flight across the English Channel and even more so in the wartime year of 1944.

Add to this that the flight is in a type of small plane known to have a bad history of accidents caused by the susceptibility of the carburettor to freeze in icy weather.

Further factors contributing to a likely mishap include fog and low cloud and the disobeyance of a no fly order by the pilot even following notification that weather conditions at the destination of Paris were bad.

Unfortunately all of these combined on 15th December 1944 with the outcome of the disappearance of one of the greatest band leaders of all time, Glenn Miller.

Traces of the plane and its occupants were never found.

Miller, a trombone player had great success in peacetime with his Big Band but felt a patriotic call to join up and and he enlisted in 1942 in the rank of Major. He was asked by the Allied Expeditionary Force to form a wartime band of musicians to boost the morale of troops in the European theatre of war.

Miller, regarded as reserved and quiet was nevertheless a strict disciplinarian but this and his own talent created an incredible ensemble who were stationed initially in Sloane Square, London. This was in the heart of the bombed Capital but the performances of the band served to thrill and delight a beleagured armed forces even more for this.

The band were certainly in demand and in August 1944 some 89 appearances were completed including 35 concerts and many radio broadcasts.

The audiences, almost entirely male in composition listened attentively and enthusiastically although in non-wartime conditions there will have been a very dance orientated scene.

In the winter of 1944 the success of the summer invasion meant a large deployment of troops in Europe and Miller sought permission to be nearer the action. He undertook a few trips to Paris to organise the logistics of a large band and its entourage and it was on the last of these on December 15th when the aircraft in which he was a passenger went missing over the English Channel.

The military authorities did not declare this fact until 9 days later which led to many conspiracies as to the disappearance. These included downing by friendly fire and being hit by the discarded bomb loads of returning Allied planes which were often common occurrences in a war to being found dead in a Parisian Brothel after a fight, returned sick to the United States and even being a fatality in a failed Secret Service plot to assassinate Hitler.

Many investigations and speculative enquiries subsequently have tended to attribute the untimely demise of Glenn Miller to a combination of mechanical failure and pilot error or in general terminology- it was an unfortunate accident.

His band stayed together for the remainder of the war before being disbanded later on in the 1940's.

Miller who died at age 40 is remembered with great admiration and affection for his music which is regarded by many as playing a major role in the personal recollections of those difficult conflict years.

Branching Out

I cannot recall much about the early years of my education.

A very strong memory is of one of those work cards which on one side had a graphic representation of an historical event or natural phenomenon with a written explanatory text and on the reverse a series of questions testing the comprehension of the facts as presented.

One particular topic was on the Giant Redwood Trees of California.

I found it hard to believe the photograph on the work card of a Redwood which showed a road running through a tunnel cut out of the trunk and with a glossy, wide bodied convertible car with glossy wide bodied Americans driving through it.

It was a memorable scene and the very subject of the magnificent Redwoods has captured my interest to the present day.

Many of the species date from around 2500 years ago and current growths show a healthy existence even in the thick, pollutant soup of the modern earth environment.

Three individual trees are competing for the record height with the frontrunner at around 370 feet.

Unfortunately, the trees have also been eagerly watched by logging companies who have so far eradicated up to 97% of the original forest stock of Redwoods.

In December 1997 a group known as Earth First! sought a volunteer activist to make the long climb up one specific Coast Redwood for a sit in to prevent the Pacific Lumber Company from felling it as part of their clearcut logging operations in California.

A young woman, Julia Hill, made the ascent of the huge trunk of the tree named Luna and took up occupation on a small platform roughly the size of a single bed at 180 feet high (55m).

The protective protest was envisaged to last a couple of weeks or a month at most but it was not until the December two years (730 days) later that Julia Hill was able to,leave her vantage point and assure the survival of Luna.

Tree sitting had been a form of peaceful protest from the late 1970's to prevent felling. Julia Hill recalled in an archived interview her first moments up in the tree. She had made the mistake of looking down after climbing 75 feet and after being temporarily paralysed with fear, forced herself to continue the remaining 105 feet to the wooden shelf which would be her home for the duration.

It would not be an easy sit-in. The tree, a relative youth at 1000 years old showed damage from a lightning strike and this would always be a concern for anyone in occupation amongst the foliage. The position was very exposed to all of the elements across the seasons and the shelter afforded by tarpaulins was often destroyed by high winds, driving rain, sleat and snow storms.

Julia would regularly have to weave fallen boughs into the surviving materials and bind up with duct tape to maintain even a basic level of weatherproofing. She got well used to weeks on end of being perpetually wet and cold.

The logistics of her protest did rely on other activists to load up a basket with food which had to be hauled up on a daily basis.

It would otherwise be a lonely experience but there was often the company of wildlife including large roaming bears. regular media teams seeking an interview and periodic visitors. After one year the living space was extended with another platform and a phone on solar panel charge also helped to ease the time.

Julia suffered from frost bite at altitude as well as the underhand attentions of the logging company who impeded the food supply chain and kept her awake with air horns to deprive her of sleep and chip away at her determination to succeed.

The sights, sounds and smells of the ancient forest kept her motivated and she describes the beauty of living above the fog in a rainbow of colours and the rich and sweet odours rising from the vegetation all around her.

Her occupation was an act of Civil Disobedience and took a lot of courage to endure especially for what is thought to be the longest of its type in the history of eco-protests.

The doubts must have been strong on many an occasion but Julia had given her word that she would stay as long as it took to ensure the tree continued into its second millenium.

By the end of the second year of her tree sit Earth First! had managed to come to an agreement with Pacific Lumber Company to use raised funds of $50,000 to buy Luna and an exclusion zone of 12,000 metres around.

Julia had succeeded in her quest and was heralded a hero with many a song written to commemorate her acheivement.

A few weeks after the agreement to purchase an unknown individual severely vandalised Luna using deep chain-saw cuts but a team of specialists devised a collar scheme to repair the damage and the tree has managed to remain resolute.

The logging company who had been in trouble for causing a landslide which had buried a village some years before the protest failed a few years after Julia's success. Their scant regard for sustainable operations saw them exhaust a 100 year stock of timber in a mere 20 years.

In writing about her life as an activist Julia Hill explained that choices about the environment were not made in a vacuum and her story is a true indictment of this balance between ecology and commercial interests.

Isthmus Story

In 1914 the major Civil Engineering project of the Panama Canal was completed giving a short cut to shipping on the major east coast to west coast United States routes as well as for a wider range of Trans-Oceanic traffic.

The excavation of the canal had taken around 10 years of intensive labour, huge groundworks and all using what, by modern day standards, would be regarded as fairly rough and ready mechanical means and methods. The Panama Canal revolutionised trade between the Americas and particularly after the USA purchased the interests of the French Government and ran it as an economically viable and strategic asset.

The success of Panama heralded the shelving of the tentative but longstanding proposals of the Nicaraguan State to establish a strong rival operation. A cut through the Isthmus linking the Caribbean and Pacific had been considered in the early 19th Century colonial period under Napoleon III but many factors including the superiority of Panama much later meant that the ambitious plan did not materialise.

That was until December 14th this year (2014) when, under a concession for 50 years to a Hong Kong conglomerate, the initial infrastructure of roads was begun in readiness for an anticipated 6 year build of the Nicaraguan Interoceanic Canal.

The budgeted cost at between $40 billion and $50 billion was based on a shortlist of 6 proposed routes, each with issues of contention over the displacing of indigenous peoples and greater threats to the Environment and bio diversity of the region.

What was termed Route 4 was eventually chosen but with little consultation with those affected on the ground.

The total distance of 178 miles is three times that of the Panama Canal but is regarded as being less of a technical challenge through the use of an existing watercourse and then across the natural feature of Lake Nicaragua. The actual new build canal element across the Isthmus of Rivas is around 18km to 24km.

The economic viability is based on an increase in global shipping demand and that any constructed route will cut a distance of 800km off a sea-journey from New York to Los Angeles.

The Nicaraguan Government hope that the scheme will employ around 15,000 workers and with National growth projected to increase from 4.5% to 15%.

It is a bit of a gamble relying on the efficiency and technical proficiency of the Chinese to come in on time and budget so that an otherwise beleagured country can look to kick start a fragile economy.

There has been controversy over the awarding of the contract and the apparent lack of formal discussions with occupants of the landed areas on the route. Part of the selected route is through a UNESCO recognised National Reserve with a great bio diversity of 1400 plants species, 410 birds mostly migratory, sea turtles, mangrove swamps and a careful balance between salt water and freshwater sources.

Archaeological interests are also in the route zone with many ancient and sensitive sites in what is a rich cultural and heritage area.

Assurances have been obtained from the builders to minimise impact on the Environment including the use of bridges over swamps and barriers to keep brine and fresh water apart. The existing waterways will require extensive dredging to form a deepened navigable channel. Revolutionary sediment extraction techniques have been proposed to avoid any damage from explosives.

There are fears from action groups that the Chinese will seek to buy up land holdings along the route thereby denying the local population any prospect of ownership and a sustainable living. The passage of very large cargo ships through Lake Nicaragua is a matter of concern in case of spillage or accident affecting fish stocks and the ecological balance. The Lake itself is in the shadow of two Volcanoes, one of them being active sporadically.

The high hopes for National benefits for Nicaragua seem to have sidelined many of the broader issues that in other countries would demand a very long period of enquiry and consultation. It is apt that the ambitious scheme started in this month of December as it makes for a good Isthmus Story.

Twinned with Bedford Falls

It has happened. It was snowing hard in Bedford Falls. Mary Bailey had rallied round the good townsfolk and they came up with the required funds to make up the unfortunate deficit at the Savings and Loans. George Bailey looked at his small ginger hair daughter and thanked Clarence, his guardian angel to the sound of a bell tinkling on the tree.

I cried. I always cry.

The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. It takes something special to break through the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of  biscuits, Bombay mix, Twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.

The unseasonably warm mid to late December weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weeekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.

There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage and to the local tip.

I learnt again, and very fast, the art of wallpapering.

I am of that generation who were only educated in one dimension. A simple task therefore took on the role of a fantastical escapade with accompanying tools of spirit level, laser measurer, secret coded pencil marks, frequent re-calculation of widths and drops, fiddly surgical precision trimming using toy scissors, gallons of border adhesive, alternate bouts of euphoria and self doubt, some seamless and cosmetic patching, a few pints of strong tea, use of the best car boot sale table top, bad language, brow mopping, quality control by squinting.

Having completed the short length of wall in something over 5 hours I then dreamt that night that the wallpaper all fell off. The dream was in fact based on a true event some years earlier. I had basked in the glory of my wife's admiration and amazement for the complete wallpapering of our bedroom. I felt it too was a job well done. The paper was easy to hang following its submersion in a water filled rectangular plastic container to activate the pre-pasted side. The four walls of the bedroom had a thin veneer of polystyrene to reduce heat loss through the old solid brick walls. The paper bonded well. The finished effect was pleasing. Unfortunately, the paper I had purchased was not in fact the pre-pasted type. It was only clinging on to the insulated lining by a wet friction effect. Over the hours of darkness the physics faltered and the morning light revealed not the night before's blue decorative hue but the stark white of the warm layer. The demoralising effect of this sharp fall from grace in the eyes of a loving spouse took many years to overcome.

There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church. The tree was carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. Two bags of logs were purchased together with some very nice, pre-washed and sorted smokeless fuel and a bag of kindling. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off.

We are just about prepared.

Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.

The Kings Speech (Black Friday Version)

By popular demand from December 2011. An updated version of the Kings Speech.......

To be read with the original magnificent version.....


In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.

For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.

Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.

We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.

It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.

Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.

But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.

This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.

It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.

We should all be calm and carry on at this time.

Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God. If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.

May he bless and keep us all

Group Therapy at Christmas

It's a wonderful film and yet, as with most works of genius it was not recognised in its own time. Perhaps its sentiment in 1946 was too nice for a world emerging from war and austerity. It has at it's root laudable themes of brooding unhappiness , selfless service to the community, heartless business and contemplation of suicide and not that many pitch battles, bombing missions, beach assaults and no notable explosions which were otherwise popular movie features of the period.  It represented a return of humanity and values that had been sacrificed or as the lead character, George Bailey, played by James Stewart remarks 'all is fair in love and war'.

I am of course referring to the Frank Capra movie of "It's a Wonderful Life"

It's a regular event in our family to watch the DVD in the run-up to Christmas. It does rank and climbs the poll every year as the best Christmas film of all time although my son still contends that Die Hard (1) would be hard to be pushed off top spot. Recently , a re-digitised and colour version was released but to really appreciate the heart warming emotions it has to be seen in original black and white. The movie does impact in all its glory on a small domestic TV screen, especially when cocooned in a duvet on the sofa and surrounded by loved ones. In the privacy of my own home I will be a bit misty eyed by about 30 minutes into the running time and completely useless and blubbering for the duration. I issue a spoiler alert at this stage but you must, if not familiar with the film, just watch it, wrapped up, with family or close friends and keep some tissues up your sleeves.

It's a rare privilege therefore, some 66 years after the release of the film, to get an opportunity to see it on the big screen in a cinema. It is something altogether different to contemplate being seen crying in a public auditorium. In my favour the screening was in a town some distance away from my home and so there was a low to acceptable risk of bumping into a friend or acquaintance. I had mentioned to colleagues and just passers by in the street, in the preceding weeks, that this was on the cards but was very careful not to divulge the location, day, date and time. I was astounded by the number of blank expressions from those with no knowledge of the film although the enthusiastic reminiscences from the majority did outweigh those poor unfortunate and unfulfilled souls.

It's a small cinema, one of the very few still surviving in a market place setting in a commuter town. The nearest multiplex would be around 20 miles away in the nearest cities which will have helped it to persist. I would willingly have paid more than the £4 admission charge which did include a glass of sherry and a micro-mince pie. Forget your deep and plushly upholstered back massaging, centrally heated and wired for sound luxury seating and just get comfortable if you can in a blue cloth wrapped bucket. Not much chance of being seduced into a sleep for the duration which is all good. I have often paid £12.50 to Odeon , Vue and Cineworld Cinemas ostensibly for a film but actually for a fitfull drift in and out of consciousness in that luxuriant heavy eyed feeling. Most blockbuster films are a mystery to me in terms of the main plot as I am only awake for the very beginning and the final chaotic few frames, usually involving silhouetted figures and a sunset.

It's an exciting moment when the lights dim and the big screen lights up into action. The quality of the film was fantastic although I may have been secretly disappointed that there were no bromide-brown blobs, dancing string-like blemishes or curses from the projection room over scorched and melting celluloid. I was immediately transported back in time as though at a small town Premiere of It's a Wonderful Life. The lack of legroom to a baby boomer like myself would not have constituted a problem to a post war audience in the UK, what with emaciation from many years of rationing, staple food deficiences and premature curvature of the legs from rickets.

It's a revelation to see the drama unfold on the big screen. Although I have seen the movie at least annually for the last decade or so the super sized images added a completely fresh dimension and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. In close-up and at 4metres full on,  the facial expressions of James Stewart are even more magnificent and as for the lead actress, Donna Reed, well she's got a very good complexion and skin tone which is not always apparent on my Sony TV at home. There was a warning on the advertising poster of mild violence for the more sensitive in the audience. In the context of the film and it's era it was acceptable, or so it was portrayed, to slap around shop staff, throw stones at houses, verbally abuse primary school teachers, drink drive and make mad and violent love- you know the sort, fully clothed, no actual physical contact and with both feet on the ground to get past the Film Censors.

It's a therapeutic sound to hear a large group of people laugh and weep at alternate moments but generally in unison. I had just about got acclimatised to the seat when the film finished. Where had the time gone? As the audience reluctantly got up to go and in rather harsh lighting it was normal service resumed in human interaction or the lack of it. We all, me included, kept our heads down for fear of showing a weakness in our tear streamed faces. The waste bin at the exit was nearly full of damp Kleenex when I reached it and coaxed out the soggy contents of my left sleeve. A few small family groups lingered and reassured each other in quite a public display of fondness which was both nice and a bit cringey in equal proportions.

It's a funny thing but on the pavement outside, in the minus one degree of a mid December night in a Yorkshire town it felt a bit like the Bedford Falls of the film. It was not so long ago that there had been, like in the film, a run on the bank. There will be many that we know personally who feel trapped in their current lives when in their carefree youth they had magnificent plans to travel and undertake adventures. We all will have felt a degree of despair, anxiety and depression at some time. It is ultimately important , however to remind ourselves that we all contribute in some way to the lives of those around us whether through supporting our families and friends or just through a kind word or deed to a complete stranger.

It's in our power to make it a really wonderful life. Get busy.

Cock of The North

It is always difficult to find that special gift for yourself at Christmas.

Having nearly run one over in the car during a visit to a large local country office park I have recently considered the purchase of a Peacock.

They have always given me the impression of being  spectacular and quite delightful creatures and yet aloof and with a rather snobby and exclusive image. The position as and association with being the national bird of India also conjurs up the great legends, fables and stories from that part of the world and which both fascinated and thrilled when told to me as a child.

The breed is very hardy being able to cope with a great variety of climatic conditions. The bird is as much at home and at ease in the tropical sub continent as in the dry and wind swept plains and prairies of the American mid west.

They are principally bred and kept for their ornamental role in the grounds of stately homes, roaming farmland and, in my recent and near-tragic encounter, in modern commercial environments.

The jewel toned fowl will apparently thrive if their basic needs are met.

According to a guide provided by enthusiasts of the Peacock the fundamental and sustaining requirements are access to fresh water in a trough or dish, two handfuls of grain per adult bird daily, a supplementary diet of cabbage and other vegetables and regular treatment for worms, a common affliction for such a thing of beauty.

In terms of whether my house and grounds would be suitable for the keeping of a Peacock I consulted another guide to keeping them as a pet.

The threat of predators, mainly the fox, makes some form of elevated sleeping platform an absolute necessity. A tree is perfectly acceptable but the only one within my boundary is a eucalyptus thing above urban garages and possibly not that great a refuge. I regularly see urban foxes skulking along the path formed by the progression of flat roofs over the garages and a dozing bird would find that a bit worrying.

A house roof is often used by a Peacock but my abode is a three storey affair which would be hard to easily access.

I have read that the creatures like to explore but must not be allowed to stray in an uncontrolled manner because of their propensity to cause damage. There have been regular incidents of flowerbeds being dug up in neighbours gardens and perching on cars is popular as is attacking their own reflection in the high sheen of car bodywork.

There is a process to familiarise a Peacock with its immediate environment in keeping it in a pen or cage until it is educated as to its new territory. They are not good companions if looking for a docile and faithful animal friend but enjoy socialising with humans through regular contact and handling with some very tame examples taking food and allowing petting in close quarter.

Each Peacock maintains its own domain or lek in which he is absolute ruler. In this exclusive surroundings the Peacock seeks to attract the female pea hens through the ostentatious full tail display. The rituals are not however silent and many neighbours have been upset by the loud shrill cry which can result in the taking of action by a Local Authority Environmental Department if persistently annoying and intrusive.

Some individuals have allowed a Peacock into their actual homes but this has been a sober lesson in that the birds are not capable of being house trained.

Having carried out a bit of research I feel that perhaps the purchase would not be the thing for me and where I call home after all.

An ideal scenario would be about an acre of land but my urban estate only consists of a pebbled forecourt and a parking courtyard.

The disadvantages far outweigh the aesthetic value of the bird although at £80 for a pair of Indian Blues I may for the same outlay  just buy a Kindle for Christmas and re-read the fantastic stories about them instead.

Lots More

If on a budget or just curious about what goes on I can generally recommend attendance at a public auction sale.

Be strong in your intentions and keep a firm focus on what you want to buy. There are many shiny things and other distractions. Be prepared, above all, to go home with nothing if your target Lots are unattainable. Do not fall into the common trap of frustration at not being a successful bidder for the first choice Lot and then jumping in to take what is described as an unsorted box. Amongst the crested tea spoons, Wade Whimsy figures, a politically incorrect Robinsons Jam figurine playing a guitar, knitting pattern and a variety of plates and saucers there may be but a single item worth the winning bid of £1.50.

Bidding at an auction is simultaneously exciting and mortifying. In setting up home I was after twin two seater settees, bankrupt stock, being offered at the local warehouse based auction house. They were in excellent condition, not remotely shop soiled or colour jaded. The first settee was easily bought, no noticeable competition. However, what better scope for mischief at a sale than  to see that someone is dead-set on making up a set or a clean sweep of Lots and contributing to the much higher price through malicious and bogus bidding.

I could sense this was the case but of course the sea of faces clustered around the cavernous room were mainly those of poker faced dealers and speculators well practiced in concealment and deception. I persisted in waving my bidders number, beads of perspiration on my brow and the bridge of my nose. My self imposed maximum was approaching fast, almost twice as much as the first settee had been purchased for but at the fall of the hammer I had been successful.

Unfortunately there were now three major problems. The first was that the goods had to stay in situ for the duration of the sale. The settees were, amongst the vast array of items in the sale room, part load bearing forming the base and plinth of a veritable pyramidic structure. Any attempt at a Jenga style extraction would be catastrophic. The second, worrying aspect was that the settees were also impromtu seating for the heavy legged, infirm or just casually lounging clientele of the auction rooms. Most of the current occupants, I counted a maximum of 8 large men and women, were arranged either on the actual seat cushions or with fleshy track-suit clad buttocks spilling out over the arms, counter balanced by a swinging leg or a foot resting on an adjacent sale item of furniture.

In a quick and informal survey I was horrified to see that 60% of the recumbent masses were smoking and with a very carefree attitude to where the stray ash fell. The settees were, although of little immediate reassurance, carrying labels testifying to fire retardant characteristics. No doubt laudable precaution against major conflagration but little protection against a stubbed out dog-end. Add to the smoking statistics a gross weight of 120 stones for the settee squatters and I had very mixed feelings of concern for the integrity of the upholstery but was also greatly impressed by the stoutness and rigidity of the sub frames under such a dead weight. The third issue could wait a few minutes being more of a logistical nature. To go with the new living room seating I was also intrigued by the well advertised disposal of the entire contents of the executive dining room of a large and established local company. The firm were a global concern and the hospitality for sheiks and now respectable warlords would have to be of the highest calibre.

The sale room preview on the morning of the auction had confirmed the worthiness of the quest for the settees. I also got a look at a dozen cardboard boxes of the finest quality Royal Doulton Ravenswood dinner services. Bright white, high glazed finished plates from main course size through to the small side plates, serving platters, tureens, gravy boats, fragile tea cups and saucers. The boxes appeared to be a good distribution of items, not quite a full compliment in each but well worth going after. A close scrutiny confirmed the quality. The plates had not been corporate branded which will have significantly reduced their attraction.The style featured a thin highly decorative silver leaf band just inside the edge. Obvious class and the pinnacle of good taste.

Bidding was frantic. The first half dozen boxes went for well above my limit. There was, for the final boxed batches a very tangible cooling off in the room. I was now within my range and found myself the proud owner of the second to last box. It was not until I got home that the newly acquired executive dinner service could be studied in detail. 6 beautiful full sized plates in excellent condition, 6 side plates equally good, 5 tea cups, 3 sugar bowls, 32 saucers. Surprisingly for the level of wear and tear in a young and growing family the fine china remains largely intact although it is only really used on special occasions very much like for what it was intended under corporate entertainment protocols if a mogul or approved despot was in the area.

In returning to the third problem with the settees I now had to remove these at the end of the sale and get them home. The parking lot of the auction warehouse and the surrounding industrial estate streets were awash with white or off-white coloured transit and Luton vans. Like the swarm of taxis at the end of a night out the sale room was a magnet for anyone with motorised transport to earn a few quid in removals and delivery. I asked at the payment counter if they could recommend a haulier.

Before the staff could answer a figure loomed out of the shadows and offered his van and services for a flat rate of £15 for any load and distance but only if I was quick. I took this as an ill omen but then realised that he simply wanted to get in a few short runs from the sale room to cover his costs and provide a bit of profit. The settees were cleared for removal, loaded into a plain white van and then disappeared up the road with a note of my home address.

In todays mistrustful society I may have unwittingly given the man a licence to clear my own house in his own van but the thought had not crossed my mind. Within a few minutes, carefully supporting the bottom of the Royal Doulton assorted box, I let him into the house and with great dexterity and consideration for the decorations he and a mate skilfully placed the two settees in their final resting place.

The settees, with a faint odour of nicotine, were ideal for the room and gave very good service under the heavy duty demands of a busy family for many years.

File Under C

I had a Filofax in the 1980's.

I feel better for admitting that fact now.

At the time it was the thing to have and be seen with. A very useful business and lifestyle tool.

Try to describe the concept of a Filofax to anyone under the age of 30 and they will give you an incredulous stare as if questioning your sanity and the language in which you are speaking. Go through the same conversation now in your own mind and horror upon horror you realise that they were right.

Imagine a diary, reminder and memo format where you have to physically write things down with no reliance on anything remotely electronic.

There were some distinct advantages such as never running a risk of a low battery and if left on a bus or in a taxi no one bothered to wander off with it.

It was a bulky thing, mine had a real leather cover and a push stud catch often bulging under the pressure of content.

There was a certain thrill in going into the stationers, usually WH Smiths, to choose another ream of useful pages for diary entries, things to do, a list of dates and space to write events and days of the week for recording what you had to do. In fact it was just really a glorified diary after all.

In a bid to personalise my Filofax I clipped in a memorable quote that appealed to me but would, I feel also give anyone opening up the page the perception that I was cultured, sophisticated, sensitive and highly intelligent.

The quote was "The man who makes no mistakes does not usually make anything".

It was not attributed to anyone in particular and I assumed it to be something invented by Reader's Digest or those anonymous individuals who compose the wording to go in Christmas crackers and seasonal greetings cards.

It now appears that at least three people claim to have initiated those  words of great wisdom.
One is Edward James Phelps whom you may like to look up in Wikipedia as I am a bit busy at the moment , another being Bishop W C McGee and even Giacomo Casanova.

I can see why there have been multiple claims of authorship because it is an admittance of the infallability of man but yet encouraging people to just have a go and not to fear failure or the possibility of ridicule.

In today's Health and Safety and Nanny State no one sets off without a full risk assessment and therefore there is no prospect of making a mistake or exposing yourself to a law suit.

I find that a disappointing consequence of modern day life. Even young children are not encouraged to do something in which they may fail. Perhaps the worst advice ever given to me as a young child was in a sports lesson at school when the PE teacher told me to never mind about winning, just have fun.

Stick that in your Filofax under the useless wisdom section.

Porch

A porch has had a part to play in the history of  British housing, or at least it used.

In the Victorian era it was an opportunity to be ostentatious in ceramic tiling when such things were otherwise regarded as being a bit vulgar.

A well scrubbed and polished black and white or multi-coloured chequered floor was a step up from the traditional ox-blood painted plain concrete.

Terrazzo, an Italian inlaid floor, reminiscent of a Roman Tessare was a more expensive option.

On the inner walls of an open porch were bright and gawdy glazed tiles from the continent, mostly Dutch up to a raised glazed moulding below a gloss finished plaster panel on which further fibrous plaster covings could be positioned.

The 1970's and a period of escalating domestic fuel prices heralded the enclosing of the porch as a heat saving measure. Double outer doors were popular, typically with glazed upper and lower panes but negotiating these required a bit of a shimmy and deft step particularly if there was a reluctance to open up both at the same time.

Later developments in UPVC were quite bland except where Conservation Area or Listed Building Status dictated installation of a more sympathetic architectural style fitting.

Most contemporary porch structures affixed to modern housing tend to be more of a stick-on type appendage with little thought of visual empathy or even practicality.

In some cases, however, the design and construction of a porch can be a real work of art.

Take the example below, a treasure, a rare extravagance in crafted wood with slate roof, decorative bargeboards, stained glass windows and to the recess a pair of bench seats for visitors to shelter if no-one is at home or for residents to enjoy a view of the tended garden and a sunset at the end of the working day.

Look into my eyes.......

In Paris in 1778 Franz Anton Mesmer, a German physician, pitched his theory, a revolutionary one, to the French Academy of Science .

His claim was that all life in the known universe contained an invisible fluid, which he called Animal Magnetism. This he had analysed flowed invisibly around the bodies of humans and all creatures and if harnessed could serve to cure illness and general maladies.

He had put his theory into practice in the fashionable salons of Paris inviting the wealthy classes in particular to be subjected to the application of magnetised rods and cords which would direct the fluid away from afflicted parts of the body.

Mesmer himself would use magnetised wands and also play on a glass harmonica which caused participants to experience a shiver down their nerves.

A key piece of equipment in the Salons or seances was a large circular wooden  tub where the treatments would take place. The upper classes would have their own tub but Mesmer was committed to providing the same facility for the poor on a twice weekly basis.

Those sat inside the tub were then touched by rods pushed through perforations to induce the powers to heal.

Many drawn to the sessions developed convulsions, began speaking in tongues, collapsing in fits and with group hysteria common. There were reported cures for toothache, paralysis, gout and even blindness.

The process developed further with attendees forming circles, holding hands and grasping cords between themselves to transfer healing energies. The power of the mind could control and direct the superfine fluid of animal magnetism and Mesmer would through stroking or passing movements bring about cures and miraculous revivals of health.

The business opportunities were not overlooked by the founder of this apparently sensational approach to medical issues and he taught initiates for what was the extortionate sum for the time of 100 Livres. They were sworn to a vow of secrecy. Many aristocrats signed up to the franchise.

The salons were over-subscribed and Mesmer even took to the streets with the magnetising of a tree to allow individuals to connect to the trunk and boughs by trailing cords.

The mass popularity of the therapy and the ensuing mass hysteria were widely satirised . Faced with ridicule and being discredited Mesmer insisted that his theory be assessed on a formal basis by the highest scientific authorities, hence the involvement of the Academy of Sciences.

It was a hands on and practical investigation. Seances were observed and individuals interviewed. The eminent members of the Academy witnessed convulsions and even subjected themselves to experiments. Mesmer had intentionally magnetised a number of objects to assist in his practices but when the panel conducted a similar exercise the findings did not produce anything to support the claims.

The overall summary was damning to the future operations of Mesmer in that it gave the opinion that everything was down to the power and persuasion of the imagination through auto-suggestion and drama.

This judgement seemed to persuade the physician to leave the sceptics of the French Capital and little is known of him after the early years of the 19th Century. Many later studies of his work attributed the reactions of patients to hypnosis and as a lasting legacy the term Mesmerism is widely used although in a context of disbelief and the supernatural.

Priest Hole

I heard a story about a village Priest who dropped numerous hints to his parishioners that if they felt of generous spirit they might raise the funds amongst themselves to build him an extension at the vicarage.

He required a room dedicated to his spiritual, personal  and Parish business which could not be accommodated within the existing building even though it was one of the largest and grandest examples of its kind in the Diocese.

Indeed, the original building had itself been an expression of respect and worldly love for a predecessor by willing and grateful members of the congregation.

It is no wonder that the posting of a Cleric to a wealthy rural parish was seen rather like compensation particularly if that Priest were a second son and not able to inherit the family estate or title in the strict hierarchy of succession.

The villagers made no fuss over the request for donations.

The better off amongst the landowners and merchant residents tried to out do one another in terms of generosity and equally so in the modesty in which they made the amount known to all and sundry either directly or via the efficient grapevine of gossip.

A few who regarded themselves as middle class gave with more piety.

The agricultural workers gave what they could afford which was in reality a greater proportion of their income than their affluent neighbours.

Everyone in the village contributed, bar none as a reflection of the fear of God in their souls, even those who had not stepped over the threshold of the local Church since their Baptism, Wedding or the funeral of a loved one.

Funds accumulated rapidly in the Parish Bank Account, incidentally but not unusually with the Priest as sole signatory.

Within a couple of months of the heavy hints an Architect was engaged to draw up a selection of plans and elevations for a suitable extension. These were displayed on the Parish notice board on the Village Green but no opinions were invited or dared be offered as to the favourite. The Priest had the only vote and chose a rather ornate, Gothic design with black slate roof, fancy corbelled brickwork and narrow, arrow slit window openings which contrasted sharply with the classic red brick and pantile proportions of the Vicarage to which it would be attached.

A number of builders from the main County Town were asked to tender for the job even though perfectly good and competent contractors numbered in the village population. The successful company were not that well known in the area. The Priest made it clear that the criteria for the appointment was purely on price. A closer inspection of the Company Registration Document will have disclosed that one of the Directors of the building company had the same surname as the incumbent.

The parishioners were far too trusting to allow any suspicions of collusion and nepotism to be pursued.

Construction progressed well in the spring months and by the early summer the extension was fully completed. A small ceremony was held to bless the new arrival and the Priest moved in. Unfortunately the accumulated building fund had been depleted by what had been blamed on unforeseen technical difficulties and a further appeal went out to the financially beleagured villagers for contributions to comfortably furnish and decorate the interior.

In residence the Priest felt he had been promoted to joint spiritual director and Lord of the Manor. The extension was much larger than envisaged by the church faithful. Rather than an office it was more like a throne-room, opulent and lushly fitted out.

You would expect the efficiency and dedication of God's Representative to be massively enhanced by the surroundings and the cost of the structure to be repaid to the benefactors in faithfulness and service.

In the weeks and months following the occupation of the palace-like extension the villagers found it very, very difficult to get to see the Priest to discuss spiritual requirements or to arrange the usual formalities of births, marriages and deaths.

On approaching the Vicarage, convinced that their Vicar was in on the basis that he had not been seen out and about , it was soon evident that he was not. A series of polite but increasingly insistent pulls on the bell chain brought no response. It was the case on a regular basis that Parishioners had to make their way back down the long driveway disappointed and disillusioned.

Inside his domain the Priest was happy with his new regime of limited contact with the general public. He congratulated himself on the inspirational features of the extension and in particular the narrow vertical glazed apertures. These were orientated to give a perfectly clear view of the gated entrance from the Main Street of the village. If he sat back, just beyond the deep window reveal he could avoid being seen by anyone approaching seeking guidance or solace. This gave him the upper hand in any potential situation and he could look forward to a very peaceful few years until his official retirement and entitlement to the very generous Clergy Pension.

Formica versus Function (or for the love of melamine)

New roof every 40 years.
Replace the rainwater fittings every 20 years.
Re-point the external walls on a 15 year rota.
New better performing windows and doors every decade.
Paint the remaining woodwork twice in every ten year period.
Remodel the interior upon each change of ownership which traditionally was held to be on a seven year progression.
Skim plaster ceilings and walls on a whim.
Refit sanitary ware when the next best thing is seen in a magazine be it a fruit bowl basin or a travertine tiled wet and steam room.
Install a new kitchen whenever you get bored of the existing one, perhaps even between meals.

The foregoing is a timeline based on my experience of working in property for, approaching, 30 years.

You would expect my job of inspection, diagnosis and analysis of the structure and installations of a house to be made considerably easier by the regularity of the ongoing process of repairs and renewals but in fact my arrival at a seemingly perfect property only serves to start off my mental alarm system in anticipation of botched, concealed and downright dodgy workmanship and practices.

There are many instances of what the senior generation would refer to as "top show" where superficially everything looks superb but just below the surface there is less than satisfactory detail lurking. I was therefore thrilled today to come across a largely unspoilt house in terms of its features, fittings and amazingly what would be regarded as a vintage range of kitchen units- the forerunner of what we would call a fitted kitchen although barely recognisable as such against those being marketed to home owners today.

It is a limited run of sturdy joiner built rather than flat pack base units, consisting of four white faced hinged cupboards with lime green drawer fronts above although two are dummies incorporated below the enamelled finished sink and drainer.

The enamel is spotlessly clean and unblemished giving the appearance of little use although likely to have been many times during a domestic cycle of activity.

The adjoining work surface is in granite effect formica, also as bright and shiny as though fitted a few hours ago and not yet commissioned.

Fixed to the wall above are two pantry units but non matching suggesting that one may pre-date the main array and retained for its generous shelved storage and useful sliding glass cabinet beneath. It may have even been part of a more established larder unit but cut down to size and the lower part discarded or in use, recycled in another part of the house.

It is a kitchen combining what would be the all mod cons of the period  and the "make and mend" era that it superseded.

The adjoining wall unit has larger shelving spacing to take dinner plates and a row of 6 dowel pegs for cups and mugs to be hung from.

A stylistic touch is a spice rack in the gap between upper and lower storage and well stocked on the day of my visit.

The taps on the enamel coated metal are elegant swan necks in bright chrome finish and again remarkably sparkling and with no oxidisation or wear and tear. I felt a bit strange having to test that they worked as though questioning their legitimacy over the previous four or more decades.

What of the future of this amazingly preserved vintage kitchen?

The parents of the young couple interested in buying the old house stood alongside me and we were all a bit dewy eyed at our collective recollections of having been brought up with very much the same format of form and function.

Meanwhile, said young couple were measuring the wonder kitchen of its age to make sure that it would all fit in just the one skip.

Dinky Toys

It is just a couple of days since I recounted the story of Smokey the cat who was partially baked in a Yorkist oven range by my mother in law.

It was of course entirely an accident.

I would challenge any family in their role as custodians of domestic pets to say that their experiences had been completely tragedy and trouble free.

Be it hamsters, rats, white mice, stick insects, the primary school goldfish billeted during the summer vacation, budgerigars, parakeets, mynah birds, cats, dogs, reptiles, micro-Vietnamese pigs or guinea pigs there is always a risk of injury, death or that horrible moment on finding the cage, rotastack, bowl, aviary, vivarium or pen empty of its usual resident or residents.

This was the case again involving my Mother in Law and a Chipmunk.

There is no need to alert the animal welfare people to a persistent threat to wildlife by Maureen. It was just another one of those adventures that owners and their pets embark upon together although rarely by mutual consent.

The exotic animal belonged to my brother in law whilst he was living at home in his early twenties. It was certainly a typically friendly and funny creature which thrived on contact with humans and gave hours of entertainment from within its expansive cage.

Its name, Dinky, summed up a compact and perfectly formed small rodent. The natural markings were a beautiful sight in particular the almost "go-fast" striping down its back which serve to give a fearful appearance to dissuade predators in the wilds of its habitats in Northern America or wherever its Siberian cousins have spread to through Asia.

Dinky was a very active chipmunk cavorting about through the swings and obstacle course of his cage keeping my brother in law awake during the hours of darkness when he was on a long shift of daytime working and vice versa on his night shift rota.

My Mother in Law would take it upon herself to make sure the pet was fed and watered during Carl's unsociable work schedule and would also enjoy the exhibitionist antics provided as though a means of saying thank-you for the housekeeping efforts. It was therefore a great shock to Maureen to find, one day, that Dinky had managed to slip the catch on the cage door and make a bid for freedom.

Being a gregarious creature Dinky had not actually gone very far and indeed seemed to take great pride in just hanging about in the boughs of a tree in the back garden.

A chipmunk, whilst making a relatively easy to manage pet, is still very much a wild animal and is known to be notoriously difficult to recapture if devious enough to make it to the outside world.

A verbal appeal for reasonableness went unheeded as you would expect it to. The distribution of tasty nuts and seeds on the ground at the base of the new residential address for Dinky was not fruitful. The cage, extracted from Carl's bedroom and carefully manoeuvred down the steep stairs and through the house, was positioned in proximity to the tree platform and the door left enticingly open.

Putting yourself in the position of a chipmunk and given the choice between a lush, deliciously edible bit of greenery and a metal enclosure you might well do as Dinky did and just stay put. The tree was a marvellous viewing platform for the neighbourhood and hard to relinquish for that quality alone.

Maureen flitted back and forth from the house to the foot of the tree making encouraging noises and offering ever more interesting titbit and snacks but not enough to be of interest. She was dreading that moment of having to inform Carl that his pet had absconded although being able to point out where Dinky had got to was a crumb of comfort. Duncan, son in law and next door neighbour had been an observer of the proceedings or lack of them having been unable to avoid the events of the previous few hours as had been the case with many of the local residents.

The antics of a naughty chipmunk was quite an event for the street.

Duncan's contribution to the recovery attempt was a long length of black plastic rainwater downpipe.

He fed one end through the aperture of the cage and rested the other just offset to the tree trunk.

A handful of best chipmunk food was spread at the mouth of the pipe and another carefully thrown into the dark hole. He then walked away casually and stepped into the house for a cup of tea.

This new strategy did seem to catch the attention of Dinky. A game appeared to be in the offing and he could be seen working his way carefully, suspiciously but with obvious intent through the foliage and down to ground level. Like a rat and an actual drainpipe Dinky disappeared from view very shortly to emerge 3 metres beyond in the cage.

He stayed put. It is likely that he was more than happy to have had his own adventure for a few hours. There were after all obvious benefits in occupying Carl's bedroom in that his usual position was slap bang in front of the big screen TV and usually there was a very full viewing programme to fill up his days.

Special Branch

For as many years as I can recall we have, on the second weekend in December, made a short journey across town to a garden centre to purchase our Christmas Tree.

We have undertaken, every year, that inevitable calculation of how much we have spent on real trees as opposed to the investment in an artificial tree that can be unfolded, straightened, screwed into a custom made base and ruffled a bit to give a bit of authenticity.

We laugh collectively at the very concept of a false, mock, replica, look-a-likee, tribute, lip service, and pitifully poor homage to a proper tree even though we would have certainly been quids in had we gone plastic, aluminium, fibre-optic, black, white, colour change, etc, etc, etc.

The garden centre, a large, sprawling family run business has always carried a good stock of Christmas trees and even at what some may regard as a bit late in the season to go and buy a pivotal part of the celebrations we have never felt pressurised or panicky as we pull into the car park.

The greenhouse which serves as the show-room for the stock of pine trees smells wonderfully of freshly cut boughs and extruded resin. The earth floor is strewn with fine needles, powdery sawdust and larger wood cuttings.

We are sufficiently familiar with the layout of the showroom to make our way to the section for our size range of tree. There are some huge 12 foot high plus non-drop types suitable to grace an expansive vestibule of company offices or one of those uphill and palatial mansions with a sweeping reception hall with minstrels gallery. We have more modest room dimensions having until last year lived in a 1920's house with a 9 foot floor to ceiling height and now our new residence of 1977 vintage and a lower 7 and a half feet of airspace.

In my childhood there was only one choice for a Christmas tree.

They were sharp and spiky and within only a few days of being exposed to the levels of heat and moisture in modern lifestyles there would begin the exfoliation process which would create, before the New Year arrived a display of a skeletal, bald and positively sad looking twigs and trunk.

At the garden centre, within our specific section of the showroom, we are spoilt for choice now.

The old style trees have been superceded by Nordmann Pines and many others with promises of sustainable smell and foliage. They are perfectly shaped, bushy and lush. There are no traces of ugly trees but they must exist somewhere. It may be these less than beautiful trees that find themselves hoisted up onto flag pole mounts outside High Street shops or left alone in the dark corner of the assembly hall after school has broken up for the holidays.

Those propped up are inspected as though in a beauty parade.

When my own children were little it was up to me to hold the top of the tree and rotate it for approval. In more recent years I have taken on the role of judge as one or more of my young adults,as they are now, do the heavy work.

I have never asked my parents what they used to pay for the family tree back in the 60's and 70's. The current up to date rate for an 8 foot tree works out at £10 per linear foot. This has remained fairly constant for, again, as many years as I can recall. This is surprising given what we are led to believe are escalating land prices, growing costs, transport expenditure, conservation issues and the improvements in technology of those dreaded artificial trees.

Our tree for 2014 came from a short-list of two entrants.

It ticked all the boxes for size, colour, smell, spread of boughs and classic shape. It was fed unceremoniously into the galvanised metal funnel which compresses and wraps the unruly growth in a mesh netting for ease of loading into the car. The trunk, on request, has been cut and shaped to fit a sample of the old metal stand on which the tree will be supported for the next 4 weeks.

On the drive home the car is filled with that wonderful odour which acts as the catalyst for my Christmas spirit to be released. The thrill of our purchase is however muted a bit by the revelation that it may well be the last from the usual garden centre.

Ironically it is escalating land values which have meant that the family business is sat on a goldmine for a housing development and they have decided to go for planning permission and sell up.

It may well represent the end of an era for that aspect of our family tradition but I sincerely wish them well and hope that the mansion that they will be able to afford with the proceeds will have a vast, vast hallway to compliment an obscenely monster Christmas tree.

OK Knock yourself out

The abbreviation of O.K is so much more than an abbreviation.

It is an accepted word in its own right, a universally recognised and acknowledged term.

In tight, nervy, potentially explosive and confrontational situations there will have been many occasions when the use and comprehension of OK by either side in a conflict will have served as a lifeline and saving grace, or alternatively, the signal to pull the trigger.

OK would always be considered as the first scribbled entry in the margins of a global language dictionary and yet its origins are still very much a matter of speculation. This is very surprising given its rapid ascendancy into the English language and its persistence in that list of words to truly attain universal status.

The league table of global words is very fluid and on a year to year basis there will be new entrants, one hit wonders and a few dropping out of populist use altogether. The main drivers for new words are commercialism and the influence of the internet and these sources are more influential than ever. The process, with the emergence of a fresh crop of economically powerful nations, will be for words to originate from products, services and search engines and become quickly established in everyday language. It will  be possible to track back precisely to the hour, minute and second to the birth of a new word or term in direct contrast to the slow assimilation from word of mouth or through literature that has been the case in the development of language in the past.

Authoratative research and publications on the derivation of OK is divided.

The smart money is on its introduction as a bit of an in joke by intellectual types in Boston, USA in or around the late 1830's. A sense of superiority and self worth, nowadays just called being a smart-arse, led to the development of abbreviations to mimic the speaking voices of their supposed inferiors in society. O.W signified "oll wright", K.Y for "know yuse" and the sole survivor of this jolly jape, O.K for "oll wright".

This very much schoolboy brand humour graduated to a first appearance in print in a Boston daily newspaper in March 1839, or so the legend holds. As a sole source of information and influence, at that time, an apparent endorsement by a newspaper for a word or phrase would be the equivalent of something, today, 'trending' on Twitter.

In the following year the campaign for re-election by the then eighth President of the United States , Martin Van Buren, displayed OK prominently as part of its rallying cry. It is not clear if this was an intentional use and wordplay of "All Correct" in its proper grammatical form or just a coincidence in that his nickname was 'Old Kinderhook'. The hysteria of a crowded assembly room or other mass gatherings and the chanting of OK on a national basis appear to have consolidated its use and ensured longevity in this Americanism of the English language. There is, on a Presidential theme, the attachment of OK as a bastardised form of the semi-literate conversational traits of the seventh incumbent, Andrew Jackson who was in power in the decade prior to Van Buren and for whom Old Kinderhook was Vice President . Hailing from Tennessee it is conceivable that a drawling dialect would produce more of a sound of "Oll Korrect" than a crystal clear pronunciation.

There are of course many other theories as to the derivation of OK.

Surely ancient languages will have had some form of words to express the sentiment of OK even if it did not have any mileage beyond the range of a local dialect or a national border. In Greek, and forgive me if I spell this incorrectly, the phrase "Ola Kala" means everything is fine. The export of all things Greek including a reasonable proportion of its population to America and Australia as displaced migrants will have provided a new outlet and use for this form of reassurance. There is further speculation that OK evolved from the Scottish "Och Aye" which I personally feel is quite convincing again from the dissipation of Scots into every part of the world and therefore an ability to influence colloquialisms on a global basis.

Indeed, just about every dialect has a not dissimilar form of words or phrase from the Finnish "oikea" to Haitian "aux cayes" .

The  language of the native american Choctaw Indians whose traditional homelands were in the Mississippi and Alabama regions had the word 'Okeh'. African slaves, captured and incarcerated from all points of their home continent, had to develop a common form of communication and amongst the thriving vocabulary was the word " 'kays".

As well as individuals and foreign languages being cited as a possible source of OK there has also been speculation that a popular product in wide circulation may also have been the original catalyst to its use. This theory has included the practice of a manufacturer stamping initials  on a brand of baked biscuits with such producer being one Otto Kimmel.

Perhaps the most famous OK belongs to the Corral location of the cult-status gunfight of 1881. Iconic the abbreviation may make it but the initials are thought to refer to just an ordinary name, Old Kindersley.

We may never come to know the true derivation of the term but is it a matter of pride or embarassment that OK persists as arguably the greatest single gift to international language of all time? I am not aware that anyone has stepped forward to claim that honour.

Smokey and the Bad Night

It is a story from my wife's family that I never tire of hearing.

In fact, I find myself edging forward on my chair at a gathering whenever there appears to be a possibility that it will be told again.

It involved a beloved family member, a cat called smokey.

The name, after the incident to be described, seemed to be quite apt although it was of course the name given to the cat from its arrival as a tiny kitten at the house on the old terraced street.

On that fateful day my mother in law, Maureen and her step sister, Lily were sharing a few moments over a cup of tea sat on the sofa in the back living room. It was a comfortable and cosy place, the heart of the home in which my wife,her  older sister and younger brother had been brought up by their loving parents.

In between the conversation and the familiar and comforting meeting of cups on saucers and the sounds of contentment at the passing around of home baked cakes and biscuits there was heard a strange, almost muffled but still discernible ringing of a small bell.

It was only strange because it was out of context as otherwise it would herald the pending arrival of Smokey to rub up against legs or leap up onto the table to be greeted warmly by one and all.

The bell tinkled but no cat came into view.

Maureen gave a quick glance under the table and then searched a bit farther afield behind the settee and even in the understairs gas cupboard. There was no cheeky, whiskered face on the other side of the glazed door to the kitchen or scratching with sharpened claws at the hallway door.

Pulling back of the net curtain at the window gave a good view into the yard and garden but no cat could be seen on the cill, the top of the boundary wall or on the back doorstep.

It was indeed a mystery. A sound without a source.

The bell continued to peal, perhaps with a bit more urgency.

Maureen went into the kitchen and listened carefully for any clue as to the direction from which the noise came. Cupboards were opened in anticipation of the cat jumping out as though playing a game of hide and seek but yielded nothing.

The inner wall of the kitchen was dominated by the functioning focal point of a large cast iron cooking range. The "Yorkist" was a common sight in old terraced houses through the north of England as a means of cooking, providing hot water and providing welcome background heating. A fire was always kept in as a matter of practicality and a challenge. Top and lower double oven compartments could rapidly bring a meal to the table or allow a long, slow almost full day of cooking for a casserole or joint. Liver and onions was a particular favourite to sustain the family and fill the house with the glorious odours of a home cooked meal. A tap, protruding from the cast body of the range allowed the drawing off of scalding water for a tin bath or other domestic purposes.

The bell appeared to be coming from the bottom oven.

Maureen hesitantly opened it up.

Something resembling a hairy mass, tangled, dishevelled and shiny with sweat emerged from the depths of the compartment.

In a double take Maureen realised that the horrific apparition was in fact Smokey the cat.

She pulled it clear and wrapped the almost lifeless form in a towel, rubbing and massaging carefully both to dry the wet fur and in an attempt to comfort the distressed animal. There was little response apart from a perceptible movement of a paw as though to say thank you for the rescue from a terrible experience.

It was not known how long Smokey had been cooked.

No one could recall either the last sighting of the cat or when in fact the oven door had been left open to give an opportunity for feline curiosity.

It may have been a natural and almost unthinking action to just close up the oven door when passing with the end of a slippered foot or casually with a tea towel in hand on taking tea through to the back room.

Maureen sat with the stricken cat for much of the night in a difficult nursing operation. A snifter of brandy in warm milk was offered strictly for medicinal purposes and I think that the cat got some as well. It was thought that it might be necessary to call out the veterinary surgeon.

Cats are resilient however and it may simply have been that Smokey had a good number of her allotted lives left because by the morning she had left the dedicated care of an exhausted Maureen in order to energetically and ruthlessly re-stake a claim to his urban territory in the undergrowth of East Hull.

(The benefits of slow cooking a cat have, understandably, not been documented, but Smokey did reach the very advanced age of 19 years in good health),

Race Relations

Talent always shows through in everything from academic performance through to the arts and in particular in sporting endeavours.

In today's environment of multi-culturalism and such initiatives as kick racism out of football it really is the case that anyone with talent can progress and acheive the heady heights of their chosen pursuit.

It was so very different in the latter years of the 19th Century when success in life was determined by social class, wealth and patronage and the colour of your skin. It was near impossible for the underprivileged or minorities to have a route into the elitism of sports and it was this prejudicial barrier that Marshall Walter Taylor took on to become the first african american athlete to be a world champion in track and road cycling.

Born in 1878 and in the Deep South of the USA Marshall Taylor could not have found himself in a more hostile and negative setting for an aspiring black athlete.

He was an obviously natural bike rider and with his first cycle at the age of 12 he was taken on by a local bicycle shop to attract customers by stunt and trick riding on the pavement outside. It was his attire of a soldiers uniform that earned him the nickname "Major Taylor" which stuck for his adult racing career.

His first race was won at the age of 13 (1891). By the age of 15 he held the amateur track record over a one mile distance but was subsequently barred because of his colour.

In a 75 mile road race in Indiana he suffered racial threats so much so that he felt compelled to move his base to the more tolerant Massachusets on the east coast.

Racism in the Southern States was very prominent in cycle sport of the period.

White riders regularly conspired in their tactics to beat Major Taylor including boxing him in and culminating in a physical assault and choking by another competitor. The perpetrator was fined but with no other penalties or sanctions imposed.

Spectators also impeded and interfered with his racing and assaults with nails and ice were not unusual.

Being an amateur bike racer made it necessary to have a serious day-time job to subsidise racing and he worked as a mechanic for the Worcester Cycle Manufacturing Company who also sponsored him with a bike and equipment.

Professional Racing began at the age of 18 and he was very soon regarded as the most formidable rider in America. His greatest supporter was Theodore Roosevelt who was an avid follower of Major Taylor's career.

In 1896 a six day race at Madison Square Gardens in New York was attended by 5000 people and in an international field he impressed particularly in lapping the field in one of the events.

In 1898 he held 7 world records over distances of 2 miles to 25 miles followed by a six week period in 1899 in which he established a further 7 world records.

In his professional racing Major Taylor won 29 out of 49 races and became World Champion in 1899.

The more extensive and mature cycle racing of Europe beckoned and a tour in 1902 to France was soon followed by exhibitions and racing in the Southern Hemisphere including Australia and New Zealand.

An active racing programme did take its toll physically. We know about the drug controversies of modern bike racing and the sophisticated compounds in circulation but in the early 20th Century many riders relied upon nitroglycerine to keep them awake and stimulated during events.

A famous quote from Major Taylor indicated the hallucinatory powers of nitro when he claimed to have a difficulty racing on the track from an imaginary character wielding a knife.

He retired at age 32 giving the advice to those african-americans  keen to emulate his success on two wheels to rather find and pursue their own best talent.

In spite of making a considerable fortune from Professional Cycling Major Taylor lost it all through a combination of bad investments, persistent illness and the Stock Market Crash. He was buried in a paupers grave and it was not until 1948 that his contribution to cycling was acknowledged with fellow riders paying for a proper memorial to be erected in a Chicago Cemetery.

As with many great achievers recognition is not in their own lifetime. It is only in the modern era that Major Taylor has been lauded for his pioneering of not only african americans but his records and impact in the sport. His name is now found on street signs and a Velodrome. The film rights for his life story have been sold and a big screen dramatisation is eagerly awaited.