It was a brindle coated version of Santa's Little Helper that had buried its nose into the leg of my trousers.
I was a bit taken aback to find the dog attached to one of to my lower limbs.
It had sneaked up on me from behind the lounge doorway under the cover of the combined affect of my work clipboard and eye contact enforced by my greeting by the homeowner, mistress of said hound. It was referred to as a Rescue Dog which led me to think about it's fragile, lean frame dangling by a hoist from underneath a bright yellow RAF helicopter gesturing with its tiny paws for those afflicted by flood or other natural disaster to grab and hold on.
Like most dogs heartlessly discarded, abandoned or just found wandering the city streets it was of mixed and dubious breeding. The head was classic borzoi, perhaps from a pedigree parent having a night out on the tiles, the main torso definitely whippet and the colouring more commonly found on a staffie terrier.
I dismissed the inevitable imagery of what must have been an horrific mating ritual in a back alley or on the bank of one of the deep drain cuttings which bisected the area. Nevertheless, it was a nice looking mongrel with trusting eyes, a nice but not fussy nature and ,as I found out later when sensing a dampness on my trouser leg on my return to the car, a very wet and sticky nose. The animal did not bite or shy away when I offered an upturned palm in a gesture of friendship.
From therein on we were pals for the duration of my visit to its home and for the next 30 minutes there was never more than a couple of feet separating us. The dog was a big help to me in finding a clear pathway through the house as in the kindest of phrases it was "a lot lived in".
On entering the front room I was almost immediately legged up by a very small child clad in a onesie and with a Tommee Tippee drinking cup permanently attached to its rosy cheeked little face. It was, I later back counted the first of five and possibly six other wee mites in the house who either resided there permanently or were just visiting as a member of an extended family or group of playmates. I could not reach any of the wall surfaces in the living room to carry out my routine inspection for dampness or other defects because of the congregation of children and the vast amount of their accompanying toys and accessories.
The homeowner and another woman whom I presumed to be a parent of one or more of the under 5's population were now sat chatting on the sofa amongst a large pile of clothes either in preparedness for ironing or putting away. Such was the congestion and accumulation in the room that I had to reverse out taking care not to come into contact with or crush any of the children or their belongings.
The rear living room was, I hoped, more accessible but in squeezing through the door against a hidden obstruction behind I was met by the sight of a huge table or rather a collection of smaller tables pushed together on which some sort of large scale E Bay operation was being masterminded. Computer monitors flickered and beeped as new emails arrived apparently updating the status of bids and recording enquiries of interested but not yet convinced bidders and prospective buyers for a wide miscellanea of goods and chattels.
I sidled around the working area with the dog just ahead, casually glancing back to make sure that I was still on the trail. Like a maze we wound around the obstacles in that room for what seemed an eternity. I was a bit panicky about knocking something over or, worst still, causing any of the power cables or connections to be dislodged by my heavy footfall or a trip.
In contrast, the kitchen was like a broad and wide prairie stretching into the distance, or at least to the back door. Being a long and narrow room most of the belongings and trappings of modern life were distributed around its margins on every available worktop and surface leaving a clear central aisle. This allowed the dog to pause for a well earned scratch and the sight of that action caused me to do the same, I hoped out of mimickry and not an infestation of fleas.
I dare not go through that far door on the basis of what I had already encountered in the main house. It led into what I tend to loosely describe as a verandah covering every structure from a lean to shack to almost a conservatory. Space was again well oversubscribed, this time with plastic home brew kegs, rack upon rack of empty brown glass beer bottles and pieces of what looked like a classic Ford Cortina. The dog sniffed around in an interested way and whilst it was distracted I made my way back through to the staircase to go upstairs.
Two small girls, the eldest of the tribe I had so far seen, were having a role play tea party on the landing. I knew this from stumbling over on and crushing at least two cups and saucers of their moulded plastic service and scattering a section of vacumn moulded fruits and vegetables before me. They gave me a dirty look not often achieved by those many years older.
The front bedroom, in most of the similar properties in the street, had been partitioned into two smaller rooms. These were inaccessible because of yet more stored and stacked items of furniture, personal belongings and toys. I was yet to come across where any of the occupants of the house actually slept but the collection of single bed and bunks in the next room accounted for this. Down the darkened landing, made more hazardous by unidentified debris crunching under foot I headed towards a thin beam of electric light which shone from under another closed door. This was the bathroom.
Surprisingly clean and sanitary and I have nothing more to report on that. The fourth bedroom showed signs of occupancy but was a return to the chaos and disorder that reigned supreme in the house with the carpet littered with cast off clothing, bundles of lint, dust and neglect. I had been able to negotiate through the whole of the accommodation without too many mishaps apart from upsetting the two little ladies whilst they did tea. My constant canine companion looked sad as I bade my farewells to the small crowd in the hallway. We may never meet again but the place and the animal had made a bit of an impression, for sure.
Friday 31 January 2014
Thursday 30 January 2014
Riotous Assembly
The new table manners for families are being formulated as we speak.
There have been some massive cultural and social changes around the dinner table or in reality, the dining table no longer seems to form a centre point of family mealtimes and life.
I was brought up under the longstanding and respectful etiquette of a formal gathering for breakfast, weekend lunchtimes and 6pm tea at which the table was always spread with a cloth and the places set. I have actually just started to do this again to bring some stability and constancy to perhaps the most important meal of the day, breakfast. It is a bit of effort to do it but quite nice, civilised and it ensures that the family are adequately fuelled for their day, or at least, in my case until first choccy bar in my regular pre-elevenses snack.
Routine and manners at mealtimes are important but have come increasingly sidelined by the characteristics of modern life such as working patterns of the breadwinners, early school starts, commuting pressures and the habit of grazing our food.
The food company Goodfella's Pizza recently published the results of their survey on table manners taken amongst a sample of 2000 parents and 1000 children.
The outcome will come as a great disappointment to the generations who regarded and still regard sitting down for family meals as a sacred event.
It was not ,in my memory, a case of draconian measures at being summoned by my parents to wash hands, tidy ourselves up a bit and sit down with hands on our laps but a welcome and expected duty to show respect and gratitude for food on our plates.
Saying thanks through the formal Grace or one of those "through the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach here it comes" moments was a pleasure. We did not mind at all about sitting up straight as that aided the digestive processes.
As for the meal itself it was a case of eating it all up, even if sprouts, cabbage, broccoli and swede were not well liked by all. There was no choice because feeding a large family, as we were, took a big chunk of the family allowance and it was a constant challenge for our Mother to eke out the monies for the full weeks provisions.
We may have all thrown up a speech bubble about sending food to the starving children of Africa if we were told that it was a bad thing not to clear our plate when there was hunger in the world.
Use of implements in the correct manner was encouraged with knife and fork to be held firmly and not to attack siblings in any skirmishing actions for previous disagreements and tantrums. It may have been a great temptation to lick your knife clean but it was not the done thing. Polite conversation did take place and we all enjoyed catching up on everyone's news and plans but not at the expense of a fine spray of food being the inevitable consequence of a full mouth.
We would have many a joyous gathering at the table and manners and etiquette just followed naturally. There was no eating with hands. We asked for the salt, pepper and ketchup to be passed to us. We did not leave the table without parental permission even if there were pressing appointments with the TV, playing out with friends or just messing about after the rigours and demands of school.
To those say, under 40 years old, the foregoing may seem like a blast from the past, the remnants of a bygone age and a bit of a performance.
The Goodfellas survey seems to support this view of contemporary life with a resounding opinion of the sample group that keeping elbows off the table, not talking with your mouth full and fidgeting are unnecessary in the modern family set up.
In fact, any attempt by parents to implement manners was considered to be a major cause of argument and conflict with nearly half the time spent at the table being confrontational.
Those parents who insist on the old ways do so from their own upbringing and not because manners bring order to meal times.
In our plentiful existence 38% of the parents were of the view that they would not ask their offspring to finish up everything on their plates and half of the children disliked being told off for playing with their food. These aspects of the survey do clash with my generation but illustrate the emergence of a more eloquent and forceful younger generation.
What I do find very encouraging though is the opportunity that mealtimes still present for families to reconnect, laugh and enjoy each other's company even if ultimately chaotic, noisy and just a little bit
messy.
There have been some massive cultural and social changes around the dinner table or in reality, the dining table no longer seems to form a centre point of family mealtimes and life.
I was brought up under the longstanding and respectful etiquette of a formal gathering for breakfast, weekend lunchtimes and 6pm tea at which the table was always spread with a cloth and the places set. I have actually just started to do this again to bring some stability and constancy to perhaps the most important meal of the day, breakfast. It is a bit of effort to do it but quite nice, civilised and it ensures that the family are adequately fuelled for their day, or at least, in my case until first choccy bar in my regular pre-elevenses snack.
Routine and manners at mealtimes are important but have come increasingly sidelined by the characteristics of modern life such as working patterns of the breadwinners, early school starts, commuting pressures and the habit of grazing our food.
The food company Goodfella's Pizza recently published the results of their survey on table manners taken amongst a sample of 2000 parents and 1000 children.
The outcome will come as a great disappointment to the generations who regarded and still regard sitting down for family meals as a sacred event.
It was not ,in my memory, a case of draconian measures at being summoned by my parents to wash hands, tidy ourselves up a bit and sit down with hands on our laps but a welcome and expected duty to show respect and gratitude for food on our plates.
Saying thanks through the formal Grace or one of those "through the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach here it comes" moments was a pleasure. We did not mind at all about sitting up straight as that aided the digestive processes.
As for the meal itself it was a case of eating it all up, even if sprouts, cabbage, broccoli and swede were not well liked by all. There was no choice because feeding a large family, as we were, took a big chunk of the family allowance and it was a constant challenge for our Mother to eke out the monies for the full weeks provisions.
We may have all thrown up a speech bubble about sending food to the starving children of Africa if we were told that it was a bad thing not to clear our plate when there was hunger in the world.
Use of implements in the correct manner was encouraged with knife and fork to be held firmly and not to attack siblings in any skirmishing actions for previous disagreements and tantrums. It may have been a great temptation to lick your knife clean but it was not the done thing. Polite conversation did take place and we all enjoyed catching up on everyone's news and plans but not at the expense of a fine spray of food being the inevitable consequence of a full mouth.
We would have many a joyous gathering at the table and manners and etiquette just followed naturally. There was no eating with hands. We asked for the salt, pepper and ketchup to be passed to us. We did not leave the table without parental permission even if there were pressing appointments with the TV, playing out with friends or just messing about after the rigours and demands of school.
To those say, under 40 years old, the foregoing may seem like a blast from the past, the remnants of a bygone age and a bit of a performance.
The Goodfellas survey seems to support this view of contemporary life with a resounding opinion of the sample group that keeping elbows off the table, not talking with your mouth full and fidgeting are unnecessary in the modern family set up.
In fact, any attempt by parents to implement manners was considered to be a major cause of argument and conflict with nearly half the time spent at the table being confrontational.
Those parents who insist on the old ways do so from their own upbringing and not because manners bring order to meal times.
In our plentiful existence 38% of the parents were of the view that they would not ask their offspring to finish up everything on their plates and half of the children disliked being told off for playing with their food. These aspects of the survey do clash with my generation but illustrate the emergence of a more eloquent and forceful younger generation.
What I do find very encouraging though is the opportunity that mealtimes still present for families to reconnect, laugh and enjoy each other's company even if ultimately chaotic, noisy and just a little bit
messy.
Wednesday 29 January 2014
Criss Cross
I forgot to keep an eye on the departures board at Kings Cross, London because of the mesmeric influence of that tremendous vaulted roof in the waiting area.
Tuesday 28 January 2014
Brits and their Bathrooms
Ideal HomesBrits and their bathrooms. Just a selection from my travels in recent weeks.
Mad on tiles
Flannel lovers
Basement Prisoner
Public access
Corridor of power
Fallout Shelter
Space saver
Cheap and cheerless
Swish Travertiney
Classical Roman Villa-esque
Dettol mad
Purple Ronnie
Saving up for flooringMonday 27 January 2014
Utopia with pips
I am rediscovering the joy of oversized vegetables and fruit.
Sounds a bit dodgy I admit when taken out of context but with our recent family move back into the inner city and a new determination to shop local and support local business I am only now finding out how much my perception of fruit and veg was dictated by the large corporate supermarkets.
My former regular patronage of Sainsbury's in our cosy suburban setting prior to the move blinded me to the true nature of natural produce. The sanitised, scrubbed, pre-weighed and packaged fare represented what I thought was normality in the food chain. I gave no real thought to where my spuds, carrots, turnips and cabbages came from because there were no indications that they had originated in a farmers muddy field, had been battered by inclement weather, chewed at by insects and wildfowl, defecated on by birds and handled by an army of agricultural labourers or the inner workings and intricacies of a marvellous bit of harvesting equipment gracefully pulled along behind a knackered black smoke belching tractor.
There would be a top shelf in the Sainsbury's fruit and veg aisle where a few organic examples would be displayed in all of their ugliness. Customers would shirk away from a purchase not out of disgust at the natural form but more on the basis of the extortionate cost over and above a nice shrink wrap pack of sparkling and perfect produce. It was too easy and I became complacent.
Beautiful fruit and veg looked nice in the fridge or in a bowl on full view to visitors and friends. Perhaps too nice to actually consume and enjoy, becoming more of a fixture than a source of nutrition. Inevitably the fruit and veg would start to go off and then the guilt kicks in of having to throw out any food. The soul searching and embarassment would however be short lived, at least until that moment of redemption in gripping the supermarket trolley handle with both hands and starting the process all over again.
Now, in using small local independent shops I am being re-acquainted with fruit and veg in all of their glory.
It is not, I stress, the case that sole proprietors have to settle for second rate produce after it has been picked over by the Corporate buyers, far from it. The local traders work hard for their supplies often having to get down to the wholesale market at some unearthly hour to secure the latest arrivals from all points around the globe.
The quality is there to be seen, handled and inhaled. My first visit to the nearest five a day outlet was similar in my mind to the excitement at entering a toy shop as a child.
On the pavement a tempting display to rival the best emporiums in the known world. Large buckets of flowers in bouquets and sprays, boxes of tomatoes straight off the lorry from the glasshouses of Holland, apples big enough to play crown green bowls with, pomegranates the size of a football, honeydew melons that could grace a scrum-down at Twickenham, Spanish Onions of proportions that when thinly sliced, fried and served up in a dish resembled fine angel hair pasta.
I could not wait to see the great treasures inside and grasping my shopping bag made my way into Fruitopia..........
Sounds a bit dodgy I admit when taken out of context but with our recent family move back into the inner city and a new determination to shop local and support local business I am only now finding out how much my perception of fruit and veg was dictated by the large corporate supermarkets.
My former regular patronage of Sainsbury's in our cosy suburban setting prior to the move blinded me to the true nature of natural produce. The sanitised, scrubbed, pre-weighed and packaged fare represented what I thought was normality in the food chain. I gave no real thought to where my spuds, carrots, turnips and cabbages came from because there were no indications that they had originated in a farmers muddy field, had been battered by inclement weather, chewed at by insects and wildfowl, defecated on by birds and handled by an army of agricultural labourers or the inner workings and intricacies of a marvellous bit of harvesting equipment gracefully pulled along behind a knackered black smoke belching tractor.
There would be a top shelf in the Sainsbury's fruit and veg aisle where a few organic examples would be displayed in all of their ugliness. Customers would shirk away from a purchase not out of disgust at the natural form but more on the basis of the extortionate cost over and above a nice shrink wrap pack of sparkling and perfect produce. It was too easy and I became complacent.
Beautiful fruit and veg looked nice in the fridge or in a bowl on full view to visitors and friends. Perhaps too nice to actually consume and enjoy, becoming more of a fixture than a source of nutrition. Inevitably the fruit and veg would start to go off and then the guilt kicks in of having to throw out any food. The soul searching and embarassment would however be short lived, at least until that moment of redemption in gripping the supermarket trolley handle with both hands and starting the process all over again.
Now, in using small local independent shops I am being re-acquainted with fruit and veg in all of their glory.
It is not, I stress, the case that sole proprietors have to settle for second rate produce after it has been picked over by the Corporate buyers, far from it. The local traders work hard for their supplies often having to get down to the wholesale market at some unearthly hour to secure the latest arrivals from all points around the globe.
The quality is there to be seen, handled and inhaled. My first visit to the nearest five a day outlet was similar in my mind to the excitement at entering a toy shop as a child.
On the pavement a tempting display to rival the best emporiums in the known world. Large buckets of flowers in bouquets and sprays, boxes of tomatoes straight off the lorry from the glasshouses of Holland, apples big enough to play crown green bowls with, pomegranates the size of a football, honeydew melons that could grace a scrum-down at Twickenham, Spanish Onions of proportions that when thinly sliced, fried and served up in a dish resembled fine angel hair pasta.
I could not wait to see the great treasures inside and grasping my shopping bag made my way into Fruitopia..........
Sunday 26 January 2014
In case of a Dash for the Border
In a quiet moment, you know the type, in between noisy moments, I got sidetracked into attempting to answer the questions in the British Citizenship Test.
I failed.
It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.
I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?
I would definitely choose Scotland. This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6. I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Tesco's will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.
(first produced 25.1.12 but thought it should have another airing)
I failed.
It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.
I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?
I would definitely choose Scotland. This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6. I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Tesco's will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.
(first produced 25.1.12 but thought it should have another airing)
Saturday 25 January 2014
Rough Trade on The Silk Road
The Market Place.
It used to mean just that. Usually a central location in a village, a town, a big city where people knew to come to sell their produce and wares and their customers to browse and buy. It would be a bustling spot for traders and out of a transitory presence over many centuries would develop the commercial core of our urban environments from the Middle Ages with permanent shops and services.
Such places would be a focus of civic activity with gatherings, meetings, protests and insurrections, executions and celebrations.
I grew up in a series of market towns and became very familiar with the sights, sounds and functions. In my early years in Abingdon, Buckinghamshire I remember the excitement of massing in the market place at the Town Hall for the distribution of hot cross buns as part of the Easter Festival. These were thrown into the assembled crowd from the town hall balcony. In Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk my Father worked just on the market place and in those days before out of town retail parks it was a case of having to regularly come to the central location for basic grocery shopping in the Liptons Supermarket. In Brigg, Lincolnshire there was a weekly market with stalls and stands selling every household and general good that you were ever likely to need. At Christmas the market place was the scene of seasonal fairs and I was often to be found in some brass band or small group of musicians entertaining the festive shoppers. We, as a family, then moved to Beverley, East Yorkshire. The town had two longstanding and traditional places for the Saturday and the Wednesday markets, the former with an ornate Market Cross built in 1711 as a prestigious feature to signify the wealth of the town. It has required regular renovation every few years but still serves as a community focal point, a bandstand and a shelter for the townspeople. Often argued as the older of the two places, the Wednesday Market took a secondary role from as early as the 1730's.
In my adult years I have continued to live near a Market Place and have enjoyed a few moments people watching or in more recent times, sat on a pavement terrace with a coffee and sticky bun.
In many former thriving market places in the UK there is now a rather desolate atmosphere as shops have closed down and have not been replaced. A resident population on whom the traders relied have moved out to the suburbs and soul less outer estates.
What does a Market Place now mean to a good proportion of us?
I expect that the most common answer would be "The Internet".
How far distant is the idea of a market place now from those we knew and frequented, where there was contact and interaction face to face? The transaction process in the historic interpretation of a market place was one of open honesty and disclosure. The goods were on show. They could be touched, tested, checked and experienced at the point of sale. The whites of the eyes of all parties could be examined and if you did not like what you saw then there was an option to just walk away. The Internet is a remarkable global market place but one of mistrust, misrepresentation and mischief even with the best safeguards in place and amongst individuals with a good rating from their peers in previous business dealings.
Take the Silk Road.
Sounds quite romantic and epic and indeed the term comes from the network of trade routes between Europe, India, China and destinations in between started by the Han Dynasty in 206BC. It operated on a wealth generating basis, a mutual process of buying and selling that produced great fortunes and also broke as many again.
In the domination of the internet as the Market Place the evocative Silk Road has become an insidious underground website for the trafficking of drugs and many other forms of contraband and activity. It had all of the signs of being a very clever operation in that for 2 years from 2011 it was able to resist the attentions and determined efforts of Law Enforcement to bring it down. Termed a Tor hidden service the online browsers could do so with with anonymity and progress to a form of registered membership through an auction of a trading account.
The Chief Operator under the pseudonym of "Dread Pirate Roberts" was a promoter of the free market but in its most illicit and toxic form. The FBI shut down the Silk Road in 2013 but its ethos persisted in a second incarnation within a matter of a few weeks.
The currency adopted has been the bitcoin, a peer to peer digital payment system or cryptocurrency which was earned in exchange for products, services or other currencies.
The seizure of the inaugural Silk Road netted the FBI 144,000 bitcoins worth $28.5 billion dollars. Although a small player in the currency markets the bitcoin has its own speculators and exchange rate basis.
By March 2013 the market place was advertising 10,000 products of which 70% were drugs including heroin, LSD and cannabis. Other items, not necessarily illegal, ranged from weapons to erotica, jewellery, art works, clothing and cigarettes. The loosely described "terms of service" do allude to a bit of a conscientious code in prohibiting the sale of anything intended to harm or defraud but obviously based on a very broad interpretation of what is moral and right .
The slickness of the site has earned it the title of the Amazon.com of illegal drugs or Ebay for drugs.
Consumers, faceless or just misguided have frequented the market place and an estimated $15 billion in transactions have been made annually although more like $30m to $45m is thought to be closer to reality.
In terms of numbers of participants this level of activity equates to around 3900 vendors and around 147,000 buyers and this is represented by the accumulation of nearly 80% of the bitcoins in circulation.
The market place via this medium is extensive with 30% of registered users in the US, 27% of undeclared stateship and the rest across a who's who of the major economic nations. Traffic through the Silk Road system in all of its versions and wannabees has been regular and even after successes by the Authorities in terminating the networks there is always another just in waiting. It is the free market gone mad.
It used to mean just that. Usually a central location in a village, a town, a big city where people knew to come to sell their produce and wares and their customers to browse and buy. It would be a bustling spot for traders and out of a transitory presence over many centuries would develop the commercial core of our urban environments from the Middle Ages with permanent shops and services.
Such places would be a focus of civic activity with gatherings, meetings, protests and insurrections, executions and celebrations.
I grew up in a series of market towns and became very familiar with the sights, sounds and functions. In my early years in Abingdon, Buckinghamshire I remember the excitement of massing in the market place at the Town Hall for the distribution of hot cross buns as part of the Easter Festival. These were thrown into the assembled crowd from the town hall balcony. In Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk my Father worked just on the market place and in those days before out of town retail parks it was a case of having to regularly come to the central location for basic grocery shopping in the Liptons Supermarket. In Brigg, Lincolnshire there was a weekly market with stalls and stands selling every household and general good that you were ever likely to need. At Christmas the market place was the scene of seasonal fairs and I was often to be found in some brass band or small group of musicians entertaining the festive shoppers. We, as a family, then moved to Beverley, East Yorkshire. The town had two longstanding and traditional places for the Saturday and the Wednesday markets, the former with an ornate Market Cross built in 1711 as a prestigious feature to signify the wealth of the town. It has required regular renovation every few years but still serves as a community focal point, a bandstand and a shelter for the townspeople. Often argued as the older of the two places, the Wednesday Market took a secondary role from as early as the 1730's.
In my adult years I have continued to live near a Market Place and have enjoyed a few moments people watching or in more recent times, sat on a pavement terrace with a coffee and sticky bun.
In many former thriving market places in the UK there is now a rather desolate atmosphere as shops have closed down and have not been replaced. A resident population on whom the traders relied have moved out to the suburbs and soul less outer estates.
What does a Market Place now mean to a good proportion of us?
I expect that the most common answer would be "The Internet".
How far distant is the idea of a market place now from those we knew and frequented, where there was contact and interaction face to face? The transaction process in the historic interpretation of a market place was one of open honesty and disclosure. The goods were on show. They could be touched, tested, checked and experienced at the point of sale. The whites of the eyes of all parties could be examined and if you did not like what you saw then there was an option to just walk away. The Internet is a remarkable global market place but one of mistrust, misrepresentation and mischief even with the best safeguards in place and amongst individuals with a good rating from their peers in previous business dealings.
Take the Silk Road.
Sounds quite romantic and epic and indeed the term comes from the network of trade routes between Europe, India, China and destinations in between started by the Han Dynasty in 206BC. It operated on a wealth generating basis, a mutual process of buying and selling that produced great fortunes and also broke as many again.
In the domination of the internet as the Market Place the evocative Silk Road has become an insidious underground website for the trafficking of drugs and many other forms of contraband and activity. It had all of the signs of being a very clever operation in that for 2 years from 2011 it was able to resist the attentions and determined efforts of Law Enforcement to bring it down. Termed a Tor hidden service the online browsers could do so with with anonymity and progress to a form of registered membership through an auction of a trading account.
The Chief Operator under the pseudonym of "Dread Pirate Roberts" was a promoter of the free market but in its most illicit and toxic form. The FBI shut down the Silk Road in 2013 but its ethos persisted in a second incarnation within a matter of a few weeks.
The currency adopted has been the bitcoin, a peer to peer digital payment system or cryptocurrency which was earned in exchange for products, services or other currencies.
The seizure of the inaugural Silk Road netted the FBI 144,000 bitcoins worth $28.5 billion dollars. Although a small player in the currency markets the bitcoin has its own speculators and exchange rate basis.
By March 2013 the market place was advertising 10,000 products of which 70% were drugs including heroin, LSD and cannabis. Other items, not necessarily illegal, ranged from weapons to erotica, jewellery, art works, clothing and cigarettes. The loosely described "terms of service" do allude to a bit of a conscientious code in prohibiting the sale of anything intended to harm or defraud but obviously based on a very broad interpretation of what is moral and right .
The slickness of the site has earned it the title of the Amazon.com of illegal drugs or Ebay for drugs.
Consumers, faceless or just misguided have frequented the market place and an estimated $15 billion in transactions have been made annually although more like $30m to $45m is thought to be closer to reality.
In terms of numbers of participants this level of activity equates to around 3900 vendors and around 147,000 buyers and this is represented by the accumulation of nearly 80% of the bitcoins in circulation.
The market place via this medium is extensive with 30% of registered users in the US, 27% of undeclared stateship and the rest across a who's who of the major economic nations. Traffic through the Silk Road system in all of its versions and wannabees has been regular and even after successes by the Authorities in terminating the networks there is always another just in waiting. It is the free market gone mad.
Friday 24 January 2014
Up The Amazon without a Paypal
The mega company Amazon has developed a system that pre-emptively delivers goods to a customer based on their previous purchases. The process relies on a bit of science, a lot of algorithms, demographics, questionnaires and I expect not a little guessing, all for the overriding aim of getting things to us faster. It is conceivable that a delivery truck could be pre-loaded with goods and then drive around an area until someone in that vicinity clicks on "buy".
In order to test the logic and reliability of this system I hereby list all of my Amazon purchases since 2002.
The challenge to Amazon is to predict what the very next item will be although presumably they know already and have just not told me about it.
Still Crazy VHS
Still Crazy Soundtrack
Notting Hill
Rush of Blood to the Head-Coldplay
Magic Hotel-Toploader
Duets-Barbra Streisand
Story of The Clash Part 1
The Coral
The Moon and The Melodies
Best of Howard Jones
A Little Deeper-Ms Dynamite
Siosis Vol 1- Spooks
Spirit of Eden-Talk Talk
Stars and Topsoil-Cocteau Twins
Play-Moby
After the Goldrush-Neil Young
Harvest-Neil Young
Concert for Berlin- Barclay James Harvest
Best of Talking Heads
Grace-Jeff Buckley
Idea of Perfection
True Love and Adventures-Grand Drive
Wicked Game- Chris Izaak
Best of Everything but the Girl
All Mod Cons- The Jam
Brilliant Trees- David Sylvian
Argus-Wishbone Ash
Essential Lynnrrd Skynrrd
Almost Famous Soundtrack
Voice of Michael McDonald
Van Halen-Van Halen
Stoosh-Skunk Anansie
The Wonder Worker-Susan Howatch
Young Indiana Jones
Random Harvest- James Hilton
More Young Indiana Jones
Cast of Thousands- Elbow
Sumday-Granddaddy
Building Regulations 1991
Architects Pocket Book
Residential Property Appraisal
City of God
Hots Shots-The Beta Band
City of God Soundtrack
Remixes of the Spheres-Ian Brown
Delays- EP
Best of The Undertones
Spirit, Light, Sound- Ian Astbury
Toshiba DVD
Just Jack-The Outer Marker
Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
Carmel-Collection
Best of Blancmange
Parklife-Blur
Sulk-The Associates
Moseley Shoals- Ocean Colour Scene
Felt Mountain-Goldfrapp
London 0 Hull 4- The Housemartins
Scarsdale Medical Diet
Pure Cult- The Cult
Last Broadcast-Doves
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Best of Spear of Destiny
Best of The Doors
Truly Madly Deeply
Jabberwocky
Empire of The Sun
Bachelor Number 2- Aimee Mann
Rough Guide to Corfu
Holiday Map of Corfu
Best of Ash
Fallen-Evanescence
Sophtware Slump-Granddaddy
The Day Today
Poems of Pablo Neruda
Blast from the Past
Dummy-Portishead
Blue Lines-Massive Attack
Sunsceeem-03
Combat Flight Simulator
i pod mini
Summer in Skye
Countdown to Hiroshima
Instant Karma
Best of REM
Around the Sun-REM
Hem-Eveningland
Hawksley Workman-various
Highest Tide
And I, Francis
Violent Dazzling-Johnny Panic
Free-Chronicles
Suede-The Singles
War Music-Christopher Logue
Legend of Zelda,Minish Cap
New England-New England
Cross of Iron
Nahoo Too-Paul Mouncey
Berlin Downfall-Anthony Beevor
Stalingrad-Anthony Beevor
Heligoland Natural Environment
Back to Black-Amy Winehouse
Odd Angry Shot
Mosaic
Mini Cassette Recorder
Heligoland-George Drower
Beethoven 7th Symphony
Joe Satriani
Breaking Away
Archer Season 1
JFK
So its Like That-Joe Bonamassa
Kindle WiFi
Suggestions via The Comments Section please......
In order to test the logic and reliability of this system I hereby list all of my Amazon purchases since 2002.
The challenge to Amazon is to predict what the very next item will be although presumably they know already and have just not told me about it.
Still Crazy VHS
Still Crazy Soundtrack
Notting Hill
Rush of Blood to the Head-Coldplay
Magic Hotel-Toploader
Duets-Barbra Streisand
Story of The Clash Part 1
The Coral
The Moon and The Melodies
Best of Howard Jones
A Little Deeper-Ms Dynamite
Siosis Vol 1- Spooks
Spirit of Eden-Talk Talk
Stars and Topsoil-Cocteau Twins
Play-Moby
After the Goldrush-Neil Young
Harvest-Neil Young
Concert for Berlin- Barclay James Harvest
Best of Talking Heads
Grace-Jeff Buckley
Idea of Perfection
True Love and Adventures-Grand Drive
Wicked Game- Chris Izaak
Best of Everything but the Girl
All Mod Cons- The Jam
Brilliant Trees- David Sylvian
Argus-Wishbone Ash
Essential Lynnrrd Skynrrd
Almost Famous Soundtrack
Voice of Michael McDonald
Van Halen-Van Halen
Stoosh-Skunk Anansie
The Wonder Worker-Susan Howatch
Young Indiana Jones
Random Harvest- James Hilton
More Young Indiana Jones
Cast of Thousands- Elbow
Sumday-Granddaddy
Building Regulations 1991
Architects Pocket Book
Residential Property Appraisal
City of God
Hots Shots-The Beta Band
City of God Soundtrack
Remixes of the Spheres-Ian Brown
Delays- EP
Best of The Undertones
Spirit, Light, Sound- Ian Astbury
Toshiba DVD
Just Jack-The Outer Marker
Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
Carmel-Collection
Best of Blancmange
Parklife-Blur
Sulk-The Associates
Moseley Shoals- Ocean Colour Scene
Felt Mountain-Goldfrapp
London 0 Hull 4- The Housemartins
Scarsdale Medical Diet
Pure Cult- The Cult
Last Broadcast-Doves
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Best of Spear of Destiny
Best of The Doors
Truly Madly Deeply
Jabberwocky
Empire of The Sun
Bachelor Number 2- Aimee Mann
Rough Guide to Corfu
Holiday Map of Corfu
Best of Ash
Fallen-Evanescence
Sophtware Slump-Granddaddy
The Day Today
Poems of Pablo Neruda
Blast from the Past
Dummy-Portishead
Blue Lines-Massive Attack
Sunsceeem-03
Combat Flight Simulator
i pod mini
Summer in Skye
Countdown to Hiroshima
Instant Karma
Best of REM
Around the Sun-REM
Hem-Eveningland
Hawksley Workman-various
Highest Tide
And I, Francis
Violent Dazzling-Johnny Panic
Free-Chronicles
Suede-The Singles
War Music-Christopher Logue
Legend of Zelda,Minish Cap
New England-New England
Cross of Iron
Nahoo Too-Paul Mouncey
Berlin Downfall-Anthony Beevor
Stalingrad-Anthony Beevor
Heligoland Natural Environment
Back to Black-Amy Winehouse
Odd Angry Shot
Mosaic
Mini Cassette Recorder
Heligoland-George Drower
Beethoven 7th Symphony
Joe Satriani
Breaking Away
Archer Season 1
JFK
So its Like That-Joe Bonamassa
Kindle WiFi
Suggestions via The Comments Section please......
Thursday 23 January 2014
Here's looking at you
Ask someone to touch their own eyeballs and the common response would be nothing short of disgust, outrage or complete disbelief. Yet to those of the population who are contact lens wearers this is an everyday practice. I admit that on first being fitted for contacts nearly 21 years ago I found the process very, very unnatural and difficult. Some dexterity and patience is needed to go through the extraction of a new lens from its foil sealed saline solution packaging and balancing the floppy disc on the tip of a finger before careful negotiation onto the eyeball. There is a split second when the elasticity of the actual lens switches allegiance from fingertip to eyeball followed by a slight antiseptic type stinging and smarting before sight is returned in full definition and clarity. I do not mean to discourage those thinking of taking up lens wearing because it is a great and liberating thing and the progress in the technology of lenses has been remarkable. I remember a conversation with a former colleague who had some of the first commercially available lenses. These were hard and inflexible discs made out of perspex. The manufacture was crude and rough with a thick cross section of plastic and a wide outer edge so much so that they had to be hand finished in the factory by abrasion with emery paper to improve the fit and comfort. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable these must have felt attached to the eyeball but many wearers will have endured the pain and suffering just to be in the first new wave of fashion. My first lenses had to be sterilised between periods of use in a small portable plug in unit and with regular check-ups for any irritation, damage or infection which tended to be an inevitable feature in those early days. Within a few years the concept of daily lenses was introduced and the next generation were light, permeable and also with UV protection. I did exploit the advances in technology by keeping my lenses in for very long periods and also, inadvisably, sleeping with them still in place. Being an emotional person my frequent welling ups and tear production obviously helped to keep my eyes moist and the lenses firmly adhered to allow me to ignore the explicit instructions of the manufacturers and my Optician. I have very rarely lost a lens either from it simply falling out or from a mysterious disappearance where I suspect it just curls over and shrivels up and retreats to that space between the back of the eyeball and the brain. The latest lenses are not at all discernible when worn and on a couple of occasions I have actually tried to put in a new lens on top of an existing one not realising that there was one already in position. In the two decades of wearing lenses my regular check-ups show that my vision has remained fairly constant which is impressive given the potential for age related wear and tear and other medical and physiological influences to impair sight. My former optician, or whatever specialist term now applies, championed the cause for the study of the health and welfare of the eyes as an indicator of other bodily ailments and although he did not flag up any warning signs in my case he was able to alert other patients to problems of cholestrol and potentially debilitating illness to be brought to the attention of Physicians and other Health Sector practitioners for further diagnosis and treatment. The gift of sight is very precious and only really appreciated when it starts to become noticeably impaired or compromised. Sat in the opticians waiting area just today I was entertained and informed by the screening of a short presentation on the miraculous and wondrous composition and operation of the human eye to an extent that I had not really realised or appreciated. Perhaps I will take out my longstanding current lenses tonight, after all they are about 4 weeks old and a bit crusty although being a great fanof this optical marvel I am reluctant to admit to this readily or in polite company.
Wednesday 22 January 2014
Pigeon Fancier
There are some surprising aspects to very familiar landmarks when seen from an elevated vantage point.
In this case it was the fifth floor of a seven storey residential block in Hull city centre giving this very green and symmetrical outlook onto Queens Gardens and the ornamental fountain. It stands straddling what was an entrance to one of Hull's former Dock Basins. A plaque on the old quayside stonework records Hull as the leaving point for the most famous fictional shipwrecked character, Robinson Crusoe in 1651.
Just to the right off picture are the Old Dock Offices which will have overseen the shipping movements through the very important Port City of Hull.
The photo below shows the dockside buildings in sharp contrast with the Princes Quay Shopping Centre. To the left is the sole surviving warehouse of what was an extensive complex on the quayside.
A mixture of architectural styles in one frame. Holy Trinity Church tower, The Deep Submarium and the Tidal Barrier above the roofscape of Whitefriargate and The Old Town.
Tuesday 21 January 2014
Fat Man and Social Climbing
I do not have a natural affinity for climbing.
There are a few factors acting against me such as the force of gravity playing against my bulky frame. The main thing is just plain fear.
That is a good enough excuse and it has served me well in avoiding any situations of impulse or coercion to make an ascent of anything and anywhere.
In reality I just do not like heights. When young and with no perception of fear or the implications of impact on hard ground you could find me quite happily walking atop a high wall with a precipitous drop on the far side, leaning over a parapet of a lofty bridge or the barrier around one of those high altitude tourist viewpoints over a deep cutting or gorge. I could as easily just be shinning up the trunk of a sturdy tree.
With age and an increased sense of mortality comes the gut wrenching anxiety and fear when faced with anything not completely flat and level.
My teen years were fraught with difficulties associated with heights which did have an affect, for sure, in curtailing those natural urges of recklessness and adventurism that go with that period in the life of an otherwise normal lad. It took a week away on an Outward Bound Course in the English Lake District with its regime of constant exposure to mountain sides, tree-top death slides , abseiling cliff faces and jumping into white water rapids to overcome my fears and apprehensions. It was a week of intensive activity and i seemed to be cured of my affliction but as soon as I stepped down off the bus to be met by my parents on my return to civilisation the beneficial effects evaporated and I was back to my usual quivering mess of nerves and in most cases irrational paralysis of limb and brain.
I tried my best on family holidays to keep up with the children as they cavorted about on the headlands of the Cornish coastline, dashed breathlessly across the narrow swinging suspension foot bridges that are commonly found in that area and clambered about on rocky outcrops with crashing waves around their jelly-shoed feet.
My wife still reminds me of my half hearted and ultimately aborted attempt to get up to the natural landmark of The Quirang on the Isle of Skye. I stand by my defence that it was a windy day, and the pathway we had found ourselves on had in fact been fashioned by sheep and not seasoned and risk averse walkers and ramblers.
So, with this history of vertigo like symptoms and an accentuated sense of fear I asked myself why I was now at the foot of a vertical climb rubbing chalk powder into my sweaty palms.
I at least looked the part of someone who had an inkling about what to do. Loose fitting T shirt, baggy cargo pant shorts and a pair of borrowed mountaineering pumps that would not have looked out of place in a ballet performance. I was just missing a bandana although I was glad that I had not found an old cravat in the bottom of the wardrobe and passed that off as one of those trendy accessories.
I reached up to the first handhold.
It was uncomfortable on my office-work softened hands and delicate keyboard fingers. Taking the strain was a rude shock to weak and flimsy muscle tissue in my flabby upper arms. I was however confident in my legs after a good last couple of years dashing about on my road and mountain bikes. I was reassured when they relieved my already tired arms of some of the dead weight as I wriggled the delicate footwear onto another narrow projecting ledge and stood up straight.
I looked around for the next exertion and in a yoga stretch felt a few pangs and pains as the next hand hold was found. I had not heard of any incidences of people my age throwing out a hip at altitude and this was reassuring, at least a little bit.
I repeated the process and slowly ascended the face. If I did not look down then I would be better off and I craned my stiff neck upwards to try to make out a suitable route.
The rough texture of the vertical surface was streaked with what were definitely bodily fluids all with a light and chalky hue from saliva and other mucus. Traces of blood I recognised from my fascination with CSI New York and some of the spatter patterns would certainly tell a story.
By now my arms were really aching as though under massive G-Forces. Now higher up I was gripping the hand holds with no intention of letting go but I knew I had to press on.
I had been concentrating so much that I had not been aware of anyone else around me. The sound of another climber alongside came as a bit of a shock and even more so as it was my daughter.
Her experience of climbing had allowed her to sprint up to me but this only gave me the incentive to reach the top before her. Although incompetent in ascending this did not prevent my naturally competitive streak from kicking in.
I held on with one hand to the final hold and, as though I had conquered the most difficult peak at the top of the world, I reached out and touched the ceiling.
Did I omit to say that I was at an indoor climbing centre and below me a wonderfully soft and forgiving crash mat?
There are a few factors acting against me such as the force of gravity playing against my bulky frame. The main thing is just plain fear.
That is a good enough excuse and it has served me well in avoiding any situations of impulse or coercion to make an ascent of anything and anywhere.
In reality I just do not like heights. When young and with no perception of fear or the implications of impact on hard ground you could find me quite happily walking atop a high wall with a precipitous drop on the far side, leaning over a parapet of a lofty bridge or the barrier around one of those high altitude tourist viewpoints over a deep cutting or gorge. I could as easily just be shinning up the trunk of a sturdy tree.
With age and an increased sense of mortality comes the gut wrenching anxiety and fear when faced with anything not completely flat and level.
My teen years were fraught with difficulties associated with heights which did have an affect, for sure, in curtailing those natural urges of recklessness and adventurism that go with that period in the life of an otherwise normal lad. It took a week away on an Outward Bound Course in the English Lake District with its regime of constant exposure to mountain sides, tree-top death slides , abseiling cliff faces and jumping into white water rapids to overcome my fears and apprehensions. It was a week of intensive activity and i seemed to be cured of my affliction but as soon as I stepped down off the bus to be met by my parents on my return to civilisation the beneficial effects evaporated and I was back to my usual quivering mess of nerves and in most cases irrational paralysis of limb and brain.
I tried my best on family holidays to keep up with the children as they cavorted about on the headlands of the Cornish coastline, dashed breathlessly across the narrow swinging suspension foot bridges that are commonly found in that area and clambered about on rocky outcrops with crashing waves around their jelly-shoed feet.
My wife still reminds me of my half hearted and ultimately aborted attempt to get up to the natural landmark of The Quirang on the Isle of Skye. I stand by my defence that it was a windy day, and the pathway we had found ourselves on had in fact been fashioned by sheep and not seasoned and risk averse walkers and ramblers.
So, with this history of vertigo like symptoms and an accentuated sense of fear I asked myself why I was now at the foot of a vertical climb rubbing chalk powder into my sweaty palms.
I at least looked the part of someone who had an inkling about what to do. Loose fitting T shirt, baggy cargo pant shorts and a pair of borrowed mountaineering pumps that would not have looked out of place in a ballet performance. I was just missing a bandana although I was glad that I had not found an old cravat in the bottom of the wardrobe and passed that off as one of those trendy accessories.
I reached up to the first handhold.
It was uncomfortable on my office-work softened hands and delicate keyboard fingers. Taking the strain was a rude shock to weak and flimsy muscle tissue in my flabby upper arms. I was however confident in my legs after a good last couple of years dashing about on my road and mountain bikes. I was reassured when they relieved my already tired arms of some of the dead weight as I wriggled the delicate footwear onto another narrow projecting ledge and stood up straight.
I looked around for the next exertion and in a yoga stretch felt a few pangs and pains as the next hand hold was found. I had not heard of any incidences of people my age throwing out a hip at altitude and this was reassuring, at least a little bit.
I repeated the process and slowly ascended the face. If I did not look down then I would be better off and I craned my stiff neck upwards to try to make out a suitable route.
The rough texture of the vertical surface was streaked with what were definitely bodily fluids all with a light and chalky hue from saliva and other mucus. Traces of blood I recognised from my fascination with CSI New York and some of the spatter patterns would certainly tell a story.
By now my arms were really aching as though under massive G-Forces. Now higher up I was gripping the hand holds with no intention of letting go but I knew I had to press on.
I had been concentrating so much that I had not been aware of anyone else around me. The sound of another climber alongside came as a bit of a shock and even more so as it was my daughter.
Her experience of climbing had allowed her to sprint up to me but this only gave me the incentive to reach the top before her. Although incompetent in ascending this did not prevent my naturally competitive streak from kicking in.
I held on with one hand to the final hold and, as though I had conquered the most difficult peak at the top of the world, I reached out and touched the ceiling.
Did I omit to say that I was at an indoor climbing centre and below me a wonderfully soft and forgiving crash mat?
Monday 20 January 2014
By a stretch of the imagination
Well, I thought about a Diplodocus immediately upon seeing this man made cloud shape although as with such wispy and ephemeral things the image alters rapidly and particularly so from a moving car.
The dinosaur is actually a trick to deceive the eye being an apparent convergence of the flumes of steam and other things from the smokestacks and cooling towers of, in the foreground, Drax and forming the grazing head, Eggborough, both Yorkshire, UK.
The two flumes do not actually meet as there is a distance of perhaps 5 miles between the two power stations.
and to illustrate the illusion, a nice water colour representation
Alright, it may not be evident to some people it passes the time on a long road trip.
Sunday 19 January 2014
Fairy Steps
I have not, for many years, heard of any contemporary applications of what used to be the first perception of measuring for a child in the use of fairy steps.
I can remember many games and pastimes at home or in school, usually those played with real or imaginary friends, where the fairy step came in very useful to define space, allocate territory and segregate participants. The distinctive heel- to toe-to heel -to toe movement, often with an exaggerated throwing out of the leg or if done rapidly more like a penguin walk, was regularly used as an integral part in pre-school or infants school play activities . Even in senior school it was adopted to set out the distance between coats and blazers for a goalmouth for a break-time soccer game. If the match deteriorated into a brawl or mass scrap close to the goal-line then the fairy step was used to mark out the position of the penalty spot. The end of year and spring terms were mostly football but with the final school term before the summer holidays it was cricket or rounders with the fairy step returning to prominence as an easy and widely accepted medium of measurement to set out the pitch.
I have started to tentatively explore the viability of the wider adoption and use of the fairy step in business and commerce. I am fortunate in that my adult size 10 feet, when shoe'd are exactly 1 imperial foot or 12". This of course is confined to sensible and stout work shoes of a Clarks, Hush Puppies or budget Brantano calibre and not winkle-pickers, brothel creepers or those flat ended fashion shoes of Italian style and panache. Experiments in the accuracy and reliability of a size 10 fairy step over relatively short distances have proven very successful against a Swiss precision made laser device, the stalwart of a reinforced vinyl tape and an antique wooden measuring stick. There are some inevitable disadvantages particularly in the implementation of fairy steps where items of furniture form an obstacle for a clear run across a room not otherwise a problem for a red-spot laser beam or a tensioned tape. There are severe limitations in outdoor areas where ditches, rivers, lakes, seas and oceans are encountered.
The general public may also express some distress at the sight of a practitioner in the process of fairy stepping as this involves a head down stance, mutterings of counting consecutively and of course the often comical body movement which is an inevitable feature of the process. Ideally, the presence of an assistant would be required to attend to the counting and also to offset any public animosity or aggression but that could have severe implications for the financial viability of the system. I can see that its application for long distance measurement is rather limited as it takes a lot of concentration to keep in a straight line particularly on a windy day and the actual physical requirements are quite exhausting. It is very possible to incur an injury through a clash of ankles, pull a muscle or even throw out a knee or hip joint from inattentive or careless actions.
Standardisation of the fairy step would also be difficult. I have a vested interest in advocating that only size 10 shoe wearers should be elegible but that would be open to criticism for elitism and also prejudice against those of other shoe sizes. Another field day for lawyers certainly.The whole thing may just decline into a free for all along the lines of Cinderella's beauty challenged step sisters with self mutilation and severance of toes or those of petite feet buying up stocks of clown shoes. Other aspects for consideration would be conversion rates into the metric equivalent and the Statutory Legislation required to enforce the system for acceptance into the UK economy.
On reflection and at this stage in my considerations the fairy step may actually have only limited practical application but would be great fun to implement anyway. The actual numbers involved are quite interesting along the lines of ;
The Great Wall of China- Twenty nine million, forty two thousand seven hundred and fifty five fairy steps
The Andes Range- Twenty three million, two hundred and thirty two thousand fairy steps
Route 66, USA- Twenty million, eight hundred and twenty nine thousand and six hundred fairy steps
Around the world- One hundred and thirty one million, four hundred and eighty two thousand, five hundred and sixty fairy steps ( This would involve continuous fairy steps on board any water crossing vessels)
John O'Groats to Lands End, a mere Three million, one hundred and eighty three thousand , eight hundred and forty fairy steps.
Hobbiton to Mount Doom- Five Million, eight hundred and eight thousand fairy/elvish steps
By way of encouragement just recall the wisdom of Confucius, slightly paraphrased ,that "every journey begins with a fairy step......"
(yet another reproduction from 2 years ago. Been too lazy a day for original thought)
I can remember many games and pastimes at home or in school, usually those played with real or imaginary friends, where the fairy step came in very useful to define space, allocate territory and segregate participants. The distinctive heel- to toe-to heel -to toe movement, often with an exaggerated throwing out of the leg or if done rapidly more like a penguin walk, was regularly used as an integral part in pre-school or infants school play activities . Even in senior school it was adopted to set out the distance between coats and blazers for a goalmouth for a break-time soccer game. If the match deteriorated into a brawl or mass scrap close to the goal-line then the fairy step was used to mark out the position of the penalty spot. The end of year and spring terms were mostly football but with the final school term before the summer holidays it was cricket or rounders with the fairy step returning to prominence as an easy and widely accepted medium of measurement to set out the pitch.
I have started to tentatively explore the viability of the wider adoption and use of the fairy step in business and commerce. I am fortunate in that my adult size 10 feet, when shoe'd are exactly 1 imperial foot or 12". This of course is confined to sensible and stout work shoes of a Clarks, Hush Puppies or budget Brantano calibre and not winkle-pickers, brothel creepers or those flat ended fashion shoes of Italian style and panache. Experiments in the accuracy and reliability of a size 10 fairy step over relatively short distances have proven very successful against a Swiss precision made laser device, the stalwart of a reinforced vinyl tape and an antique wooden measuring stick. There are some inevitable disadvantages particularly in the implementation of fairy steps where items of furniture form an obstacle for a clear run across a room not otherwise a problem for a red-spot laser beam or a tensioned tape. There are severe limitations in outdoor areas where ditches, rivers, lakes, seas and oceans are encountered.
The general public may also express some distress at the sight of a practitioner in the process of fairy stepping as this involves a head down stance, mutterings of counting consecutively and of course the often comical body movement which is an inevitable feature of the process. Ideally, the presence of an assistant would be required to attend to the counting and also to offset any public animosity or aggression but that could have severe implications for the financial viability of the system. I can see that its application for long distance measurement is rather limited as it takes a lot of concentration to keep in a straight line particularly on a windy day and the actual physical requirements are quite exhausting. It is very possible to incur an injury through a clash of ankles, pull a muscle or even throw out a knee or hip joint from inattentive or careless actions.
Standardisation of the fairy step would also be difficult. I have a vested interest in advocating that only size 10 shoe wearers should be elegible but that would be open to criticism for elitism and also prejudice against those of other shoe sizes. Another field day for lawyers certainly.The whole thing may just decline into a free for all along the lines of Cinderella's beauty challenged step sisters with self mutilation and severance of toes or those of petite feet buying up stocks of clown shoes. Other aspects for consideration would be conversion rates into the metric equivalent and the Statutory Legislation required to enforce the system for acceptance into the UK economy.
On reflection and at this stage in my considerations the fairy step may actually have only limited practical application but would be great fun to implement anyway. The actual numbers involved are quite interesting along the lines of ;
The Great Wall of China- Twenty nine million, forty two thousand seven hundred and fifty five fairy steps
The Andes Range- Twenty three million, two hundred and thirty two thousand fairy steps
Route 66, USA- Twenty million, eight hundred and twenty nine thousand and six hundred fairy steps
Around the world- One hundred and thirty one million, four hundred and eighty two thousand, five hundred and sixty fairy steps ( This would involve continuous fairy steps on board any water crossing vessels)
John O'Groats to Lands End, a mere Three million, one hundred and eighty three thousand , eight hundred and forty fairy steps.
Hobbiton to Mount Doom- Five Million, eight hundred and eight thousand fairy/elvish steps
By way of encouragement just recall the wisdom of Confucius, slightly paraphrased ,that "every journey begins with a fairy step......"
(yet another reproduction from 2 years ago. Been too lazy a day for original thought)
Saturday 18 January 2014
Play Away
The all white ,unblemished van, excepting the logo of the Local Authority, sped past my line of vision at the roundabout junction.
I did not catch sight of who was sitting up front but upon reading the small print below the logo of "Play Area Inspection Team" I half expected to have seen two burly employees wearing clown suits or at least with their faces blathered and stained with the coloured pigment from high sugar content Chupa-Chups lollies.
A jolly single balloon on a string flapping around the back doors of the van would also have been a nice and fitting touch.
I can appreciate the need for such a service having experienced some frightful recreation grounds, public parks and play areas during my most attentive parenting period with the children when they were very young.
The graffitti covered climbing frames, swings, roundabouts and see-saws were a testament to poor attention to spelling although the general gist of who was willing to do what to whom and for how much was quite clear and unambiguous. It took some very vague and non-commital explaining to distract curious young minds.
The surrounding area was also a minefield of discarded lager cans, shattered cider bottles, crisp packets and confectionery wrappers. It was a relief to find that alcoholism had taken over as a career ambition from that horrible nicotine drugged smoking lark amongst the local teenagers. I challenge anyone to deny that their local recreation ground figured highly in their courting habits. The current trend appears to be as a sordid venue for sexual exploits given the amount of prophylactics adorning the place like stalactites.
I was understandably shocked to read in the local newspaper that my local Reccy was a major market place for drug dealing.
So, in summary the play areas of today accommodate everything apart from being a venue for actual play.
A posh housing development in a nearby commuter village boasted in it's marketing literature that it featured a fenced children's play area. Not so much a philanthropic gesture as a means of securing concessions from the Planning Authority in terms of a higher volume of housing, euphemistically termed Planning Gain. The development was in high demand and a good number of off-plan and pre-sales were agreed with a handshake and a non refundable deposit. Unfortunately, under the due diligence of lawyers acting for individual purchasers, the open ended liability for any injury or worse arising from use of the play area would leave all the residents jointly and severally responsible for any civil actions and damages arising. Clients were advised to pull out on the basis of the nightmare scenario. Panic ensued, money and jobs were on the line for the developer. The Council stepped in and took over the playground. Peace, tranquility and order were restored to the universe.
My own childhood memories of play areas are reinforced by a few persistent scars on knees, elbows and face. They were rough and tough areas. Use of a particular item of equipment was strictly on a first come, biggest kid or scary mum basis. There were frequent injuries and maimings for those who unwittingly or intentionally wandered into the reach of an occupied and high impact swing, on either the forward sweep or the back-climb. Trying to get onto a high speed roundabout, without any comprehension of physics, momentum or understanding of giroscopic motion was foolish but a challenge. Use of the stainless steel slide could be sticky and slow or unbelievably fast and this could vary very much on a visit to visit basis. Who could predict what would happen? The see-saw was equally hazardous and many a spinal column injury , snapped collar bone or skull fracture was indeed an expectation of play.
My wife had a problematic tustle with a piece of play equipment as a young child with a consequence being that one of her eyeballs popped out of its socket.
I hospitalised my younger sister in exercising a dramatic dismount of a see saw.
Many a time a playmate cascaded through an array of monkey bars like a ball bearing through a pin ball machine.
In all circumstances, barring paralysis and coma , we just picked ourselves up. I usually cried a bit, tied a clean handkerchief onto any abrasions or blooded areas and moved on to the next apparatus, if it had suddenly become free.
My last supervision at a commmunity play area emphasised the impact of a health and safety culture. The surfaces under what remained of the apparatus were in a soft rubberised matting. Anything that swung, propelled, slid or elevated had been removed and replaced with a spring mounted caterpillar figure that rocked back and forth. That was it. I have observed a welcome return to activity based play in more recent years with basketball courts, 5 a side football courts and all-weather pitches but the spirit of unrestricted play has been lost for ever. I expect the main role of the Play Area Inspection Team is to sit menacingly in their van and discourage any children from coming anywhere near the play area.
(first produced 2 years ago)
I did not catch sight of who was sitting up front but upon reading the small print below the logo of "Play Area Inspection Team" I half expected to have seen two burly employees wearing clown suits or at least with their faces blathered and stained with the coloured pigment from high sugar content Chupa-Chups lollies.
A jolly single balloon on a string flapping around the back doors of the van would also have been a nice and fitting touch.
I can appreciate the need for such a service having experienced some frightful recreation grounds, public parks and play areas during my most attentive parenting period with the children when they were very young.
The graffitti covered climbing frames, swings, roundabouts and see-saws were a testament to poor attention to spelling although the general gist of who was willing to do what to whom and for how much was quite clear and unambiguous. It took some very vague and non-commital explaining to distract curious young minds.
The surrounding area was also a minefield of discarded lager cans, shattered cider bottles, crisp packets and confectionery wrappers. It was a relief to find that alcoholism had taken over as a career ambition from that horrible nicotine drugged smoking lark amongst the local teenagers. I challenge anyone to deny that their local recreation ground figured highly in their courting habits. The current trend appears to be as a sordid venue for sexual exploits given the amount of prophylactics adorning the place like stalactites.
I was understandably shocked to read in the local newspaper that my local Reccy was a major market place for drug dealing.
So, in summary the play areas of today accommodate everything apart from being a venue for actual play.
A posh housing development in a nearby commuter village boasted in it's marketing literature that it featured a fenced children's play area. Not so much a philanthropic gesture as a means of securing concessions from the Planning Authority in terms of a higher volume of housing, euphemistically termed Planning Gain. The development was in high demand and a good number of off-plan and pre-sales were agreed with a handshake and a non refundable deposit. Unfortunately, under the due diligence of lawyers acting for individual purchasers, the open ended liability for any injury or worse arising from use of the play area would leave all the residents jointly and severally responsible for any civil actions and damages arising. Clients were advised to pull out on the basis of the nightmare scenario. Panic ensued, money and jobs were on the line for the developer. The Council stepped in and took over the playground. Peace, tranquility and order were restored to the universe.
My own childhood memories of play areas are reinforced by a few persistent scars on knees, elbows and face. They were rough and tough areas. Use of a particular item of equipment was strictly on a first come, biggest kid or scary mum basis. There were frequent injuries and maimings for those who unwittingly or intentionally wandered into the reach of an occupied and high impact swing, on either the forward sweep or the back-climb. Trying to get onto a high speed roundabout, without any comprehension of physics, momentum or understanding of giroscopic motion was foolish but a challenge. Use of the stainless steel slide could be sticky and slow or unbelievably fast and this could vary very much on a visit to visit basis. Who could predict what would happen? The see-saw was equally hazardous and many a spinal column injury , snapped collar bone or skull fracture was indeed an expectation of play.
My wife had a problematic tustle with a piece of play equipment as a young child with a consequence being that one of her eyeballs popped out of its socket.
I hospitalised my younger sister in exercising a dramatic dismount of a see saw.
Many a time a playmate cascaded through an array of monkey bars like a ball bearing through a pin ball machine.
In all circumstances, barring paralysis and coma , we just picked ourselves up. I usually cried a bit, tied a clean handkerchief onto any abrasions or blooded areas and moved on to the next apparatus, if it had suddenly become free.
My last supervision at a commmunity play area emphasised the impact of a health and safety culture. The surfaces under what remained of the apparatus were in a soft rubberised matting. Anything that swung, propelled, slid or elevated had been removed and replaced with a spring mounted caterpillar figure that rocked back and forth. That was it. I have observed a welcome return to activity based play in more recent years with basketball courts, 5 a side football courts and all-weather pitches but the spirit of unrestricted play has been lost for ever. I expect the main role of the Play Area Inspection Team is to sit menacingly in their van and discourage any children from coming anywhere near the play area.
(first produced 2 years ago)
Friday 17 January 2014
To err is human. Ooh-err
I have come to the conclusion that in the early part of the 21st Century there is no longer any place for what is referred to as "trial and error".
It used to be part and parcel of growing up. It was acceptable to have a go at something and fail, admit getting it wrong (or at least if it didn't kill you) and having another go using exactly the same manner or through an altogether different approach or method.
Through history you can depend on the fact that the greatest philosophies, inventions, discoveries and epoch defining events were largely attained following a long and arduous process of trial and error. The initiators of many of mankinds' acheivements will have bombed out either in style or abject misery and not a little tragedy before our civilisation was able to benefit from ultimate success as others picked up the quest and carried it on.
I grew up in the period before the nanny-state, the ridiculous extremes of Health and Safety and the virtual eradication of most debilitating viruses and infections.
My early years in the 1960's were lived in effect in a Petrie dish of afflictions such as rubella, whooping cough, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, smallpox and polio not to mention the side effects of what were pedalled as wonder drugs to assist mothers in pregnancy and just drugs for those feckless parents and guardians who indulged in those promiscuous and anything goes years.
We were intentionally exposed to mumps and measles which spread like wildfire through our contemporaries in order to build up our immunity and resistance. There were no widely available household substances that could kill up to 99% of all known germs in those days.
When able to get about under my own power and determination it was very much a matter of trial and error to see what tree was the safest to climb or fall out of, how fast you could pedal a tricycle down a hill without touching the brakes, how far you could swim out into the local river before getting into difficulties and what fruit scrumped from the gardens in the area was edible and what was poisonous. I stuck my thumb into the electrical socket of the Christmas Tree lights just to see if I would get a jolting shock. I did. I ran my electric toy train for about an hour to see if it would overheat and catch fire. It did. I let go of my bike at speed with my little sister on it to see if she had natural balance and technique. She did not and fractured her skull in the process. I held on to a lighted match to see how short a burnt stub I could get. I learned that the smell of scorched flesh and hair is amongst one of the worst you can experience. I dismantled a shotgun cartridge and left a trail of gunpowder along my bedroom window cill. It ignited and cut a long ugly swath through the woodwork and by this I came to know that a grey and seemingly innocuous powder has great explosive capabilities.
We were encouraged to try, try and try again. The moralistic story of Robert the Bruce and his observations of the endurance of the cave dwelling spider was one on which was placed great emphasis by our elders in the telling of it as a bedtime story, at school assembly or when being told off for not displaying what was called "backbone". Underdogs were held in high esteem even if with hindsight they were stupid and futile. Failure but after a bit of an effort was typically British and applauded for all of that.
How things have now changed.
The culture of the 21st Century and particularly in childhood is sanitised, apparently risk free and with no margin whatsoever for trial and error. Our health and safety are taken as being assured even at the cost of the loss of any common sense approach to a potentially hazardous predicament in which we may find ourselves. There is a fear ,amongst those who would want to encourage adventure and an intrepid spirit, of being sued for negligence or malpractice. Risk assessment is a big wealthy industry and leaves no room for any free thought or inspired judgement.
As an unfortunate and downright heartbreaking consequence of this regime is that our children are not allowed to find value in play and discover for themselves the joys and tribulations of life. It is sadly now very much a situation in reverse. Error and Trial.
It used to be part and parcel of growing up. It was acceptable to have a go at something and fail, admit getting it wrong (or at least if it didn't kill you) and having another go using exactly the same manner or through an altogether different approach or method.
Through history you can depend on the fact that the greatest philosophies, inventions, discoveries and epoch defining events were largely attained following a long and arduous process of trial and error. The initiators of many of mankinds' acheivements will have bombed out either in style or abject misery and not a little tragedy before our civilisation was able to benefit from ultimate success as others picked up the quest and carried it on.
I grew up in the period before the nanny-state, the ridiculous extremes of Health and Safety and the virtual eradication of most debilitating viruses and infections.
My early years in the 1960's were lived in effect in a Petrie dish of afflictions such as rubella, whooping cough, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, smallpox and polio not to mention the side effects of what were pedalled as wonder drugs to assist mothers in pregnancy and just drugs for those feckless parents and guardians who indulged in those promiscuous and anything goes years.
We were intentionally exposed to mumps and measles which spread like wildfire through our contemporaries in order to build up our immunity and resistance. There were no widely available household substances that could kill up to 99% of all known germs in those days.
When able to get about under my own power and determination it was very much a matter of trial and error to see what tree was the safest to climb or fall out of, how fast you could pedal a tricycle down a hill without touching the brakes, how far you could swim out into the local river before getting into difficulties and what fruit scrumped from the gardens in the area was edible and what was poisonous. I stuck my thumb into the electrical socket of the Christmas Tree lights just to see if I would get a jolting shock. I did. I ran my electric toy train for about an hour to see if it would overheat and catch fire. It did. I let go of my bike at speed with my little sister on it to see if she had natural balance and technique. She did not and fractured her skull in the process. I held on to a lighted match to see how short a burnt stub I could get. I learned that the smell of scorched flesh and hair is amongst one of the worst you can experience. I dismantled a shotgun cartridge and left a trail of gunpowder along my bedroom window cill. It ignited and cut a long ugly swath through the woodwork and by this I came to know that a grey and seemingly innocuous powder has great explosive capabilities.
We were encouraged to try, try and try again. The moralistic story of Robert the Bruce and his observations of the endurance of the cave dwelling spider was one on which was placed great emphasis by our elders in the telling of it as a bedtime story, at school assembly or when being told off for not displaying what was called "backbone". Underdogs were held in high esteem even if with hindsight they were stupid and futile. Failure but after a bit of an effort was typically British and applauded for all of that.
How things have now changed.
The culture of the 21st Century and particularly in childhood is sanitised, apparently risk free and with no margin whatsoever for trial and error. Our health and safety are taken as being assured even at the cost of the loss of any common sense approach to a potentially hazardous predicament in which we may find ourselves. There is a fear ,amongst those who would want to encourage adventure and an intrepid spirit, of being sued for negligence or malpractice. Risk assessment is a big wealthy industry and leaves no room for any free thought or inspired judgement.
As an unfortunate and downright heartbreaking consequence of this regime is that our children are not allowed to find value in play and discover for themselves the joys and tribulations of life. It is sadly now very much a situation in reverse. Error and Trial.
Thursday 16 January 2014
Westwood
You can certainly get attached to a space.
That is the case with me and The Westwood.
It is a rare bit of land. A long surviving bequest of common ground held in trust for a townspeople. It dominates almost the whole of the western boundary of the historic settlement of Beverley, not in an overpowering or controlling way but as a protective tract against what has been an incessant pressure for expansion of housing, commerce and industry.
On my first ever sight of The Westwood, sometime in the mid to late 1970's I was over-awed by its wide, open and undulating presence.
We, as a family, were just passing through on return from a holiday and parked up on the grassy side of one of the metalled roads that weave their way through the pasture. The rattle of the car tyres and of those carrying the towed caravan over the span of the cattle grid were a gruff staccato announcement of something different. The guttural sound caused me to look up with jaded eyes from a long drive.
There was a large expanse of verdant green with a backdrop of reddish brick under plum coloured slate roofs, the bright almost white towering mass of the Gothic Minster and a lot of bright blue sky to a distant horizon.
Slow moving, lumbering shapes and far off specks that I could make out in the dazzling summer sunlight were grazing cattle, a lot of them. There was a cluster of youths kicking a football towards a solitary set of goalposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huddles of golfers seeking out dimpled Slazengers in the rough clumps astride the well manicured and watered fairways and greens, gals on ponies lolloping around the sandy track of the training gallop, a Crufts-like collection of assorted dogs and their owners, walkers, family groups on picnic, kids on bikes, couples hand in hand emerging out of the bushes, more dogs, cars abandoned in a random manner in the shade of the avenues of horse chestnut trees, litter pickers and a snaking line of sweltering general public awaiting their turn at the small sliding aperture on the cream and blue Burgess Ice Cream Van.
I was not to know that this brief stopover was a precursor for an actual relocation of the family a couple of years later to a house just on the Westwood Road making the pasture into an extension of the back garden and a backdrop to my formative years.
In the following years I spent many, many tens of hours within the broad boundaries of the common.
Our first family dog, Sheba, would disappear in yelping excitement into the thick undergrowth around the excavated chalk pits in pursuit of rabbits. I was on dog walking duty in the dusk and after dark hours. I would often just walk home without Sheba out of sheer frustration for not being able to coax her back to the leash or physically corner and capture her. My whistling technique was finely honed in the fading evening light or pitch black farther out beyond the streetlights with just the stars or a full moon for illumination.
The Westwood was all things to me.
I could just go out for a run to get rid of excess energy or teenage angst. The middle Newbald Road hill was a great training route when I first thought about cycling competitively. Walking the miles helped me to memorise my essays for exams. The Black Mill Tower was a good target towards which to whack a golf ball with my second hand bought pitching iron, yet more adolescent angst to tackle. Bouncing a football off the crossbar of the lonely goalposts was a constant challenge. Five days a week in school term I criss-crossed the Westwood on my way to and from school sites and home dinners.
A summer job, voluntarily, was to carefully apply linseed oil to the large hand written boards on which were sign written the rules, regulations, by-laws, entitlements and obligations for Freemen and Women of the town. One of the Pasture Masters, a wizened, hardy and grumpy old man lived at the top of the road in a tied cottage and was definitely not someone you would hope to tangle with or upset.
I got a good snog on the Westwood. Dressing up as a monk and beckoning motorists with skeletal hand when caught in the full beam of their headlights was a bit of a prank. A bright spotlight on a steamed up parked car caused quite a flurry of activity.
O I did a dissertation on the role of the Westwood in the history of Beverley which highlighted the location of tumuli and where an iron age chariot had been excavated. Snow brought out the sledges, fertiliser sacks and the posers with skis and a ski lift on Hill 66.
Mid week in the spring and summer months and on some saturdays there were horse racing meets at the racecourse on the north side of the Westwood. In the winter I took part in cyclo-cross races up and down the dips and slopes. Visitors were taken to see the huge iron ring to which bulls were tethered for the barbaric practice of baiting with dogs and where, following heavy rainfall the ground would erupt with freshwater springs and flood around York Road. Did I say that I got a good snog on the Westwood?
Two of my children were born in Westwood Hospital.
Two of my friends died from careering their motorbikes into the static obstacles of heifers and trees.
My father helped to raise funds to put reflective collars on the cattle to counter strikes from vehicles and my other two wheeled contemporaries. Mother still walks mile upon mile with Maisie the dog in a perfect blend of exercise and joyful celebration of freedom.
We have had family blessings and commemorations at the position of a tree planted and tended by my parents way out close to the Burton Bushes woodland.
The above, and countless other of my experiences, snogging and otherwise, encouraged me to put my signature on the current petition to try to prevent an incursion on the sacred open space by developers seeking to convert the Beverley Union Workhouse into apartments and bulldoze the modern hospital buildings for non-descript speculative housing of sorts.
It is intended to be a temporary measure of a roadway for construction traffic but it represents a threat and a dangerous precedent to whittle away at the precious pasture. Signatories are not NIMBY's or Luddites but those with a real and deep fondness for the Westwood, for all that it represents and its contribution over the millenia to the people of Beverley and those who have trodden its broad acres.
That is the case with me and The Westwood.
It is a rare bit of land. A long surviving bequest of common ground held in trust for a townspeople. It dominates almost the whole of the western boundary of the historic settlement of Beverley, not in an overpowering or controlling way but as a protective tract against what has been an incessant pressure for expansion of housing, commerce and industry.
On my first ever sight of The Westwood, sometime in the mid to late 1970's I was over-awed by its wide, open and undulating presence.
We, as a family, were just passing through on return from a holiday and parked up on the grassy side of one of the metalled roads that weave their way through the pasture. The rattle of the car tyres and of those carrying the towed caravan over the span of the cattle grid were a gruff staccato announcement of something different. The guttural sound caused me to look up with jaded eyes from a long drive.
There was a large expanse of verdant green with a backdrop of reddish brick under plum coloured slate roofs, the bright almost white towering mass of the Gothic Minster and a lot of bright blue sky to a distant horizon.
Slow moving, lumbering shapes and far off specks that I could make out in the dazzling summer sunlight were grazing cattle, a lot of them. There was a cluster of youths kicking a football towards a solitary set of goalposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huddles of golfers seeking out dimpled Slazengers in the rough clumps astride the well manicured and watered fairways and greens, gals on ponies lolloping around the sandy track of the training gallop, a Crufts-like collection of assorted dogs and their owners, walkers, family groups on picnic, kids on bikes, couples hand in hand emerging out of the bushes, more dogs, cars abandoned in a random manner in the shade of the avenues of horse chestnut trees, litter pickers and a snaking line of sweltering general public awaiting their turn at the small sliding aperture on the cream and blue Burgess Ice Cream Van.
I was not to know that this brief stopover was a precursor for an actual relocation of the family a couple of years later to a house just on the Westwood Road making the pasture into an extension of the back garden and a backdrop to my formative years.
In the following years I spent many, many tens of hours within the broad boundaries of the common.
Our first family dog, Sheba, would disappear in yelping excitement into the thick undergrowth around the excavated chalk pits in pursuit of rabbits. I was on dog walking duty in the dusk and after dark hours. I would often just walk home without Sheba out of sheer frustration for not being able to coax her back to the leash or physically corner and capture her. My whistling technique was finely honed in the fading evening light or pitch black farther out beyond the streetlights with just the stars or a full moon for illumination.
The Westwood was all things to me.
I could just go out for a run to get rid of excess energy or teenage angst. The middle Newbald Road hill was a great training route when I first thought about cycling competitively. Walking the miles helped me to memorise my essays for exams. The Black Mill Tower was a good target towards which to whack a golf ball with my second hand bought pitching iron, yet more adolescent angst to tackle. Bouncing a football off the crossbar of the lonely goalposts was a constant challenge. Five days a week in school term I criss-crossed the Westwood on my way to and from school sites and home dinners.
A summer job, voluntarily, was to carefully apply linseed oil to the large hand written boards on which were sign written the rules, regulations, by-laws, entitlements and obligations for Freemen and Women of the town. One of the Pasture Masters, a wizened, hardy and grumpy old man lived at the top of the road in a tied cottage and was definitely not someone you would hope to tangle with or upset.
I got a good snog on the Westwood. Dressing up as a monk and beckoning motorists with skeletal hand when caught in the full beam of their headlights was a bit of a prank. A bright spotlight on a steamed up parked car caused quite a flurry of activity.
O I did a dissertation on the role of the Westwood in the history of Beverley which highlighted the location of tumuli and where an iron age chariot had been excavated. Snow brought out the sledges, fertiliser sacks and the posers with skis and a ski lift on Hill 66.
Mid week in the spring and summer months and on some saturdays there were horse racing meets at the racecourse on the north side of the Westwood. In the winter I took part in cyclo-cross races up and down the dips and slopes. Visitors were taken to see the huge iron ring to which bulls were tethered for the barbaric practice of baiting with dogs and where, following heavy rainfall the ground would erupt with freshwater springs and flood around York Road. Did I say that I got a good snog on the Westwood?
Two of my children were born in Westwood Hospital.
Two of my friends died from careering their motorbikes into the static obstacles of heifers and trees.
My father helped to raise funds to put reflective collars on the cattle to counter strikes from vehicles and my other two wheeled contemporaries. Mother still walks mile upon mile with Maisie the dog in a perfect blend of exercise and joyful celebration of freedom.
We have had family blessings and commemorations at the position of a tree planted and tended by my parents way out close to the Burton Bushes woodland.
The above, and countless other of my experiences, snogging and otherwise, encouraged me to put my signature on the current petition to try to prevent an incursion on the sacred open space by developers seeking to convert the Beverley Union Workhouse into apartments and bulldoze the modern hospital buildings for non-descript speculative housing of sorts.
It is intended to be a temporary measure of a roadway for construction traffic but it represents a threat and a dangerous precedent to whittle away at the precious pasture. Signatories are not NIMBY's or Luddites but those with a real and deep fondness for the Westwood, for all that it represents and its contribution over the millenia to the people of Beverley and those who have trodden its broad acres.
Wednesday 15 January 2014
The Demolition of Portobello Street, Hull
We used to live in a terraced house
Nestled in neighbourly obscurity
But now, upon revisiting it has been cut apart
In the name of progress to make way
For a super school
or community empowering facility
or something
My mum and dad always aspired to a semi detached
But not like this
The old wallpaper that I helped to paste
Hangs listless like an abandoned hoarding
The nicotine stains are surprisingly yellow
In natural light
The chimney breast hangs on like a cliff face
A floorboard sticks out like a fractured rib
The dismantled elements lie smouldering
In an undignified pile of debris
Which we were happy to call our life
When we used to live in a terraced house
(Entered into the East Riding Poetry Competition 2012. Didn't get anywhere)
(Entered into the East Riding Poetry Competition 2012. Didn't get anywhere)
Tuesday 14 January 2014
Reboot
I had a booter.
At the bottom of the field ditch, its brackish and green tinted residue was pouring over the top of my wellington boots.
It was a very unpleasant sensation, not altogether unknown to a 12 year old ranging about in the watercourses of the local area in search of tadpoles, sticklebacks and water boatmen, but nevertheless disappointing and demoralising and especially with the prospect of a long, soggy walk home.
It was always the same. A squelch followed by an eruption of dirty drainage up the back of your leg for the duration of the trek along the footpath at the back of the housing estate.
Socks were sodden and under the additional weight tended to work their way towards the toe-end of the welly boots before eventually falling off your foot altogether. This brought your skin directly into contact with the cold, clammy and saturated innards of the boot and another and even more unpleasant experience.
At this stage you just had to sit down on the path or on a fallen tree bough . The water heavy socks could be extracted and twisted hard to force out the excess moisture. They could never be put back on but were draped over the shoulder so that they could, upon the return home, be sneaked into the wash pile without being seen by a parent.
Trouser legs, also fully wet could be rolled up carefully to just below the knee and this process did tease out a bit more ditch water but the fabric remained damp and uncomfortable.
I soon developed a strange walking style to avoid any more than necessary chafing by wellies or clothing. This consisted of a lolloping from side to side, slightly bow legged in the style of someone suffering from rickets or haemorrhoids or as I imagined these afflictions would look and feel.
My unsightly progress up the track was complicated by my insistence on still carrying the spoils of my ditch bottom foraging. One hand held a jam jar, lidless and with red fibrous bailer twine from a ruptured straw bale wrapped around the rim and knotted into a makeshift handle. The contents of the jar consisted of yet more murky water and on very close inspection to those of a curious disposition could be seen the flick of a tail of a tiny scale-backed fish, frantic movements of small and newly developed frogs and a couple of water snails making their way up the sides in a bid for freedom.
In the other hand was a large stick. The first and most essential part of any expedition down the field side was to procure a stick. Previous adventures had created quite a pile of old bits of wood in the hedgerow where the pathway snuck down between the estate houses and these could be picked through for anything suitable. A brand new stick was preferred and although there were plenty of places to look there was a strict criteria to be met. It had to be as straight as possible. If formed from the convergence of two boughs then this would make a good thumb notch for extra comfort over the great distances to be wandered. A thin, stringy and strong stick was ideal to clear the nettles and other vegetation if venturing off the path or just to waggle at menacing animals such as loose dogs or cattle. As much time could be devoted to the search for the best ever stick as the intended expedition.
As well as capturing water creatures the acres of farmers fields in between the land drains could also produce a wealth of interesting collectables, curiosities and plain rubbish. Scratching around in the heavy clay soils I had found a good assortment of bits of clay pipes discarded by 19th century agricultural workers. Pride of place was given to an almost complete example albeit slightly chipped and scuffed from exposure to wind and weather for a century and more.
Any interestingly shaped stone was secreted away in pockets and a particularly productive session would result in significant sagging of trousers making walking quite difficult and ungainly. Before turning for home at the top of the path the stash was sorted and graded leaving, next to the old sticks, yet another pile of debris. A lot of stuff still made it past parents and into my private collection which occupied much of the window cill in my bedroom or various old shoe boxes and biscuit tins under the bed or at the foot of the wardrobe.
I am now over 50 but the prospect of a ramble in the countryside or even on the new edge of town revives memories of those distant and carefree days. Where there is a meaningful stretch of stream or a stagnant pond I still earnestly search, but in vain ,to catch a glimpse of a tadpole and as for the silver sliver stickleback, it's absence may indicate that it is extinct. Many of the ditches are now infilled or dry.
I accept that there have been major changes in the climate and in nature's response to it albeit enforced and distressing. There is however one reassuring constant in all of these things. A booter is still a booter.
At the bottom of the field ditch, its brackish and green tinted residue was pouring over the top of my wellington boots.
It was a very unpleasant sensation, not altogether unknown to a 12 year old ranging about in the watercourses of the local area in search of tadpoles, sticklebacks and water boatmen, but nevertheless disappointing and demoralising and especially with the prospect of a long, soggy walk home.
It was always the same. A squelch followed by an eruption of dirty drainage up the back of your leg for the duration of the trek along the footpath at the back of the housing estate.
Socks were sodden and under the additional weight tended to work their way towards the toe-end of the welly boots before eventually falling off your foot altogether. This brought your skin directly into contact with the cold, clammy and saturated innards of the boot and another and even more unpleasant experience.
At this stage you just had to sit down on the path or on a fallen tree bough . The water heavy socks could be extracted and twisted hard to force out the excess moisture. They could never be put back on but were draped over the shoulder so that they could, upon the return home, be sneaked into the wash pile without being seen by a parent.
Trouser legs, also fully wet could be rolled up carefully to just below the knee and this process did tease out a bit more ditch water but the fabric remained damp and uncomfortable.
I soon developed a strange walking style to avoid any more than necessary chafing by wellies or clothing. This consisted of a lolloping from side to side, slightly bow legged in the style of someone suffering from rickets or haemorrhoids or as I imagined these afflictions would look and feel.
My unsightly progress up the track was complicated by my insistence on still carrying the spoils of my ditch bottom foraging. One hand held a jam jar, lidless and with red fibrous bailer twine from a ruptured straw bale wrapped around the rim and knotted into a makeshift handle. The contents of the jar consisted of yet more murky water and on very close inspection to those of a curious disposition could be seen the flick of a tail of a tiny scale-backed fish, frantic movements of small and newly developed frogs and a couple of water snails making their way up the sides in a bid for freedom.
In the other hand was a large stick. The first and most essential part of any expedition down the field side was to procure a stick. Previous adventures had created quite a pile of old bits of wood in the hedgerow where the pathway snuck down between the estate houses and these could be picked through for anything suitable. A brand new stick was preferred and although there were plenty of places to look there was a strict criteria to be met. It had to be as straight as possible. If formed from the convergence of two boughs then this would make a good thumb notch for extra comfort over the great distances to be wandered. A thin, stringy and strong stick was ideal to clear the nettles and other vegetation if venturing off the path or just to waggle at menacing animals such as loose dogs or cattle. As much time could be devoted to the search for the best ever stick as the intended expedition.
As well as capturing water creatures the acres of farmers fields in between the land drains could also produce a wealth of interesting collectables, curiosities and plain rubbish. Scratching around in the heavy clay soils I had found a good assortment of bits of clay pipes discarded by 19th century agricultural workers. Pride of place was given to an almost complete example albeit slightly chipped and scuffed from exposure to wind and weather for a century and more.
Any interestingly shaped stone was secreted away in pockets and a particularly productive session would result in significant sagging of trousers making walking quite difficult and ungainly. Before turning for home at the top of the path the stash was sorted and graded leaving, next to the old sticks, yet another pile of debris. A lot of stuff still made it past parents and into my private collection which occupied much of the window cill in my bedroom or various old shoe boxes and biscuit tins under the bed or at the foot of the wardrobe.
I am now over 50 but the prospect of a ramble in the countryside or even on the new edge of town revives memories of those distant and carefree days. Where there is a meaningful stretch of stream or a stagnant pond I still earnestly search, but in vain ,to catch a glimpse of a tadpole and as for the silver sliver stickleback, it's absence may indicate that it is extinct. Many of the ditches are now infilled or dry.
I accept that there have been major changes in the climate and in nature's response to it albeit enforced and distressing. There is however one reassuring constant in all of these things. A booter is still a booter.
Monday 13 January 2014
Be More Dog
Just when you thought it was safe to put away the Christmas jigsaw puzzle after nearly 3 weeks of it occupying the dining table, just after having lugged the old faithful boxed games and this years versions up to the loft and completing the seeking out and destroying of the short lived entertainment that formed the contents of the seasonal crackers I have devised a little bit of a quiz.
There are no prizes, just a sense of participating in something without competitive edge if anyone can at all be bothered to use the comment button to submit their entries.
I got the idea from listening to Martin Jarvis and one of his Just William readings which reminded me about the close relationship between boys and their dogs.
The characters, both human and canine are to be found in mythology, fiction, non-fiction and the world of entertainment.
I provide a list made up of a mixture of owners and dogs and with the reservoir of answers below to allow a matching up and reunion of best friends. I have given a few clues for the perhaps more obscure.
Bulls Eye Obelix
Odysseus Eddie
Fluffy Shep
Tin Tin Santa's Little Helper
Timmy Beethoven
Dogmatix Wellard
Dennis The Menace Tim Bisley Cartoonist
Snoopy Brian
Detective Scott Turner Hooch
Doc Brown K9
Colin Robert Barone (Ray's Brother)
Dr Who Muttley
Bart Simpson Julian Clary
Martin Crane (Frasier's Dad) Bill Sykes
Jumble Argos
John Noakes Hagrid
Fanny the Wonder Dog Snowy
Rebel George of the Famous Five
George Newton Gnasher
Peter Griffin and Family Charlie Brown
Dick Dastardly Einstein
Shamsky Master William Brown
Robbie Jackson Ricky North
There are no prizes, just a sense of participating in something without competitive edge if anyone can at all be bothered to use the comment button to submit their entries.
I got the idea from listening to Martin Jarvis and one of his Just William readings which reminded me about the close relationship between boys and their dogs.
The characters, both human and canine are to be found in mythology, fiction, non-fiction and the world of entertainment.
I provide a list made up of a mixture of owners and dogs and with the reservoir of answers below to allow a matching up and reunion of best friends. I have given a few clues for the perhaps more obscure.
Bulls Eye Obelix
Odysseus Eddie
Fluffy Shep
Tin Tin Santa's Little Helper
Timmy Beethoven
Dogmatix Wellard
Dennis The Menace Tim Bisley Cartoonist
Snoopy Brian
Detective Scott Turner Hooch
Doc Brown K9
Colin Robert Barone (Ray's Brother)
Dr Who Muttley
Bart Simpson Julian Clary
Martin Crane (Frasier's Dad) Bill Sykes
Jumble Argos
John Noakes Hagrid
Fanny the Wonder Dog Snowy
Rebel George of the Famous Five
George Newton Gnasher
Peter Griffin and Family Charlie Brown
Dick Dastardly Einstein
Shamsky Master William Brown
Robbie Jackson Ricky North
Sunday 12 January 2014
No sex please we're skittish!
It was a strange conversation amongst my fellow guests at a get together last evening.
I am not sure how we did get around to the particular subject.
It may have been prompted by a parlour game involving having a label affixed to your back bearing the name of a character from history, fiction, popular culture and entertainment. It was then a case of trying to guess the assumed identity by asking a series of questions of the roomful of players. This went along the lines, typically ,of "am I human?", " am I dead or alive?", " was I in the movies?", "was I a politician?" and similar lines of enquiry.
This interrogation rapidly exposed the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Harry Potter, Meryl Streep and not without a struggle, Lady Ga Ga.
The most difficult to guess began to fall into a distinct category. Even when reduced to the common denominators of "am I male or female?" a handful of guests remained standing, frustrated and falling well down the queue for the hot buffet being served up in the kitchen by virtue of the persistence of the post-it note attached to their persons.
The matter continued as we all sat with laden plates on our laps.
The stumbling point was obviously an inability to sex specific characters.
This may have seemed ridiculous but from the raised and animated voices in the room it had sparked off quite a debate.
Take Lassie. Arguably one of the great non-human stars of celluloid from a 1943 debut. However, depicted as a highly intelligent and compassionate female collie the actual role was taken by a male dog called Pal and, subsequently, by his dependants.
Mickey Mouse next came under scrutiny. The majority in the room went for undoubtedly a male but let's face it, what with that high pitched tone and a lack of visible genitalia even on a naked lower torso some hard questions could be raised in support of non specific gender.
Bambi. The vulnerable and awkward fawn who had a real baptism of fire could for much of the animated film be mistaken for a female but in the final scenes as a fully grown stag there is no debate to be had.
We began, collectively to throw up other examples of indeterminable sex.
The Clangers caused a near rift and schism amongst those assembled in the room, incidentally having now progressed to dessert and as for the Teletubbies, well there could have been a bit of a scuffle and agitation had we not unanimously agreed that Tinky Winky was distinctly male in his mannerisms and occasional petulance and stubborness in group situations.
No genre of character was spared the probing and sometimes quite vigorous questioning on the basis of for and against male or female sex or other legitimate points in between.
The Dr Who fans in our midst held their ground on arguing a specific exception for mechanically engineered life forms with no dangley bits or reproductive process and so by this route the Daleks and Cybermen got off lightly.
Flipper the Dolphin and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo were, it was largely agreed, asexual for the purposes of their appearance in their respective broadcasted shows but we agreed had the right to be of either sex in their own private lives off screen.
The Woodentops came into sharp focus. Spotty Dog whom we all recalled as "the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see" had to be given the benefit of the doubt on the grounds of the absence of any defining features of a male dog.
The Fingerbobs, individually made up of Fingermouse, Gulliver, Scampi and Flash presented an easy argument in that they were just an extension of the very male and bearded Rick Jones although I must apologise now for my insistence that the human collaborator was Derek Griffiths and I retract my less than complimentary opinions on the man.
The evening flew by in like minded company. We could appreciate that our choice of characters did highlight the fact the we were all roughly of a certain age and had obviously spent a disgraceful amount of time in our formative years in the 1960's and early 1970's glued to our parents' small and black and white televisions. Those were the days.
I am not sure how we did get around to the particular subject.
It may have been prompted by a parlour game involving having a label affixed to your back bearing the name of a character from history, fiction, popular culture and entertainment. It was then a case of trying to guess the assumed identity by asking a series of questions of the roomful of players. This went along the lines, typically ,of "am I human?", " am I dead or alive?", " was I in the movies?", "was I a politician?" and similar lines of enquiry.
This interrogation rapidly exposed the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Harry Potter, Meryl Streep and not without a struggle, Lady Ga Ga.
The most difficult to guess began to fall into a distinct category. Even when reduced to the common denominators of "am I male or female?" a handful of guests remained standing, frustrated and falling well down the queue for the hot buffet being served up in the kitchen by virtue of the persistence of the post-it note attached to their persons.
The matter continued as we all sat with laden plates on our laps.
The stumbling point was obviously an inability to sex specific characters.
This may have seemed ridiculous but from the raised and animated voices in the room it had sparked off quite a debate.
Take Lassie. Arguably one of the great non-human stars of celluloid from a 1943 debut. However, depicted as a highly intelligent and compassionate female collie the actual role was taken by a male dog called Pal and, subsequently, by his dependants.
Mickey Mouse next came under scrutiny. The majority in the room went for undoubtedly a male but let's face it, what with that high pitched tone and a lack of visible genitalia even on a naked lower torso some hard questions could be raised in support of non specific gender.
Bambi. The vulnerable and awkward fawn who had a real baptism of fire could for much of the animated film be mistaken for a female but in the final scenes as a fully grown stag there is no debate to be had.
We began, collectively to throw up other examples of indeterminable sex.
The Clangers caused a near rift and schism amongst those assembled in the room, incidentally having now progressed to dessert and as for the Teletubbies, well there could have been a bit of a scuffle and agitation had we not unanimously agreed that Tinky Winky was distinctly male in his mannerisms and occasional petulance and stubborness in group situations.
No genre of character was spared the probing and sometimes quite vigorous questioning on the basis of for and against male or female sex or other legitimate points in between.
The Dr Who fans in our midst held their ground on arguing a specific exception for mechanically engineered life forms with no dangley bits or reproductive process and so by this route the Daleks and Cybermen got off lightly.
Flipper the Dolphin and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo were, it was largely agreed, asexual for the purposes of their appearance in their respective broadcasted shows but we agreed had the right to be of either sex in their own private lives off screen.
The Woodentops came into sharp focus. Spotty Dog whom we all recalled as "the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see" had to be given the benefit of the doubt on the grounds of the absence of any defining features of a male dog.
The Fingerbobs, individually made up of Fingermouse, Gulliver, Scampi and Flash presented an easy argument in that they were just an extension of the very male and bearded Rick Jones although I must apologise now for my insistence that the human collaborator was Derek Griffiths and I retract my less than complimentary opinions on the man.
The evening flew by in like minded company. We could appreciate that our choice of characters did highlight the fact the we were all roughly of a certain age and had obviously spent a disgraceful amount of time in our formative years in the 1960's and early 1970's glued to our parents' small and black and white televisions. Those were the days.
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