Fair Trade

The most remarkable thing about the house was that it had a Nuclear Fallout Shelter.

It was not just a piece of cardboard around four legs of a kitchen table or something put together by children from blankets and a clothes horse but the real article.

It will have had to be born from an excavation deep into the chalk of the east facing slope of the late 1970's residential estate and cast around in concrete well before the conventional brick and block walls of a normal looking house emerged. Not actually stocked with survivalist rations the floor area in the shelter made an ideal bicycle shed being dry and ventilated.

After descending the stairs and standing around in a manner which suggested that I knew what I was doing, I agreed to buy from the homeowner the bright yellow Claud Butler Track Frame which stood amongst a number of cherised used bikes and just about a shop's worth of wheels, handlebars and every conceivable spare part you could possibly need to maintain a post apocalyptic hobby in cycling.

I was in that phase of well being and fitness when I felt I could apply myself to every aspect of cycle sport. Road Racing, Time Trialling and Cyclo-Cross had been attempted with more enthusiasm than ability or talent.

Track Cycling was the next logical focus but I had failed to take into account a number of key factors. 1) There was no Track within 40 miles. 2) The track just over 40 miles away was an outdoor concrete one 3) I had no experience of track riding 4) I suspected that I was scared of gradients and banked corners.

Nevertheless, a track frame would sit nicely amongst my growing collection of bikes and it would be quite straightforward to build it up to a road ready state.

That series of events and the intention to build a track bike from the Claud Butler frame was, unbelievably, 26 years ago and over that period I am ashamed to say I have done absolutely nothing.

Not that I abandoned the project altogether at any point in that time but those two ingredients necessary for progress being commitment and cash just did not coincide.

The frame moved house a few times, always being carefully packed and stored to protect it from damage. It would be hung up in the shed or garage in a prominent position to remind me to do something with it but would gradually become relegated onto a hook or padded nail on the very back wall. Other bikes arrived in the collection for the children and those that I took in to look after for my friend and fellow cycling fan, Robin after he died.  These took up time and effort for maintenance and repairs that could possibly have been lavished on the now sad and faded pale yellow frame which was rusting slightly where the enamel of the frame was thin or missing over the Reynolds 531 tubing.

Whilst a true track racing machine there were indications that it had been used as a training bike on the road, fixed gear and with mudgard fixings. Riding a fixed gear was quite a skill and involved a fitness and discipline that only a few could master. It was the sort of activity I associated with someone with a handlebar moustache, tweed jacket, plus fours, checked shirt and tie, in fact very inter war in style. Just not me though.

My eldest daughter brought my attention to the resurgence of fixed gear or fixie bikes only just last year as the craze caught the imagination of her generation. Expensive, brightly coloured, chromed, striking wheels and very much a fashion accessory. I thought immediately of the Claud Butler in the depths of the garage and how well suited it would be to a reinvention of the 21st Century youth culture. Tentatively pricing up what would be required to restore the frame for posing I was shocked when it came close to the cost of my first small car. My daughter let me down gently by pointing out that the frame was, anyway, too big for her to ever sit comfortably or safely on.

My interest and passion for cycling has remained strong in spite of the best endeavours of work and recession to the contrary. In the last 10 weeks I have covered hundreds of miles with my son on mountain bikes and have rediscovered muscles and stamina that I did not expect to see again as I approach 50. We have a good range of clothing and equipment to sustain our fitness into the autumn and winter, only lacking some wet weather gear for me.

In a conversation just last week with the local bike shop owner we were, for no apparent reason, on the subject of nuclear shelters which led by coincidence to my experience of the subterranean bike shed over a quarter of a century before. The proprietor knew that homeowner from his own track racing days even further back in the mists of time and spoke with reverence of a Claud Butler track frame, bright yellow, 531 tubing, a pedigree machine.

In a mutually acceptable piece of negotiation I traded the frame, less accumulated dust, for a very fluorescent green all weather waterproof and breathable jacket. I consider that to be a good deal not so much from the point of view of my remaining dry out on the road as in the knowledge that the frame was returning, full cycle, to its roots.

Follow up 26.10.12.  I saw the frame, built back into a full road ready bike propped up against the wall at the bike shop and for sale at £195.00 It looked great and I was happy to see it whole again

Spot relief

Just been away for a weekend break. Have a look at the photograph and try to guess where I took it

Options. a) Greek Islands  b) Rio de Janeiro  c) Corsica  d) Bermuda e) Just outside Hackney Town Hall, London,,,,,,,,standing with my back to The Empire Venue,

Apparently, I'm the needy type.

The Enneagram system

The Enneagram is a personality typing system that consists of nine different types. Everyone is considered to be one single type, although one can have traits belonging to other ones. While it's uncertain whether this type is genetically determined, many believe it is already in place at birth.The method is widely promoted in business management and spiritual contexts in the relentless bid to put people in their own boxes or in blue sky thinking terms to gain an insight into work dynamics of individuals or in woolly speak as a path to enlightenment. The origins are of course as ancient as human nature itself.

The nine types (or "enneatypes", "ennea" means "nine") are universally identified by the numbers 1 to 9. These numbers have a standard way of being placed around the Enneagram symbol.
1. The Reformer2. The Helper3. The Achiever4. The Individualist 5.The Investigator 6.The Loyalist 7.The Enthusiast 8.The Challenger 9.The Peacemaker

People of a particular type have several characteristics in common, but they can be quite different nevertheless. It depends among other things on their level of mental health. Unhealthy (neurotic) people from a particular type can look quite different from healthy ones. Riso and Hudson distinguish 9 levels of mental health (see their book Personality Types) and have type descriptions for each level of each enneagram type.

Wings

Usually one has characteristics of one of the types that lie adjacent to one's own that are more prominent. This is called the wing. So someone who is a type 5, might have a 4 wing or a 6 wing. This may be abbreviated to "5w4" and "5w6". If one doesn't have a dominant wing, it is said that the wings are balanced.

Enneagram type descriptions

Type 1 - The Reformer

Perfectionists, responsible, fixated on improvement

Ones are essentially looking to make things better, as they think nothing is ever quite good enough. This makes them perfectionists who want to reform and improve, who desire to make order out of the omnipresent chaos.

Type 2 - The Helper

Helpers who need to be needed

Twos essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who remember everyone's birthday and who go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need.

Type 3 - The Achiever

Focused on the presentation of success, to attain validation

Threes need to be validated in order to feel worthy; they pursue success and want to be admired. They are frequently hard working, competetive and are highly focused in the pursuit of their goals, whether their goal is to be the most successful salesman in the company or the "sexiest" woman in their social circle.

Type 4 - The Individualist

Identity seekers, who feel unique and different

Fours build their identities around their perception of themselves as being somehow different or unique; they are thus self-consciously individualistic. They tend to see their difference from others as being both a gift and a curse - a gift, because it sets them apart from those they perceive as being somehow "common," and a curse, as it so often seems to separate them from the simpler forms of happiness that others so readily seem to enjoy.

Type 5 - The Investigator

Thinkers who tend to withdraw and observe

Fives essentially fear that they don't have enough inner strength to face life, so they tend to withdraw, to retreat into the safety and security of the mind where they can mentally prepare for their emergence into the world. Fives feel comfortable and at home in the realm of thought. They are generally intelligent, well read and thoughtful and they frequently become experts in the areas that capture their interest.

Type 6 - The Loyalist

Conflicted between trust and distrust

Sixes essentially feel insecure, as though there is nothing quite steady enough to hold onto. At the core of the type Six personality is a kind of fear or anxiety. Sixes don't trust easily; they are often ambivalent about others, until the person has absolutely proven herself, at which point they are likely to respond with steadfast loyalty.

Type 7 - The Enthusiast

Pleasure seekers and planners, in search of distraction

Sevens are essentially concerned that their lives be an exciting adventure. They are future oriented, restless people who are generally convinced that something better is just around the corner. They are quick thinkers who have a great deal of energy and who make lots of plans. They tend to be extroverted, multi-talented, creative and open minded.

Type 8 - The Challenger

Taking charge, because they don't want to be controlled

Eights are essentially unwilling to be controlled, either by others or by their circumstances; they fully intend to be masters of their fate. Eights are strong willed, decisive, practical, tough minded and energetic. They also tend to be domineering; their unwillingness to be controlled by others frequently manifests in the need to control others instead.

Type 9 - The Peacemaker

Keeping peace and harmony

Nines essentially feel a need for peace and harmony. They tend to avoid conflict at all costs, whether it be internal or interpersonal. As the potential for conflict in life is virtually ubiquitous, the Nine's desire to avoid it generally results in some degree of withdrawal from life, and many Nines are, in fact, introverted. Other Nines lead more active, social lives, but nevertheless remain to some to degree "checked out," or not fully involved, as if to insulate themselves from threats to their peace of mind.

I could not resist taking the on-line test and apparently I am a Type 2 person- a bit needy.

Do you think that is right? do you? do you?.

Disturbance in the Force

Brief synopsis;

STAR WARS VII

THE RETURN OF THE GENIE

The scheming franchisees of the Wonderful World of Disney are once again active.

In a strange disturbance in The Force, Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called

 to rescue Princess Jasmine from the scheming  Miley  Cyrus whose powerful

 alter ego, H Montana is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of

the followers of Mickey Mouse. In a bold takeover of Lucas Film there

beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters, thousands

of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film

releases. Oh, dear. The Empress, Kathleen Kennedy is in

peril from spotty faced executives whose idea of  movies

is based on a diet of animation and product placement.

Luke,  aboard  the  Cadillac Falcon,  accompanied in

song by cute furry animals and a regenerated Mary

Poppins moves against forces of arch villain

Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood

stronghold. Faced with strange forces

of bedknobs and broomsticks there

is a massacre of integrity and any

credibility left in an organisation

run by a group of Muppets.

Luke is killed off as he is

now too old to appeal

to an under 10's age

group. His place

is taken by a

digitalised

Zachary

 Efron

Fantabulosa

It is another one of those idiosyncracies of the British way of life.

In the late 1960's, at a time when homosexuality was criminalised and not even the great and the good could escape the public scandalmongers if there was even the faintest whiff of an inappropriate liaison the most popular media characters were a very openly gay, camp and risque pair who attracted around 8 million radio listeners and on a sunday.

The introduction of the characters played by Hugh Paddick and Kenneth Williams summed it all up; "Hello, I'm Julian and this is my friend Sandy".

A brainchild of writers Barry Took and the googley eyed Marty Feldman the couple made their first scripted appearance as out of work and down at heel actors who were forced to take menial tasks and jobs to make ends meet.

This characterisation was soon rejected by the editor of the recipient Hit radio show, Round the Horne and its main protagonist, Kenneth Horne in favour of a couple of outrageous chorus boys who soon became established as the nation;s favourites.

The comic genius of Paddick and Williams was the perfect challenge for the straight man role played by Horne and the Julian and Sandy featurette in the sunday broadcasts was a highlight throughout the long running series.

This saw various business activities and enterprises being attempted with naffness and cheery incompetence centred on Kenneth Horne ranging from dating agency to private detectives, travel agents and theatrical entrepreneurs.

What seems to have appealed to the British public was the safe and unthreatening manner of a lifestyle sector otherwise so villified and feared. The whole seedy portrayal of gay activity and apparent promiscuity was shrouded in mystery only serving to fuel public opinion.

Homosexuality was unimportant in the context of Julian and Sandy even though their language, packed with double entendres and camp, effete delivery was outrageous in the extreme.

The dramatic scenes were often manic with Julian being constantly badgered by Sandy into confessions as a very effective comic tool. The British seem to love innuendo and this was a main strand in the dialogue.

Kenneth Williams excelled in his high pitched voice and very dramatic performances in contrast to the rather dour and downtrodden Paddick.

The shows also saw the use of the slang language of Polari.

This is thought to have started amongst the travelling circuses and theatres in Europe before being adopted by, amongst others, the Gay Community as a form of secret communication to convey intentions and opinions whilst not drawing attention to excite persecution or legal sanction.

Key words appearing in the RTH scripts included "bona" for good, "varda", look, "dolly" pretty and "eke" face put to most effective use in a typical welcome "Bona to varda your dolly old eke". "Omi" referred to a man, "Palone" for woman and "Omie Palone"for effiminate man or homosexual.

The contribution through popular culture of Julian and Sandy did bring about a change in public attitudes and is widely regarded as having been a main catalyst to the decriminalisation of homosexuality by 1967.

In 1968 Round the Horne ended with the untimely death of Kenneth Horne but Julian and Sandy kept going for a few years, culminating in the last ever performance for a charity show in 1987 shortly before Williams' death.

Porky Pies

I was brought up from an early age to always speak the truth and not to lie.

This was through the setting of a fine example by my parents both good and honest people with not one deceitful or malicious word that I can recall, even though they were hard pushed by the stresses and upheaval of modern life and especially in the bringing up of five children.

When the moral compass of our mother and father were not available it was down to our education to instill in us the immorality and downright nastiness of lying.

This was usually through well tried and tested nursery rhymes and books along the lines of the boy who cried wolf, that naughty Hillaire Belloc character of Matilda and in the moral fear that our underwear would burst into flame if we were accused of being a liar, liar.

For me that was sanction enough but it now turns out through psychological research that being able to tell a lie, in childhood, is an indicator of a more advanced cognitive development.

In plain speak, children who lie are more advanced in their intelligence than those on the path of truth.

This does ring true after some thought.

There is a well known quote from someone I cannot now remember that "A liar needs to have a good memory". This is clearly the case when that first little fib or white lie has to be maintained over a long period calling upon greater application and intelligence to sustain it.

In the early developmental years the ability to lie is seen as a fundamental skill to stretch the far recesses of a young brain. In a test called a Temptation Resistance Paradigm young children under the age of 4 are asked to identify, unsighted, a toy animal working only on its sound. Moos, Baas and Oinks are an easy introduction but then the person conducting the test moves onto something less obvious such as the roar of a dinosaur. Before the attendant children can guess , the adult is called out of the room for a minute, supposedly to deal with a phone call. The children, under secret filming, cannot resist the temptation of investigating the hidden toy.

Upon returning to the room and interrogated (in the nicest possible manner) the children usually lie but the indicator of advanced intelligence for their young years is the extent to which they try to conceal the lie. The brightest ones have already processed the chain of events and have formulated the best way to answer the original question over the identity of the toy.

This process of being able to read and anticipate other people's minds displays enhanced interaction which will equip them well into their future adolescent and adult lives.

At the age of 2 only a quarter have an ability to lie. This increases rapidly over the next couple of years until a whopping 90% of four year olds are capable of maintaining a fib.

Those lagging behind in their cognitive development do catch up by the age of 7 to 8 with approaching 100% of deceitfulness.

This should strike fear into the consciousness of all parents and those in positions of responsibility and supervision of that conniving, scheming and manipulative age group.

However, the psychologists do know best and provide reassurance that lying is a reliable indicator of normal development.

The lack of truth does however show a decrease in the over 9's and into the pre-puberty years. By the age of 12 only 65% actively lie as the awareness of moral behaviour, social responsibility and a Jiminy Cricket type conscience combine to produce a more rounded sensitivity to events and surroundings.

This gives me some hope and encouragement for the future of mankind.

It is just a case of keeping the power ,influence and weapons of mass destruction out of the grubby little hands of those despicable 8 year olds.

Hello Brolly

First written in August 2012

The green coloured angling umbrella could withstand most forms of weather thrown at it.

Sheltering beneath the broad reaching canopy gave protection against the wind as it skirmished along the course of the river, provided a refuge from precipitation and could be relied upon to cast a cool shady spot in the heat of the day.

On one of our all night fishing trips the brolly assumed an altogether more practical role.

For those worse for drink after a long session at one of the bankside public houses, close by our favourite spot, the camouflage coloured material was indiscernible to their bleary eyes.

What we perceived to be an unnanounced, short but heavy and violent downpour was in fact the aforementioned relieving themselves above our heads.

I often wondered if the path of the urine, once airborne, registered as being unusual with the perpetrator. Far from achieving a new personal best in height and distance, a popular post drinking session pastime al fresco, the golden rope of liquid would strangely hit an invisible forcefield and course to the ground in a broad spread as though over a mushroom.

Understandably this would afford a very low level of satisfaction from what could be expected to be a highlight of any particular evening out in a quiet provincial town.

Cursings and exclamations of disbelief would be heard.

In our state of virtual invisibility we would draw in a sharp intake of breath waiting for the sound of the trouser front zip to be safely engaged ,without mishap, before the chuntering, grumbling and yet more cursing diminished into the dark of the night.

Post-urination was a wonderfully peaceful time marked by a strange steamy mist working its way over the cooler surface of the river and into oblivion.

Everesting

A new word or term has crept into my vocabulary. Everesting.

It could be taken to mean a few things at its face value.

Feeling pretty tired after a busy period at work I would appreciate a long period of relaxation and, well, doing nothing much at all. Ever Resting

Alternatively, I could be avoiding constant pestering phone calls from a well known double glazing manufacturer trying the hard sell for its Upvc window products. Everest-ing.

Rather tenuously it could be having a lazy time the day before a major celebration event. Eve-Resting.

In fact the derivation of the word is obviously from the world's highest mountain but relates to a new endurance challenge where cyclists perform multiple ascents of a single hill, any single hill or incline nationally or in their local area to achieve an accumulated elevation equivalent to that of Mount Everest itself.

Ever-seeking new personal bests or standards this newish  pursuit  just follows on from the ultra but casually competitive process started by the wide availability of handlebar mounted or mobile phone global positioning systems. These  allow cyclists to post times for ascents, descents or just old fashioned average speeds everywhere and anywhere and with no apparent shortage of those willing to take on and beat them.

The basic rules for Everesting are
1) You can only use of a single stretch of road
2) It must comprise one single effort with only short breaks
3)No sleeping in between exertions
4) There must be a means to upload and verify the effort using the Strava App.

I say 'newish' in relation to using a bicycle but the roots of Everesting go back to 1994.

The grandson of George Mallory, a British Explorer who tragically disappeared on the mountain in 1924 when attempting to become the first person to reach the summit, completed ten ascents of Mount Donna Buang in Australia to make up the equivalent height in a training exercise.

An Australian, a national trait being competitiveness, caught on with the idea of emulating Mallory Junior's regime and completed the first ride of its type about 18 months ago.

Setting a challenge brings forth foolhardy but enthusiastic individuals and just this month a cyclist from California set a world record in ascending nearly 96,000 feet or more than three times the height of Mount Everest in a continuous 48 hours and utilising 30,000 calories to fuel muscles, tendons and limbs.

UK based riders have taken on well known routes including Horseshoe Pass in Wales, the London Olympic road race route on Box Hill, Surrey and Great Dun Fell, Cumbria to set records.

The Welsh mountain was ascended 26 times with each climb lasting 35 minutes and compensated for with a five minute freewheel back to the start line, in all taking 17 hours.

Box Hill, a wicked winding tree lined route on which I stood with my family to see the Women's Olympic Event in 2012, took up 22 hours to do 72 ascents with 10 minute breaks every hour.

It took 14 rides up the grizzled Cumbrian Fell to complete the challenge, a touching tribute by the participating cyclist whose planned expedition to Nepal had been cancelled following the earthquake. It was used to raise funds for three friends who had unfortunately perished under the huge avalanches which swept away large parts of the lower slopes of the Himalayan Range.

Although I live on a flat, flood plain I do have a nemesis in the form of a steep hill on one of my favourite bike training routes.

It is a bitter sweet experience going up Spout Hill, Brantingham.

Bitter because it is a 1000 foot climb over about one third of a mile and sweet because the ashes of my late father were scattered in the verge about half way up and passing that point serves to sustain and encourage me in not just the effort of the ride but everything in my life.

If I were inclined (!) to take on the challenge of an equivalent top of the world climb then I would have to struggle up Spout Hill at least 94 times.

The saying "Sod that for a game of soldiers " springs to mind at the thought of such a thing.

The attraction of Everesting will no doubt persist as it is a tangible endurance event but yet is well within the capabilities and stamina of a high proportion of regular and enthusiastic riders.

Any hill or slight incline could be used for the operation of the 4 golden rules, either an actual bona fide hill, hump-backed bridge, gentle slope in a residential street or an off ramp to a main road.

I admire anyone who has done such as thing or is contemplating it as some time as long as they are able to cope with the sheer boredom of ploughing up and down the same stretch of road for hour upon hour.

1464 and all that

To mark the first four years of my blog I have reproduced one of the first offerings. Little did I imagine that I would still be writing some 1463 efforts later.

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 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

Time on their Hands

I found this article way down in the listings of the world wide web which seems to imply that scientists have quite a lot of time to ponder about things....hopefully in their own time.

It may hurt your brain to think about it, but it seems that the answer is likely to be yes, or at least the numbers are roughly in the same ballpark.

Astronomers actually set out to answer this question about a decade ago. It's a tricky problem to solve, but it's slightly easier if you throw in a couple of qualifiers — that we're talking about stars in the observable universe; and grains of sand on the entire planet, not just the beaches.

The scientists started by measuring the luminosity density of a section of the universe — this is a measurement of how much light is in that space.They then used this measurement to estimate the number of stars required to create that amount of light. This was quite a mathematical challenge!
"You have to assume that you can have one type of star represent all types of stars," says astronomer Simon Driver, Professor at the International Centre for Radio Astronomy Research in Western Australia and one of the scientists who worked on the question.

"Then let's assume, on average, this is a typical mass star that gives out the typical amount of light, so if I know that a portion of the universe is generating this amount of light, I can now say how many stars that would equate to."

Now equipped with an estimate of the number of stars within a section of the universe, the next challenge was to work out the size of the universe.

Given we know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old, we can assume that we exist in a sphere 13.8 billion light years in volume. But there's a catch: the universe is potentially infinite in size.
"We know that it has a finite age — we know it started 13.8 billion years ago — but spatially, in terms of its extent, it could be infinite," Driver says. However we also know that because of its age, we exist in a bubble within that infiniteness, and that bubble is called the 'observable' universe.
After all these calculations and caveats, Driver and colleagues came up with a figure of seven followed by 22 zeros, or 70 thousand million, million, million stars in the observable universe.

That's 70,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars!

So what about grains of sand on Earth?

"That was almost harder to work out than the number of stars," Driver says.Luckily, someone suggested starting with the Sahara Desert, which is home to around half of all the grains of sand on Earth.

"That made it easier; I then just had to work out how many grains of sand are in the Sahara, and I didn't have to worry about every beach on the planet," Driver recalls. He found the total size of the Sahara, the average depth of sand across the Sahara and from that was able to calculate the approximate number of grains of sand in the Sahara.

"Once I got all that I could put all those numbers together and got a number that was remarkably close to the figure for the number of stars, but just a little bit less," he says. "It was about a factor of 10 smaller, but there's easily a factor of 10 error in both of those estimates so it could just as easily be the other way around."

That's 70,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars versus 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 grains of sand!
So even though it's an impossible question to answer definitively, it seems that the mind-bending possibility of so many stars existing in the universe is actually true.

Moonage Daydream Awakens

The Smithsonian's first online crowdfunding project has ended after raising $US719,779 ($977,100) to restore the spacesuit Neil Armstrong wore when he walked on the moon. Curators say the spacesuit is in fragile state.

A total of 9,477 people contributed to the month-long Kickstarter campaign Reboot the Suit, which surpassed its $US500,000 goal.It was the Smithsonian's first crowdfunding project. The spacesuit will be ready for viewing by 2019.

"It is mind-blowing," said the Smithsonian's director of digital philanthropy, Yoonhyung Lee.
"We did not really expect to both hit our goal so quickly and also to exceed our goal so dramatically. This was a huge triumph for us," she said.

It was the first time the Smithsonian has turned to crowdfunding to help cover the cost of preserving its most valuable artefacts from the ravages of time.The campaign kicked off on July 20, on the 46th anniversary of the historic Apollo 11 lunar landing. Its conclusion coincided with National Aviation Day.

With cash in hand, the Smithsonian is now aiming to have Armstrong's white spacesuit and helmet ready for public viewing by the 50th anniversary in 2019. "The suit is pretty fragile," Lisa Young, the Smithsonian curator tasked with overseeing its three-year restoration project, said."It's reaching about its 50-year lifespan right now. A lot of its materials were made for temporary use – to get to the moon and back."We see the rubber getting a little bit brittle. The interior portions that the public doesn't see are what's really the most fragile."

Layers of polymers were used to create the suit, but back in the 1960s scientists had no clear idea how long they would last, Ms Young explained. "Natural materials tend to last longer," she said.

Although the US government pays for the upkeep and safeguarding of the Smithsonian's network of museums and galleries, exhibitions and restorations depend largely on private donations.

Depending on how much they put in, backers of the Kickstarter appeal got rewards ranging from a NASA space mission patch to a printed 3D copy of Armstrong's space glove.Nine people who each put in the maximum contribution of $US10,000 ($13,500) will be invited to see the moon suit at the Smithsonian's aerospace conservation lab.

Armstrong died in his native Ohio three years ago at the age of 82. The Apollo 11 capsule in which he and two fellow astronauts travelled to the moon endures as a centrepiece of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum along the National Mall in downtown Washington. With an annex alongside Dulles International Airport outside Washington, the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum holds the world's biggest collection of historic aircraft and spacecraft.

Clocking Off

Thanks to our internal rhythms or Body Clock, there's a right time to do everything
They tell us when to get up or when we’re running late for work and whether we are in danger of missing our favourite TV programme.But while our daily routines rely on clocks that tell us the time, science is discovering that our well being is influenced by a very different kind of timepiece.
Circadian rhythms – the human body’s own internal clock – exert a powerful influence on our health and behaviour.
They are programmed from birth and control functions ranging from temperature and blood pressure to hormone levels and sleep patterns.
In recent years researchers have also discovered this built-in mechanism can influence everything from the way we react to prescription drugs to how well we learn music.
The latest example, from experts at Harvard University in the US,  shows that the human body clock can even dictate whether or not we are likely to tell the truth.
Researchers found it was easier for people to fib in the afternoon because as they tired the self?control that would normally prevent them from lying started to break down.
Tiredness made it harder to resist the temptation to tell lies – especially if it meant they got a financial reward at the end.
“The body clock has a truly profound effect on us all,” says Professor Jim Horne from the Sleep Research Centre at Loughborough University.
“Most people tend to feel good around late morning and then slump in the early afternoon. But the time most of us feel at our best is between 6pm and 8pm. That’s because sleepiness tends to build up throughout the day.
"By early evening our body clock kicks in to wake us up. One reason may be to ensure we get home safely. When our ancestors were coming home after hunting all day their internal clocks kicked in to get them home in one piece.”
So what affects do circadian rhythms have and what’s the best time of day to capitalise on them?
7am to 8am: Weigh yourself
If you’re watching your weight it’s best to step on the scales first thing in the morning – before you have had anything to eat or drink.
At this time of day you are more likely to get a true indication of your real weight as the stomach is unlikely to have had any food for around 12 hours.
8am to 9am: Have sex
Couples trying to conceive might be more likely to succeed if they have sex in the morning rather than at night.
That’s because some studies suggest a man’s sperm count is higher first thing in the morning, in line with raised testosterone levels.
It’s not clear why but lack of stress in the morning may be a factor.
9am to 10am: Have a cholesterol test
High cholesterol is a major risk factor for heart disease and getting an accurate reading can be difficult.
Doctors recommend fasting for 12 hours before a blood sample is taken so food in the system is digested.
This helps to produce an accurate reading of both types of cholesterol, the “good” high-density lipoprotein and “bad” low-density type.
The best time to weight yourself is first thing in the morning
Most people tend to feel good around late morning and then slump in the early afternoon. But the time most of us feel at our best is between 6pm and 8pm
10am to noon: Go for a job interview
Trying to impress a prospective employer is never easy but recruitment experts often recommend aiming to get a morning job interview.
Candidates will be at their sharpest, while interviewers are less likely to be tired and will be easier to engage.
Noon to 1pm: Take painkillers
More than one million people in Britain regularly take pills to ease the agony of osteoarthritis and taking them at the right time is crucial.
One Canadian study showed that in 40 per cent of patients the pain was at its worst between 2pm and 8pm.
Doctors therefore recommend taking medication around lunchtime to mid-afternoon to stop the pain before it gets a grip.
1pm to 2pm: Eat a large meal
The body can burn a lot of energy just by digesting food. So if you plan on going to the gym after work the best time to eat is about two or three hours before you start.
By the time you hit the treadmill your body will have finished digesting the last meal and can concentrate instead on pumping blood to your hard-working muscles.
2pm to 3pm: Drink coffee
Most of us have an energy dip after lunch when the body’s metabolism slows right down.
One study even pinpointed 2.16pm as the exact time that the body’s energy levels bottom out.
Drinking caffeine-rich coffee may be all it takes to get us through this slowdown.
3pm to 4pm: Take a nap
It may not go down well with the boss but the best time for a nap is usually mid-afternoon.
That’s because naps taken during this time are less likely to interfere with night-time sleep.
Try not to doze for more than 10 or 15 minutes or else you’ll wake feeling groggy.
4pm to 5pm: Clean the house
Airborne allergens such as pollen and house-dust mites can cause havoc for those with runny noses and asthma.
Dusting shelves and vacuuming throws allergens up into the air and it can take at least an hour for them to settle back at ground level again.
Clean before any allergy-suffering members of the family get home from school or work.

Night time is the best moment to learn music
5pm to 7pm: Exercise
Late afternoon or early evening is the peak time for exercise.
That’s because the lungs are working at maximum efficiency.
Scientists who studied 4,800 patients over five years found their lung function peaked at around 5pm.
The body’s core temperature has also hit its maximum, speeding up the conduction of nerve impulses and making co-ordination and movement easier.
7pm to 8pm: Solve problems
For most adults problems that require open-ended thinking are often best tackled in the evening when they are tired, according to a study in the journal Thinking & Reasoning.
When 428 students were asked to solve problems requiring novel thinking they performed better in the evening when they were tired.
Experts think fatigue may allow the mind to wander more freely to explore alternative solutions.
8pm to 9pm: Enjoy your last cuppa
Caffeine can stay in your system for several hours and disrupt sleeping patterns.
Make sure you have your last tea or coffee by 9pm at the latest so it’s out of your system by bedtime.
And stop eating now too.
Research in the journal Obesity shows eating high-fat foods at night can double weight gain compared with during the day.
The body is less efficient at burning up energy during sleep.
9pm: Learn music
Psychologists at the University of Freiburg in Germany discovered teenagers learn music better in the evening than the afternoon.
A group of 16-year-old girls were asked to perform a finger-tapping task at 3pm or 9pm.
Each one was tested 24 hours later to see how well they performed and again after seven days.
Those who learned the task at night remembered it much better both a day and a week later.
10pm to 11pm: Take your cholesterol pills
More than seven million people in the UK take statins to lower their cholesterol.
And the best time to take them, says the British Heart Foundation, is before bedtime.
That’s because more cholesterol is produced while you sleep.
Some research suggests patients who switch to taking their medicines in the morning, rather than night, can see a significant increase in levels of “bad” LDL cholesterol.
Tick,tock,tick,tock

(Source. Daily Express Newspapers)

The Business Plan of Mr Papadopolous

There is a well known code associated with this particular activity;
1) Never go on a sunday afternoon
2)Children are never supervised
3)Protect your underwear
4)Your detergent matters.

The final part of the code, or in the words of various characters from Pirates of the Caribbean more of a set of guidelines is a bit of a give-away for the whole enterprise.. and yet when was the last time that you had to go to a laundrette, or launderette or laundromat or washateria.

The idea for this type of service was thought up by an entrepreneur  in Texas in 1949 and the sight of a coin operated establishment was once commonplace on the High Streets of the UK peaking at 12,500 outlets either individually owned, in small family run clusters or by large companies.

The first coin operated laundrette to appear in this country was the Central Wash on Queensway, London in May 1949 and still going strong today even though numbers, nationwide have dwindled to around 3000.

The halcyon era for the business of self service washing was in the 1970's and 1980's in response to a number of social and economic factors. Not everyone had a washing machine in their homes and an upsurge in inner city living meant little actual space for such a domestic appliance. Single persons, immigrants and students formed the main users on a regular basis but not ruling out the elderly and well to do classes.

The emergence of the duvet in modern lifestyles has also been seen as a catalyst as the task of washing one or more forms a major, laborious and expensive drain on time and resources. The whole wash and dry cycle takes only an hour in large commercial machines which can take up to 5 times the load of a normal domestic appliance.

Back to the Central Wash.

It has survived against pressures from fuel costs, recession and the ridiculous imposition of VAT on something that you have to do yourself because at its core it is a profitable business.

The figures in available business plans do appear to support the viability of owning and running a laundrette. I have found out that for an initial investment of £25,000 to £45,000 it is possible to purchase a fully automated set of equipment amounting to up to 15 washers and 12 dryers. This can generate without too much trouble a weekly income before tax and outgoings of £2000 or £100,000 a year.

My own recollections of a laundrette are based on my student years.

I went weekly to what must have been the most desolate and depressing coin-op on the face of the earth.

No one spoke, there was no atmosphere but at the same time you dare not turn your back on your chosen machine or even sneak out to the corner shop for a bottle of coke in case someone stole the entire contents. Certainly a far cry from the image of a pop culture Laundrette as depicted by the boxer shorts clad Nick Kamen in the famous Levis advert from 1985.

There has been some resurgence in the Laundrette but on a low key basis with many outlets having been pushed out of the High Street by high rents to occupy side and back street locations. A few have attempted a fusion with coffee shop operations, community hub use and internet or termed Laundernet. Many surviving establishments have attendant staff offering service washes or ironingA Manchester business allows users to watch a movie for the duration of their visit.

There is evidently still some need for this type of service, perhaps an indictment of the way we lead our busy lives today.

Garp

Just a few words of wit and wisdom from the late, great Robin Williams.

'You're only given a little spark of madness, you mustn't lose it'

'If it's the Psychic Network why do they need a phone number?

'Some people say Jesus wasn't Jewish. Of course he was Jewish! Thirty years old, single, lives with his parents, come on. He works in his father's business, his mom thought he was God's gift, he's Jewish. Give it up

'No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world

'Gentiles are people who eat mayonnaise for no reason

'Being a famous print journalist is like being the best-dressed woman on radio

''I'm a born entertainer. When I open the fridge door and the light goes on, I burst into song

When I first met David Beckham, I didn't know whether to shake his hand or lick his face''

Comedy is acting out optimism

'Is it rude to Twitter during sex? To go "omg, omg, wtf, zzz"? Is that rude?'

Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, The Marx Brothers. Comedy is a great art when it works. I’ve never seen anything funnier than Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor, that scene at the dinner table. That alone should get an award if you are just talking about sheer funny but they are always talking about ‘well, is it meaningful?’ Well, sure it’s meaningful if you come out and you had a great laugh'

We're dealing with fundamentalists. The Amish are fundamentalists, but they don't try and hijack a carriage at needlepoint. And, if you're ever in Amish country and you see a man with his hand buried in a horse's ass, that's a mechanic. Remember that'

'People ask why I do children's comedies. I'm happy being a Robert de Niro for nine-year-olds

'Everyone has these two visions when they hold their child for the first time. The first is your child as an adult saying "I want to thank the Nobel Committee for this award". The other is "You want fries with that?"'

'Canada is like a loft apartment over a really great party

'Mickey Mouse to a three-year-old is a six-foot-tall rat!

'The French have a bomb, too. The Michelin Bomb – only destroys restaurants under four stars

'In the midst of all this ranting, you can’t forget that in New York harbour, there is a statue that says, “Give me your tired, your poor…” And that doesn’t mean, “…for two weeks, to do light housework”'

'Oh my god, Jack Nicholson. He once was with me at a benefit and leaned over and said in a very intense voice: "Even oysters have enemies." I responded with "increase your dosage"

Said Adam to Eve, “Back up, I don't know how big this gets”'

'After my heart attack, my heart was all out of rhythm. It sounded like I had Tito Puente from an Afro-Cuban band on the front valve. Then they do an angiogram, which is going through your groin to get to your heart. And who knew that was the way to a man’s heart? I have a cow valve now. It’s wonderful. I can sh-t standing up.

'A woman would never make a nuclear bomb. They would never make a weapon that kills. They’d make a weapon that makes you feel bad for a while'

"If all politicians were women we wouldn't have wars...we'd just have some intense negotiations every 28 days."

The Russians love Brooke Shields because her eyebrows remind them of Leonid Brezhnev'

'Death is nature's way of saying, "Your table is ready"

'In England, if you commit a crime, the police don't have a gun and you don't have a gun. If you commit a crime, the police will say, "Stop, or I'll say stop again"'

Reality is just a crutch for people who can't cope with drugs'

'I called him when I was representing People for the Valdheimers Association. A society devoted to helping raise money to help older Germans who had forgotten everything before 1945. I remember him laughing and going "thank you"'

We've had cloning in the South for years. It's called cousins

Cricket is basically baseball on valium

Ball watching

Teenage years can be a blur but I can clearly recall that I was definitely excited on 25th June 1978.

It marked the culmination of 4 weeks of frantic activity around the Football World Cup.

I had followed the tournament to a level exceeding obsession.

In a small, surplus school note book I kept a meticulous record of every detail of every game. Rather than wait for the match report in the newspaper of the following day I scribbled down the starting line-ups as they were paused on the TV screen prior to a match.

I wrote down the names of the match officials and at the end of the 90 minutes plus any extra time (in the latter stages) I had compiled a very amateurish report.

Football was my thing. I lived, slept and dreamt it.

In such a fan fervour ,aged 14 , I was totally oblivious to the significance of the competition to the host country of Argentina

At that time it was a military dictatorship and a very troubled one.

A coup in 1976 had seen, in the following years, the incarceration, torture and disappearance of thousands of opponents and dissenters to the regime. It was an opportunity for beleagured leaders to showcase the country to a huge global audience through an unmissable propaganda machine and yet those on the street would state that the beautiful game was the overriding factor in the unifying of a people, if only for the four weeks of the tournament.

The home team, Argentina started quite well with wins against Hungary and France and even a defeat to Italy could not prevent progress to the next league stage. The national emotions associated with oppression and fear were gradually lifting with the growing success of the national squad. Players found themselves in the public eye with every aspect of their lives on and off the pitch under scrutiny.

Round two saw  a win against Poland followed by a tense draw with Brazil. In order to be masters of their own destiny and to get to the final in their half of the draw the last stage game against Peru would have to be a win by at least four clear goals.

In the first few minutes of play Peru had two great chances to dent the aspirations of the host nation. Amidst many conspiracy theories, including talk of a massive grain shipment to Lima albeit never proven, the visitors quickly gave up and Argentina stormed ahead to win 6-0.

It was a tremendous acheivement for the team and in the changing room before the final with Holland there was a visit by the ruling General to well wish and milk the occasion.

Daniel Passarella, the Argentina captain was not a great supporter of the regime and in a well publicised snub to the leadership he shook hands having just emerged from the shower, later admitting that only a few moments earlier he had been washing his genitalia.

This lack of respect was recorded in a glaring stare by the General and his entourage.

In a country where such a show of dissent had been regularly met with violence or a straightforward disappearance Passarella felt surprisingly aggrieved at only receiving a Presidential gift of a cigar box whereas his team mates deemed loyal were inundated with presents and favours.

The pre-match pep talk by manager Menotti was very brief and to the point to the extent of "There's the pitch, you are the best, so show it!".

The Dutch were tough opponents and had been wound up by the late arrival by 5 minutes of the home team to allow the 70,000 crowd to be whipped up into a frenzy. A ticker tape storm erupted from the stands as they emerged from the tunnel but the match was delayed further with the Argentinian bench objecting to a prominent plaster cast on the arm of Rene van de Kerkhof.

A compromise was reached with additional soft bandages.

Kempes, the star striker scored first but celebrations were premature with Holland equalising with only 8 minutes left of full time. Extra time looked inevitable although Rensenbrink for Holland saw a potentially winning strike bounce off the foot of the post.

In extra time Kempes and Bertoni scored and the nation celebrated. Players fell to the ground, elated but exhausted offering up a prayer or acknowledging the crowd. In a pitch invasion spectators grubbed up the grass on the pitch or were seen eating it as though part of a glorious feast.

The party continued into the night and over the following days with millions out on the streets. This was a direct contrast to the days before the tournament when congregations of more than 3 persons were prohibited.

Guest Story Teller

I am quite a new but nevertheless enthusiastic fan of the great writer and story teller David Sedaris.
This is taken from, I think a 2010, collection of modern fables and I have reproduced it in its entirety as I have been too a) too busy b) lazy or c) at a barbecue to provide my own original work...........

The Vigilant Rabbit

A white-tailed doe was discovered one morning disembowelled on the banks of the stream, and the residents of the forest went crazy with fear – "freaked out" was how the sparrow put it. A few days later a skunk was found, no more than a gnawed-upon skull attached to a short leash of spine. Personality-wise, he'd been no great shakes. Neither was he particularly good-looking, but still! Then a squirrel disappeared, and it was decided that something had to be done. A meeting was convened in the clearing near the big oak, and the hawk, who often flew great distances in search of food, proposed that they build a gate. "I've seen one where the humans live, and it seems to work fairly well."
"Work how?" asked a muskrat.

The hawk explained that once the gate was erected, anyone entering the forest would have to stop and identify himself. "It keeps out the riffraff," he said, adding that when bad things happened, that was usually who was responsible – riffraff.

For the second time that day, the muskrat raised his hand. "And what if this riffraff can't be stopped?" "Then you sound an alarm," the hawk suggested. "It could be anything, really, just so long as it's loud."

The building of the gate was left to the beaver, who had a slight problem with the hinges, but eventually got them right. Just to the side of them he hung a gong fashioned from an old NO TRESPASSING sign. "I figured I could hit it with my tail," he said, and he gave it a whack for good measure.

When the noise had stopped echoing off the surrounding hills, the rabbit stepped forward. "Who elected you to man the gate?" he asked, adding that anyone could hit a sheet of rusted metal, even someone without an oversize tail. At that he picked up a heavy stick and went at it, creating a racket as loud as the beaver's. "I've also got the better hearing," he boasted. "I'm slimmer, I'm faster, and I'm more safety conscious, vigilant, you might say."All eyes turned to the beaver, who said simply, "Whatever," and waddled back to his lodge.

On the rabbit's first morning as chief of security, he stopped an approaching snake, who looked up at him and laughed until he cried.

"Something funny?" asked the rabbit. The snake used his tail to wipe a tear from his face. "You idiots," he said. "What good is a gate without a wall?"
"What good is a… huh?"

"It doesn't make any sense," continued the snake. "If an animal doesn't want to enter here, what's to stop him from moving down a few dozen yards and crawling in beside the fallen pine?"

"What's to stop him?" asked the rabbit, and he picked up his heavy stick and bashed the snake's head in. Then he kicked some dirt over the body and wrote NO LAUGHING on the NO TRESPASSING sign.

A short while later a magpie stopped by and pecked at the bits of brain left scattered on the ground in front of the gate. "Not to nitpick," he said between mouthfuls, "but what's to prevent someone from entering by air? You and your friends initiate a no-fly zone?"

"What's to keep you from flying in?" asked the rabbit, and once again he brought down his heavy stick. Then he dug up the snake and hung both it and the dead magpie from the top of his gate. There they could act as visual warnings, proof that he was a force to be reckoned with. When that was done, he added to his sign, which now read: NO TRESPASSING. NO LAUGHING. AND NO STUPID QUESTIONS EITHER. THIS MEANS YOU.

It was a hot, windless day, and within an hour blowflies arrived and settled on the faces of the two dead animals. Their buzzing attracted a frog, who jumped over from the nearby stream, flicked out his tongue, and dined upon them until he was full. Only then did he read the sign and turn to address the rabbit. "Seeing as you don't want jokes or questions, I guess I'll phrase this as a comment," he said. "In order to enter through your gate I'll have to stop and go through your tiresome rigmarole. That kind of BS doesn't interest me much, so instead I'm going to return to my stream and swim into your third-rate, beetle-infested forest."

He turned to leave, and the rabbit, who was nothing if not quick, reached for his heavy stick. Then he hung the frog on his gate and added NO CURSING to his NO TRESPASSING sign.

It wasn't long before an otter came along and went for the crushed frog. Then a badger stopped by, attracted by the smell of the dead otter. As the bodies were heaped upon the gate, it began to tilt. The rabbit propped it up with a fallen branch and then turned his attention to the sign. NO DIRTY LOOKS, HE WROTE. NO QUESTIONING MY INTEGRITY. NO INSULTING REMARKS ABOUT MY EARS OR MY TEETH.

He was just wondering how to spell "insolence" when a shadow fell, and he looked up to see a mag-nificent white unicorn. His silky mane curled about his neck in waves the colour of buttercups. Equally brilliant was his horn, which looked to be made of gold. At his approach, the rabbit put down his pencil. "State your name and your business."
"I'm a unicorn," said the unicorn, "and I come to bring joy to all the forest creatures."
"Not with that horn you don't," said the rabbit.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, lose the weapon."
"The horn is what makes me who I am!"
"Which is unwelcome," said the rabbit. "Now do as I say or beat it."
"But happiness follows wherever I go!" the unicorn protested. "I can make a rainbow just by flicking my tail."
The rabbit reached for his stick.

"If you won't let me through the gate, I'll just jump over it," said the unicorn. And because he was taller than the rabbit and much more powerful, he did just that. "Sorry," he said as he headed into the forest, "but you didn't leave me any choice."

"We'll see about that," muttered the rabbit, and he spat on to the blood-soaked ground.

The unicorn spent the late afternoon making rainbows for all the woodland creatures. Then he caused the wildflowers to bloom and conjured up some berries for a hungry box turtle. As the sun set over the treetops, he settled upon a bed of fragrant moss and fell into a deep sleep.
The following morning, the songbirds woke him. The unicorn yawned and was just about to stand when he noticed the pile of golden shavings scattered across the moss. Then he felt his forehead and galloped to the gate piled high with rotting carcasses. "Who chewed off my horn? he wailed.
The rabbit answered calmly that rules were rules. "If I let you trot around with a weapon on your head, I'd have to let everyone do it."

"But it had magic powers!"
"I said, scram," said the rabbit.

The unicorn, just a common everyday horse now, slunk off toward a field of tall grasses. The rabbit watched him go and then turned back to his sign. "Magic powers indeed," he muttered. "I didn't taste anything special."

Again he spat, only this time a diamond came out and landed on the ground beside him. That's what he was staring at when the wolves arrived.

Dora is not the only Explorer

Explorers and exploration were a major interest to me as a young child and even today, aged 52, you may find me reckless enough to switch off the SatNav in the car and just chance it on the highways and byways of East and North Yorkshire.

Early school text books in, I suppose, what could be called the subject of geography and world history depicted the adventures of the great explorers of their time such as Egyptian maritime merchants, Polynesian islanders in balsa wood boats, Scandinavian Vikings more intent on pillage than diplomacy and those discovering the great overland trade routes to China and the Far East.

I still recall, from junior school education the colourful work sheets about Marco Polo, Captain James Cook, Christopher Columbus and Cortez but for the wrong reasons, mainly the violence, havoc, plundering and shameful exploitation jointly or severally meted out on cultures and civilisations in the name of Empire and religion.

The unknowns in terms of navigation, climate, disease and diet were a significant challenge to those setting off on voyages and journeys of discovery.

Contemporaries of Columbus were afraid that he would simply sail off the edge of the world, what with it being completely flat. His quest to find a passage to India was an illustration of what little was known about the physical form of the planet notwithstanding scant information in mapping form. He would, with hindsight, of course have arrived at some point in the Americas on his transatlantic route.

Captain Cook, a Yorkshireman, navigated far into the Pacific covering many thousands of previously uncharted territory and leaving a great wealth of maps and charts that would open up the vast region for trade, colonisation and military benefit.

These, amongst many others, were the pioneers helping successive generations to understand and appreciate the natural beauty of Earth.

Today, we are pretty well mapped out as a planet and in casual moments many of us will use, for example, Google Earth, to undertake a virtual exploration of our home territory and farther afield. There is very little left to discover although this does not inhibit brave individuals or expeditions from attempting to cross the Poles, circumnavigate the world, set new records for endurance in extreme climates or do mad things such as cycle, walk or even pogo-stick their way from point to point often jeopardising life, limb, small digits and reputation.

I feel that I have some of this restless spirit in my veins and nearly everyday I put this to the stern test on my hazardous trip to the local Tesco Express supermarket.

I live in a public park, yes, I know the jokes- third bench on the left by the drinking fountain and dog-toilet.

To clarify, the front of the house overlooks a beautiful greenspace laid out in 1860 by a Benefactor (later bankrupted after his ships, on hire purchase, carrying weapons for the Confederate States were seized and confiscated by the Union). There are two roads in. There are also three main footpath cut throughs which go under alternative terms of ginnel, snicket and three foot amongst others. These will no doubt have been established during the expansion of residential areas fringing the park which, at the time of its founding, will have formed the very northern extremity of the city to allow citizens to access the open space.

I regularly use the narrow open passage, the nearest to my house, to get to and from the park to the aforementioned shop.

Sandwiched between the gable ends of substantial Victorian Villas, with longstanding sub-division into flats, it is, on the sunniest of mornings still dark and menacing. It is just wide enough to allow two adults to pass but involving the difficult decision of both parties whether to do so chest to chest, back to back or an embarassing mix and match of the two main options. All of course, done in silence or at best with a grunt of acceptance.

The western, Park end is shrouded by mature horse chestnuts. The opposite end into a cul de sac of old houses receives little natural light. There is no street lighting and so on a quest for provisions in the winter months the prospect of using the walkway is even more daunting.

These characteristics make the corridor ideally suited to the impulsive dumping of litter mainly within a few moments of purchase from Tesco and more determined discarding of bulkier rubbish for those who cannot be bothered to place items in their wheely bin.

The situation has been bad. On some days I have had to 1) clamber over exploded black bin bags being careful not to get my feet stuck in an empty carton or worse, 2) tip toe through empty beer cans and spirit bottles, 3) dodge dog dirt and 4) even and with some admitted skill, take a swift kick at a compacted baby's nappy in order to clear a path.

My daughter, who against Parents' best advice, uses the route from the bus stop after work reported a particularly bad waste deposit to the CounciL. It took a week for the stinking obstruction to be removed. The delay? Apparently forensic investigation, of sorts, has to find out who did the dumping so that an approach to the offenders can be made and a possible prosecution can be taken. Ironically, this probably involves considerably more cost than just sending a man with a shovel and an old fashioned wheeled dust cart.

Sad as it may seem I took an inventory of the contents of the passage on this very morning, going east to west.

Tesco plastic bag, drawstring carrier bag from well known sports retail outlet (bulging), tin can end, empty wrapper from six crumpets, capless bottle of Vodka, coca cola bottle, Cadbury's Buttons multipack, three tinned fruits, lager can, utility bills, scratchcard, pre-paid gas token, Red Bull can, another knotted to carrier bag (no signs of life), orange peel, can of cider (strong), crisp packets         ( various flavours), ladies underwear (I think!), damaged downpipe from adjacent property, diet coke, lucozade, other end of tin can, European beer, bottle of Pinot (half full although may be urine), Toblerone wrapper, miscellaneous litter fragments, cigarette stubs, foil outer of condom, baby's dummy, bicycle inner tube, pile of cous-cous (possibly previously digested), torn pages from book, 2p coin (left in situ)

It may seem a bit depressing and sordid but in the true spirit of those adventurers, pioneer and explorers who have gone before, I may have discovered the 21st Century!

Could do better

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

The Persecution of The Elm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisp and Dry

There cannot be many foodstuffs which are as eagerly anticipated and satisfying as a bag of potato crisps.

This is a strong opinion that I maintain even now that I am well into my 5th decade. I should perhaps abstain from eating them as much as I do on health and dietary grounds but it is difficult to give up such a tasty and gratifying snack.(Personal Best- 5 packets in succession). I have stopped reading the nutritional information, depressing as it is, and indeed advocate an alternative form of labelling in the form of increasingly smiley faces to indicate the expected levels of pure happiness, well being and contentment.

It is true that a little bit of what you fancy does you good, well unless you are into Russian Roulette or equally and potentially drastic endeavours and activities. My dedication and loyalty as a consumer to the crisp manufacturing sector is in spite of the disappointment and horror that I experienced when younger in a supervised visit and tour around our local potato crisp factory.

As an indication of how long ago this was I can remember that a standard bag of ready salted was two new pence. The packets were, granted, smaller than those currently available. They were also purchased in quite brittle materials and not the high sheen, foil lined for freshness type that we are used to today. There was also quite a limited choice in flavours with the most exotic being confined to salt and vinegar and cheese and onion and not the bewildering range of more recent times.

Most larger towns seemed to have their own crisp manufacturers and with no one concern dominating to the extent of the Mega Corporation that is Walkers and their subsidiaries. The factory I visited was run by Rileys in Scunthorpe. It was a non descript industrial shed on a large commercial estate. As soon as you stepped off the bus there was the unmistakable odour of hot cooking oil. This soon became overwhelming and for many weeks after the smell persisted in my hair and clothing even after many baths, showers and laundry cycles.

The production line was short and noisy. A large covered delivery bay was strewn with soil encrusted potatoes which were tipped from vehicles and unrestrained from rolling about and becoming detached from the main large mound. Stray spuds were rounded up by welly boot and skillfully kicked up onto the pile. A further damp, musty and organic smell seemed to be in competition with the dominant odour. From the unceremonious pile of spuds a group of workers shovelled them up jnto what resembled a large washing machine where they were bumped, ground and swilled to remove the caked on debris of field and farm.

The process also abraded the coarse outer skins to leave the bright white flesh exposed to the elements. The process was accelerated at this stage when any delay would lead to the discolouring of the now raw material.

The next stage was fearful to behold . A mass of whirling and razor sharp blades swiftly and efficiently lacerated the pale nuggets of lumpy potato into thin slivers.A few were manually finished by a team of ladies whom you would do your best to avoid on a dark evening, if they were taking their blades home with them after their shift. This was the money making part with a single spud, of negligible individual value, being made into many hundreds of value added slices to eventually be sold by weight at a significant mark-up and profit margin.

Into the bubbling cauldron of antique, dull and cloudy oil went the sliced discs with an automated quick searing cooking process before being lifted out in true fat fryer style to drain and dry.

The flavouring was perhaps the most disappointing and unremarkable thing to experience. The cooked crisps were segregated into three smaller production lines and more workers with more shovels simply threw on the dry salt and the brightly coloured powdered chemicals that simulated the experience of the required natural taste very effectively.

The manner in which the crisps were handled throughout the process readily explained the regular discovery of various foreign bodies and debris at the bottom of the packet at that last moment when it would be up-ended in order to extricate the last possible fragments from the tight inside corners.

However, by then it was too late to prevent the bits and pieces of non-potato based entities from entering the digestive system

The Real Tea Party

There is a tipping point for everything.

Depending upon which publication holds more sway, erstwhile ones like New Scientist or The Spectator or less so but more entertaining ones like Punch and The Dandy we have either passed or are fast approaching the tipping point for our natural resources of oil, coal, natural gas and sustainable forested fuels. This is a matter of grave concern for our current generation and somewhat more for those that will follow us if we do not pioneer alternative and viable energy sources now.

However, nothing is as serious as my discovery within the last two minutes that we, as a household, have depleted our supply of tea bags to one single, rather sorry and ragged example. The situation has not been entirely unexpected but we have kidded ourselves in more recent weeks that our massive over supply, gifted or stock-piled at Christmas and in the dark early months of the year would last out well into the summer.

For some inexplicable reason we have taken to consuming vast amounts of tea, ordinary tea with milk. This represents a revolutionary trend and I cannot think why. Of course, the serving of a hot beverage is a stalwart of hospitality and politeness. The spike in tea drinking has not however been prompted by sudden influx of visitors and guests. We have just started to drink more. Psychologists discuss......

We have previously championed the more exotic teas such as the washy and tasteless but healthy green version,spicy and hot aftertasting lemon and ginger infusions and flirted with a fruity selection .This being known to the wider family has resulted in the earlier months of the year in a completely full to bursting cupboard of brightly coloured packets of bags, strings attached or not, organic loose blends, some aristocratically named and fancy packaged teas, some mixes that should never have been attempted and a few jokey and rather irreverent versions such as 'Builders Tea'.

My Mother in Law has acted as the supreme guardian of our tea-caddy and has regularly brought in large boxes of Yorkshire Tea, PG Tips and Tesco's own brand and these have been gratefully received but subsequently plundered in a shameful and extravagant manner. We did slip her a cup of Earl Grey in error after the bags got mixed in with the standard tea. Her reaction was grounded on a love of real tea and short of spitting it out she was most disgruntled with the fragranced cuppa put before her. It was not, she insisted, what should be served under the name of a tea.

In response to the domestic emergency of reaching our last tea bag I have had to revert to drastic measures. At the very back of the cupboard, only reachable by standing on a kitchen chair, I discovered a small rectangular box of loose breakfast tea. It was necessary for me to read the instructions for use because I had gone soft and of addled mind by having been used to just throwing a perforated tea bag in the pot and placing all my faith and trust in the manufacturers for a tolerable strength, colour and reviving experience.

One heaped teaspoon per cup did not seem enough but I followed the recommended amount and the ritualistic practices of warming the pot, allowing 3 to 4 minutes for mashing and then pouring carefully in the absence of a strainer. On reflection it was the best cuppa of the day, the week, the month and possibly the whole year to date. As I downed the last dregs from the mug I came across the residue of the loose leafed tea and remembered why tea bags had come to dominate the market. They are just less messy and so much more convenient.

That last tea bag will be cherished for its qualities, however grubby and stained it may appear....well until the next tea break at about 9.45pm. We may, as a family,  have to fight over it but in a harsh, selfish world that is to be expected. Now, what can we expect when the oil does run out?

Mobile Bones

I am fascinated by fossils and always have been.

You will find me on most country or beach walks, with the family, poking about on the surface with a boot-end looking for that irregular bit of rock fragment that promises a startling find.....but mostly not.

I have a big collection of one of the most common fossils, the devils toe nail. It is for its ordinariness still distinctive being smooth curled and in varying sizes.

My best find?

A large fossilised shell embedded in clay that I simply dug out of a railway cutting.

I can therefore well imagine the excitement of a Paleontologist in August 1990 who found, in the hills of South Dakota, the most complete fossilised skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex ever to be offered up from the soil.

It was a discovery of great scientific significance and yet it set off a chain of events that involved legal wrangles, the involvement of the FBI, confiscation and even a custodial sentence for the Principal of the excavation team.

The Black Hills Institute, headed up by a Peter Larson was a commercial company whose main activity was sourcing fossils on private land by negotiation with owners and then selling them to museums or private collectors.

This form of business was condemned by the scientific world as being damaging to precious natural artefacts with Larson regularly having to defend the ethics and practices of his organisation.

The first indications of the magnitude of the discovery were quite modest with just  two vertebrae bone fragments scattered at the base of a cliff obviously having been ejected following erosion and weathering of the rocky soils. The bones were larger than average and a honeycomb lattice could only be from the largest of dinosaurs. The terrain was rough and unstable on the cliff running down to a grassy plain at its base.

Upon closer scrutiny 3 more vertebrae were found and on a wider radius there were many more interesting pieces. Larson and the Paleontologist, Sue Hendrickson immediately established a camp at the site and over the next 17 days on a thirty foot radius found the almost complete skeletal remains of a female T-Rex.

A larger team worked entirely by hand to reveal the 66 million year old remains. Once released from the support provided by the soil there was a real risk of the bones disintegrating and a special process to apply a consolidant substance was necessary.

Under the agreement with the Native American landowner a finders fee of $5000 dollars was paid. He was happy with the deal.

The commercial prospects for the find were potentially huge in not only monetary terms but also for the prestige and visitor pull for the host museum, in this case the Hill City Museum in South Dakota.

To get the skeleton into preserved and presentable condition took around 25,000 hours of work which Black Hills Institute cited as a particularly important aspect of a commercially funded company and something not readily available to State Departments.

Further research at the site revealed the fossilised remains of two other T-Rex apparently killed at the same time and possibly in a fight with others over territory or food.

Soon after the opening of the exhibit to the public there began a legal battle over disputed ownership.

The Native American beneficiary of the $5000 changed his mind. The land he occupied was in Government Trustee hands and they too began to sue for possession.

In 1992 Peter Larson was accused by the FBI of hiding the dinosaur inspite of thousands of visitors having seen the restoration project under way. He was later imprisoned for 2 years on unrelated dinosaur charges. The T Rex was confiscated and returned to the original landowner.

The residents of Hill City objected strongly with marches and demonstrations but to no avail. At auction a record price of $8.6 million was paid by The Field Museum in Chicago and a new permanent home was secured.

Larson remains unapologetic about the commercial activities of his organisation and indeed feels that the realised monies only served to validate the good job done at all stages by his team to save such a significant discovery. He is also encouraged by the level of interest in all things fossilised but of course that is what his business plan depends on.

                     Sue, the T Rex in Chicago. Named after her discoverer, Sue Hendrickson

EPO

Scoffing a packet of four flaky buttery cases crammed with currants made me feel guilty but it was an absolute necessity to top up my depleted energy levels to get through another 3 to 4 hours of cycling.

My son was ripping open a collection of iced buns which had travelled a few miles stuffed up my lycra top but were still appetising for all that.

Sitting on a slatted bench with a hedge impeded view of the River Foss the squashed fly cake did taste wonderful. I could sense the dissipation of the sugars and vitamins directly into my muscles and tendons. I was conscious, of course, of the controversy and scandal in the ranks of professional cyclists where the same effect was artificially induced by blood doping and other cheating practices.

My own method to enhance my performance, albeit from a very low level could be termed EPO, or rather Eccles-Cake Pastry Overdose. The situation was a bit dire, or as much as it could be with two cyclists in York at 1pm on a saturday hoping to get back to Hull before complete exhaustion and cramps set in.

A few family groups rode past on a selection of bikes, usually dad well ahead on a flash mountain bike, two to three children on machines of descending size cavorting all over the place and mother bringing up the rear like an anxious shepherd with a wayward flock.

We packed up our empty wrappers and took a final gulp from water bottles before heaving stiff limbs over crossbars, clipping shoes on pedals and heading south along the riverside path.

Revitalised, within a couple of miles, we soon caught all of those who had witnessed our picnic feast, breezing past with style and a good amount of pace which must have impressed.

The route from York to Selby is one that we have ridden half a dozen times in the last couple of years. It is the old railway course, tarmac surfaced and thanks to good civil engineering almost flat and straight for its 12 miles.

There are some encroachments by modern housing with one diversion through a cul de sac of identical executive dwellings but otherwise the route is entirely traffic free. We cross the Foss again over a gaunt gun-metal coloured bridge just by a large Marina of pleasure cruisers. An old railway station is now a cafe with tables out in the sun where we pass the last of the family groups who are studying the hand written menu.

The corridor formed by the screen of trees gives a pleasant cooling shade which makes a welcome change on an otherwise baking hot day.

At Selby we expect to pick up a tailwind as we turn for the eastward stretch of the ride but the direction has shifted to hit us on our right shoulder being no help at all.

The old A63 trunk road to Howden is disgracefully potholed and just downright featureless and boring with the exception of another bridge crossing of the Derwent River.

The eight miles seems like twenty and we are relieved to see the tower of Howden Minster just on the skyline.

The Co-Operative gives an opportunity to buy sausage rolls, more coca cola and I splash out on a single banana.

I had discussed earlier on the ride, with my son that if he felt strong with 25 miles to go he should ride on ahead of me. I kept him in sight for about 5 miles before that invisible elastic cord snapped and he was off.

On my own I was able to dictate a more comfortable cadence but my own energy levels had returned and I was able to make reasonable speed albeit with poor style. The terrain out of the Vale of York was flat but I was not looking forward to one last big climb to get over the Wolds on the western side of Hull. It did hurt and I will leave it at that.

I reached home fourteen minutes after my son. It doesn't sound much but is the equivalent of about 5 miles in distance. I was happy to complete the ride but if I had been participating in a race I would certainly have been eliminated on a time penalty basis. That EPO is not all it is made out to be. I will ride clean from now on.

Eccles Cakes and Bike Oil

Yesterday was one of those lost days.

I should qualify that statement.

I did not stay in my pyjamas all day and binge out on chipsticks whilst watching Star Wars in its entirety. I remained sober and free from noxious and hallucinatory substances. I did not decide to just stay in bed and doze in and out of the backdrop of neighbourhood noises.

It was in fact better than all of the foregoing.

A lost day is one of those perfect days when time flies because I am out on my bike with my son.

We were keen to put in a few miles after an enforced lay-off with cold and sniffles and set out in humid, balmy weather with our sights set on a long circulatory route from Hull taking in some of the East Yorkshire Wolds, up to Stamford Bridge, across to York, down to Selby and then expecting a tail wind assisted easterly leg back to our starting point. All in, between 90 and that elusive 100 miles.

The first few miles are always a time for tight muscles and respiratory organs to settle in and makes for a bit of a painful and rather humbling experience. It is often a physical barrier to just get through but gives an opportunity if half hearted or feeble to make excuses to give up.

Hull is on a wide, flat flood plain and so any venturing beyond the 10 mile radius of the city westwards involves some knee-grinding ascents-nothing too dramatic but enough of a gradient to invoke heavy breathing and perspiration, more so in my 52 year old body than that of my fitter 20 year old son.

It takes 11 miles of pressing down on the pedals to get to a nice downhill, a sweeping road down to North Newbald. The tarmac shimmers in the midday heat giving an almost three dimensional effect to the chalk graffitti of "Go Wiggo" and "Ride Faster" from the recent Tour of Yorkshire.

The main road, including part of a Roman one, is busy on a saturday morning and we bounce along the roughest parts just out from the verge, dodging potholes and bits of discarded lorry tyre tread. There is also a surprising and disturbing amount of roadkill to avoid without moving into the path of fast moving vehicles approaching from behind. The small stuff, hedgehogs and birds are pretty well flattened from traffic and seamless to ride over. It is best to swerve around the raised, fresh carcass of a fox or, sadly in the villages, a much loved domestic cat.

Through Market Weighton we are again into open countryside and now running at a ninety degree bias to the day trippers heading for the coast making for less stressful cycling altogether.

Some low gear inducing sharp ups are compensated for by freewheeling downs into small hamlets. The gals on horses have been out and about based on the amount of manure on the carriageway, yet more debris to avoid.

Pocklington is a short rest stop for home made flapjack and a slug of coca-cola, always a fillip for depleted body sugar levels. The next 8 miles are fast, even with an annoying cross -wind, on good roads for a change and we soon get to Stamford Bridge. It is a crossing point for the River Derwent with a narrow, single passage stone bridge which is ridiculously inadequate for the volume of traffic for a main transport artery. Consequently the tailbacks are tremendous and we have to wait for what seems five minutes to negotiate the bottleneck.

Last time we rode the next leg into York was closely following the professional peleton of the aforementioned Tour of Yorkshire. Enthused with seeing the race at close quarters and being cheered by the roadside crowds mistaking us for stragglers we fair ripped along but how different in normal circumstances. Then, the road seemed to be flat . In reality now, it was slightly uphill and that pesky breeze took its toll.

Retreating seasiders were reluctant or nervous to pass us and so we accumulated a lengthy following, in effect mimicking that outdated bridge but in the opposite direction.

York was as usual teeming with visitors so we tried a long looping alternative route through the leafy University grounds. It was very cycle friendly with designated lanes and calming measures leading eventually to the east bank of the River Foss and a sensible bridge, the arched stainless steel Millenium albeit only for pedestrians.

A wooden bench with an inscribed brass plate "Memories" was actually quite comfortable after 3 hours on a racing bike saddle and we scoffed Eccles Cakes and some iced buns sourced from a petrol station ,washed down with luke warm water from our frame mounted plastic bottles.

This would prepare us for the next three to four hours, hopefully at least. (to be continued)