Some ol' comfloption (Cornish Tales 4)

Cornwall in the far south west of England is a Celtic (pronounced Kelltick) land closely allied in language to Welsh and Breton (North West France) and with some relation, albeit more distant to Scots and Irish Gaelic and Manx.

The chance to hear or overhear the distinctive Cornish language became increasingly rare under pressure from ubiquitous English as well as population changes, notwithstanding a significant influx of outsiders to the the County for retirement, second home ownership or holidaying and in 2002 The Council of Europe gave official recognition as a minority language.

There has been a more recent resurgence of those learning and using Cornish and it is pleasing to hear that today the language is one of the fastest growing in the world undoubtedly helped by its inclusion in the curriculum of more and more schools.

Businesses have also contributed to the return of Cornish with its use in branding and product naming particularly where goods and services are of local origin.

Bilingual signage is also to be seen on street names and public houses.

Here is just a taste of the depth and richness of the language and its significance in reinforcing the heritage and culture of this part of the UK.


Clemmed, or steeved with the cold. ‘Frozen’, very cold.
Where ‘ee goin'-to, en? Where are you going? Rude reply: Up Mike’s.
Thee’rt a g'eat bussa. You’re a fool, or stupid. A bussa was a large earthenware jug used for fetching waster from the well or pump.
‘E’s some ‘arden! Disobedient, stubborn.
Greener’n kewny. Greener than oxidised copper.
‘E’s some turk! Naughty, mischievous, disobedient.
I’ll smack th’ol’ chacks o’ thee! I’ll smack your face.
‘E’s some cute! Said of a person or child: very smart, (acute).
Deeper’n Dolcoath. A cunning or unfathomable adult.
Awright art’e? Are you o.k.?
Some ol’ comfloption! A big fuss or event
Eff theess cussn’t schemey, theess mus’ louster. If you can’t plan, or aren’t smart, you’ll have to labour.
Scat to riddicks, or lerrups! Broken up, dismantled, destroyed.
Gone scat. Bankrupt.
Lowss to ‘n! Hit it (hard)!
Glazin’ like a chad! Staring like a chad, or shad; a kind of fish.
Black as a tinker! Dirty (from working).
Tough as old ‘emp. Said of someone resistant to hardship and hard work.
Grey as a badger. Of hair.
Too slaw catch cold! Describes a slow doer.
My ‘ands are some clibby. Very damp or clammy.
Took t’ Bodmin. Taken to Bodmin jail.
Put t’ Bodmin. Put into the Asylum at Bodmin
Feet like pasties. Big feet.
“E’d like a job wheelin’ away smoke en a wire-nettin’ wheelbarra. A lazy man.
I’d as soon not go as stay ‘ome! Reluctant to go somewhere.
Rainin’ like a tide. Heavy rain.
‘E edn much cop. Said of a person of poor character.
Thee’rt some teasy! You’re very bad-tempered.
Deaf as a’ adder. Very deaf.
Where’ee goin’ to? Evasive reply: Tolskitty ‘arbour.
Pisky layd’n. Led by piskies; said jokingly of absent-minded behaviour.
Flam new Brand new. (cf. Fr. flambant neuf.)
Horse-adder. A dragonfly
Geek. Le’ss ‘ave a geek. Let’s see!
Jailin’ along Hard walking, hurrying.
Fat as a pudd’n Derogatory.
Screech like a whitnick To scream like a whiteneck. (Unknown animal or bird).
Like Darby and Joan Said of an admirable married couple.
Tatty ‘eel A large hole in the heel of a sock.
Poor as church mice. Self-explanatory.
Emmett. An ant. In those day, "upcountry" folk were "furriners".
Nuddick Head. Mind your nuddick! Be careful of your head.
In Barncoose. She/he’s in the local workhouse just outside Redruth.
Pushy. Very forward or demanding.
Put in with the bread, took out with the buns. One brick short of a full load.
Pitygree. So-and-so with ‘er ol’ pitygree; woes, complaints. (Cf. Fr. Petits griefs)
‘ot as a kill. Hot as a kiln. (Old pronunciation)
Clunky. To swallow.
Clidgy. A boiled sugar sweetmeat.
‘obby stankers. Hob-nailed boots.
Choo-choo. Child’s name for steam locomotive.
Piss-a-bed. Dandelion. (Cf. Fr. Pissenlit.)
Pally’ass, A thin type of mattress. (Fr. Paillasse.)
Timber ‘ill. Goin’ up timber ‘ill. Upstairs to bed.
Gookoo (like cuckoo). A bluebell.
Thee’rt a great gookoo! Said jokingly, ‘You’re a big fool!’
Dearer’n saffern. Very expensive.
Grammersow. Wood louse.
Daddy-long-legs. Harvestman.
Jin Jorn. Snail.
Scads. A great deal. Scads o’ money.
Slathered. Slathered in mud. Lagged, covered.
Aiglet. A haw. (Hawthorn berry.)
Planchion. An open ceiling revealing the beams and upstairs flooring.
Talfat. A loft. Often a platform covering part of the space under a pitched roof.

Pasty Complexion (Cornish Tales 3)

The Pasty;

It is so much more than a baked savoury offering.

It is a legend, wrapped up in an enigma and encased in shortcrust, rough puff or puff pastry.

It takes a trip to the county of Cornwall to appreciate what really is a proper and authentic pasty as there are many that profess to that title.

Since 2011, however, under Protected Geographical Indication (PGI) the pale imitations have had to surrender their false identity with the product and the Cornish Pasty reigns supreme.

So what is in the genuine article?

This is dictated by the Cornish Pasty Association whose mandatory filling ingredients are stated as
a) sliced or diced potato
b)swede,
c)onion,
d)diced or minced beef
e)seasoning to taste, primarily salt and pepper.

It is stipulated that no meat other than beef can be used and the same goes for the list of vegetables. Confusion can abound where ,for example, the indigenous Cornish folk sometimes call a swede a turnip  and arguments and controversy can occur with the use of carrot which although regularly used is often frowned upon.

The legitimate  ingredients furthermore must not be less than 12% and 25% respectively and must be uncooked at the time of their sealing up in the pastry.

As for the casing this must be fairly durable being required to hold in the filling and its shape and not split or crack.The designated PGI also rules that a Cornish Pasty must be in a "D" shape with crimping along the curve termed side crimped although within the borders of the County some advocate a top crimp as being more authentic.

The legend held by many, even those who have been corrupted by a Greggs Pasty, is that a part savoury and part sweet version was a favourite of those working away underground in the coal and tin mines thereby providing a compact,portable and nourishing meal and at low cost. The crimped edge was used as a handle to digest more easily although this was in itself hazardous due to the high levels of arsenic in the tin mines which could be ingested unwittingly.

A myth often referred to is that a well baked pasty should be able to withstand a drop down a pit shaft.

No " two course pasties" are produced commercially in Cornwall although the UK National Supermarket, Morrisons has at one time sold what they called "The Miner Pasty".

That is not to say that variations do thrive and the Annual Pasty Championships does have categories for exotic and weird combinations which are hard fought over by enthusiastic and skilled amateur cooks.

The pasty has survived through time even with changes in eating habits, fads and trends and socio-democratic pressures and indeed thrives as a popular snack and as a main course.

There is also a wealth of history to confirm the significance of the pasty in the culinary heritage of Cornwall. The first references are from the 13th Century before becoming a staple of the diet of the impoverished who often could even not afford any meat for the filling.

By the early 20th century the Cornish Pasty was produced on a large scale to meet the demands of a wider working population.

My trip to Cornwall last week just had to include the purchase of a proper Pasty. There was a great choice from, in Padstow, local bakers as well as large and rather bland retail chains.

As for the best pasty in the world, well, that is easy. It's the one you hold in both hands and feast on when you are really hungry.

Humps and Bumps (Cornish Tales 2)

Alright, alright, here is a very tenuous link to introduce the subject of today's blog, a bit of a milestone being my 1500th since I started in August 2011.(allowing for selected repeats)

A camel with one hump is called a Dromedary, the breed with two is a Bactrian so what do you call a camel with three humps......why, Humphrey of course. The oldies are still the best!

On the subject of Camels the latter part of our holiday week in Cornwall in the South West of England was a rude introduction to the inhospitable cycling terrain of that county. A ray of hope for a relatively horizontal cycle route was The Camel Trail, which in its out and back format provides a 40 mile ride from Padstow inland via Wadebridge and Bodmin to Wenford Bridge.

The naming of the trail, on the course of two long since discontinued railway lines, is not as exotic or animalistic as first suggested. There is no history of the use of the ships of the desert to carry sand, stone or tin nor any enterprising venture to offer trekking on the rather unique creatures but rather Camel refers to the river which provides the fishing port of Padstow with its outlet to the might Atlantic.

The Trail hugs very closely the course of the river from its wide sandbank estuary for some 18 miles by which time it takes the form of a shallow and tranquil stream with lazy blackwater pools interspersed with faster flowing occasional white water activity.

In some places the track, either hard surfaced or loose cinder or gravelled takes on the role of the flood bank or is steeply elevated with thickly wooded slopes in ancient oak or non descript pines in a carpet of ferns and vegetation.

The railway line origins ensure a very gentle and almost non-existent gradient although try telling that to fatiqued legs and saddle sore bums after nearly four hours of constant low gear pedalling.

The start from a surface car park in Padstow on the quayside just near the Lobster Hatchery was busy. Half of those alighting from vehicles headed towards the Harbour and niche shops with the remainder mounting their own bikes or those sourced from a number of hire shops and taking the signposted route to the opening to the Camel Trail.

It appears that, like to us, the attraction of a flat ride in Cornwall is very popular and some 400,000 pass every year along at least one section of the route generating around £10 million pounds to the local economy.

Leaving the bustling port town the route runs over a box girder metal bridge intended to carry freight locomotives at the inception of the North Cornwall Railway Line from 1834. A minimum of maintenance ensures safe passage for those light of foot and on two wheels but with an ominous warning of weakness.

There are two small stagnant creeks at low tide on the inside of the raised embankment and  rather unstable looking stacks of slates and debris from a long abandoned quarry site.

The trail on its initial five miles is of good surface and encouraging for not only pedestrians and cyclists but also dog walkers, roller skaters, skate boarders and joggers.

The Padstow to Wadebridge stretch is by far the most frequented and is quite manageable for a couple of hours of casual but physical activity.

Wadebridge, which went under the uncomfortably damp name of Wade until construction of a stone bridge is a picturesque town on the basis of our short traverse to pick up the Trail on the far side of the main built up area.

Flood water covered meadows dotted with grazing cattle mark the end of the good surface reverting to the loose stuff which throws up dirt and gravel giving a speckled hue to our clothing and exposed skin.

The old station platforms are just visible under thick wild foliage with quaint descriptive signage including Shooting Range, Grogley Halt, Nanstallion Halt and Boscarne Junction. The latter is still an active station on the seasonal Bodmin and Wenford steam railway and we could hear the distinctive whistle and rattle from the rolling stock from some distance.

The route is quite busy by mid morning with slow moving and meandering bike groups and we cruise past nervously as any gap either side constricts with lack of concentration or panic at the fast approaching sound of our crunchy tyres.

There are a few stopping off points along the way to appreciate the scenery as well as a cafe, vineyard and even a bike mounted coffee and sandwich vendor.

We miss the sharp left branch to Wenford Bridge and find ourselves outside the imposing Bodmin Jail before realising our error of navigation costing an extra 4 miles. Backtracking brings us to a dark tree formed tunnel through the upper Camel Valley and this continues for a further 5 miles. The river bubbles along never more than a few metres away.

A few light headed moments indicate that bonking stage of a strenuous ride but we are only carrying water. There is the promise of an eco cafe some 5 miles farther on and we persevere over what seems more like twice the actual distance. A pot of coffee and thick slab of carrot cake at a sunlit picnic table in a disused rail marshalling yard momentarily allows us to put aside the thought that we are only at the half way point of the journey.

There must be a named physical law that dictates that a return cycle seems shorter and faster.

Perhaps caffeine and sugar rich treats act as a catalyst but the law was proven correct and we were soon back in Wadebridge.

It looked different in a sudden stormy squall. The rain had evidently been persistent for some time but the shelter of the wooded canopy had hidden its ferocity.

Typically English summer weather prevailed and within  a few minutes of the eye of the storm passing it was again baking sunshine and calm. We simultaneously sweated and steamed in our hastily adorned rainwear whilst passing tourists in shorts and T shirts. The other cyclists were bright and clean whereas we were mud splattered and bedraggled in the extreme as we returned to the Padstow car park.

That is always the sign of a good day out.

Onwards, upwards and more upwards (Cornish Tales 1)

Cornwall, which forms a sort of toe in the Atlantic Ocean for the British Isles, is not really a cycling friendly area.

I found this out during the past week whilst on a late-ish summer holiday with the family.

The base for our vacation was just outside the coastal village of Tintagel, best known for the castle ruins on the a rocky promontory of the headland reputed to have been the birthplace of the mythical King Arthur. Many will know of the legends surrounding the persona of Arthur from his extraction of the sword from the stone to his collaboration with the wizard Merlin, creation of the Round Table of Knights and the inseperable association with the pursuit of the Holy Grail.

The English Heritage information boards at the foot of the steep walkway and aerial bridge leading to the cliff hugging steps, to their credit, do themselves cast doubt on whether Arthur indeed visited the location let alone citing it as his early years home.

The physical attributes of the local granite geology especially when arranged in vertical cliff-crags make for an impregnable stronghold and the ripples of the ancient landforms spread inland for many miles.

This makes for very dramatic scenery and our rental cottage had a magnificent aspect over the deep valley leading to the cove at Trebarwith Strand and with the outcrop of Gull Rock in view just offshore amongst the white capped choppy Atlantic breakers .

Pretty indeed and we appreciated it coming from a flat flood plain area.

In terms of suitability for cycling it represented a bit of a nightmare even allowing for a wide range of gears on a mountain bike.

On most road journeys with bikes mounted on the car roof there are always many other similar set-ups to be seen coming and going. Cycling has gone through a major upsurge in popularity since the London Olympics when the two-wheeled sportsmen and women cornered a good percentage of the Great Britain medal haul. This renewed interest has been no more evident than through a tally of the number of roof racks, in active use or not. On entering Cornwall, through Somerset and Devon the nearest neighbours, there seemed to be a rapid dropping off in the sighting of bike activity using the aforementioned straw poll method.

The first obstacle encountered was not technically whilst riding but actually in the unloading of the bikes and putting them into the recreation room at the cottage. Being built out of a steep slope the hobby room was in effect occupying a lower ground floor position. It was awkward wheeling the bikes down cerrated concrete paths to the side of the cottage and below the level of the conservatory. Frequent use of the brakes was essential to prevent losing control and to avoid a perilous drop over the retaining walls of the terraced, landscaped garden (A quite attractive feature).

It took a couple of days to summon up enough motivation to tackle the imposing terrain , well,not really but there were a lot of things to do in holiday mode of a far less strenuous nature. I suppose I could partly blame it on some unpredictable weather although to be expected for late September.

The inaugural ride from the cottage started with a short, sharp uphill section.

This was on a very busy road, albeit of "B" designation but to be avoided because of the traffic but also hazards including unannounced narrow squeezes between sticky-out houses and walls which created havoc with the road users, in particular, a high proportion of tourists, many from overseas in subtley branded rental cars. I was accosted by American or Canadian visitors seeking directions for their accommodation but being a stranger myself I was, to them, frustratingly useless.

The side roads were nothing more than lanes and were obviously ancient being set down well into the flanking fields and ground giving the impression of being sunken. At the base of the thin lanes were not the roots of hedges but yet more surface rocks of startling irregularity. Mud and debris on the tarmac or forming a central reservation indicated a dominant use by agricultural machinery and a cause for increased concentration in picking out a route to ride.

Groups of cottages and farmsteads had very Cornish names and, within a handful of miles, we rode through Trewarmett, Trenale, Trethevy, Trevalga, Treknow and Trebarwith which sounds quite a procession of settlements but must have been made up of no more than 30 or so properties in all.

The first couple of miles after the initial uphill struggle were, admittedly either level, false flats or downhill -the latter including a hair raising plummet of at least 25% gradient. On the return leg using the same route I had to dismount and push my bike up the same slope which was disappointing.

In between we had been enticed to seek out a local landmark waterfall which involved off-roading along the floor of the valley over potholed and flooded sections but a welcome change nevertheless. A rather cynical ruse to bamboozle tourists was to locate a notice board some 2 miles upstream announcing a charge of £4.75 per person for the privilege of seeing the natural feature.

We turned back at that point.

Fatigue was setting in from the exertion of climbing and yet more climbing and this led to a rash decision to take a short cut across meadows towards Tintagel itself. In a county famous for dairy products such as ice cream and clotted cream any lush meadow was bound to be occupied by cows. We were deterred, being city dwellers, by the sight of a long, orderly line of cattle making their way across our pathway towards the milking parlour. To avoid the animals we took an alternative, well worn trail but this ended abruptly at the edge of the towering cliffs just to the north of the Atlantic View Hotel.

There was no option but to backtrack and wait for the dairy herd to negotiate the gateway towards the farm. The meadow was tough going with thick grass, boggy channels and the unpleasant splattering effect of cow pats as they were thrown out from under the chunky mountain bike tyres.

The main street through Tintagel was a chance to pose a bit although our mud spattered (and worse) faces and attire must have been both amusing and disconcerting to bystanders.

Another submerged lane ascended towards our cottage but we shot past, gleefully, down the hill to take a right turn to plunge down to the aforementioned Trebarwith Strand beach and cove.

The day before it had been crowded and the craft, surf and snack shops had been doing a brisk business but typically, when in need of food and drink they were all firmly shuttered with no sign of life.

The ride back highlighted my lack of recent form and fitness but I did manage to stay in the saddle right up to the front door of our residence for the week.

As I said, Cornwall or at least where we were is not really a cycling friendly place.

I remained, however, open minded having been won over by the beautiful scenery and surroundings.It would be a case of just searching for another flatter route................if such a thing existed at all.

Breaking and Entertaining

It is always interesting staying in the houses of other people.

This is not through shamelessly inviting myself to stay but usually through taking a week or two's rental of a cottage or residence for annual vacation. As a family we have had a wide range of accommodation. The criteria for that often make or break choice for holiday success or otherwise is broad.

The intended destination is a given, be it coast, country, commutabity to a city or just the wide expanses of nothingness. Critically is the suitability of the place to take the family unit. When our 3 children were little, there being only 5 years range in ages, there was no problem in opting for just the two bedrooms and a folding cot.

As they got older and larger in proportion we required four bedrooms. In the categories of holiday lets this tended to push us into the higher price brackets as by definition a 4 bed house sleeps up to 8 persons. In that perpetual conflict of parents versus pedantic local education departments our window of opportunity to book was restricted to the school holidays. We did try to extol to those with the power to grant in term dispensations the educational values of a cultural trip to other parts of the UK or wider afield but it turns out that sun worshipping, sampling local foods and visiting wineries does not fit the typical curriculum.

 I have always found that a bit short sighted especially if we are seeking to produce well rounded and informed future citizens.

We have stayed for our allotted week or fortnight in some fantastic holiday houses but also a few shockers.

In the former I would certainly place the Scottish shooting lodge and in the latter the Scottish estate workers cottage. Such diversity and social history between those two. The posh lodge had formed the sweetener in the deal for a Canadian Open Cast Mining Company to acquire a granite mountain which they subsequently and to this day whittle away at in a huge operation including a jetty in the Sea Loch to take huge ore freighters. What better way to avoid opposition from locals and neighbours than by buying them out

 There was good business to be had on the large landed estate with shooting parties in the season and tourists for the remainder of the year. The population of wild deer were obviously aware of the dates on the calendar as they strutted around on the front lawn in full view with no fear of being shot. As well as a beautiful uninterrupted view across the loch the towering ramparts of an iconic Clan Stronghold , inland views to tree clad mountains and purple heather moors the kitchen was top of the range and as for the Maytag semi industrial tumble dryer. Well, we almost felt like those perpetual, scrounging house guests at Downton Abbey . We did act out the role and even had a go at croquet on the front lawn.

We were most reluctant and very sad to vacate after our week but were somewhat comforted by the prospect of a follow on week in another part of Scotland

.There was some similarity at the workers cottage in terms of the local wildlife.

 A plaque of mice ran riot throughout our stay interspersed with the ominous sounds of a baited trap in action in the wee small hours.

We learnt , the hard way, that in taking a holiday let the price is usually the strongest indicator of quality.

Family History Part 7

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 7- The Thomson Family Cook Book

This is a much loved gift presented to us parents at Christmas 2010 by our three offspring.

It is a light brown, loosely bound scrap-book in recycled card lovingly crafted by creative minds and borne out of an idea discussed in a cafe out of a challenge to make a truly unique seasonal gift and lasting record of the food and drink that typifies our family.

Some 5 weeks in its planning the final touches were not put into the grainy pages until well into the night before Christmas.

The document lists 21 entries but remains a fluid thing with space in the latter empty pages to add further culinary creations.

The menu ranges from "tea for mum, coffee for dad", through to store cupboard favourites of popcorn, pancakes and chicken pesto and of course the treat of a "picky-dish" where just about anything edible can go on the plate but equally balanced with some fruit,or veg such as a chopped apple or sliver of celery.

Each dish has a special significance in the life of our family and an association with a specific meal, a particular day in the week or season in the year or just as comfort food when moods, crises and other factors intervene to disrupt the smooth and efficient running of the family unit.

Take sardines on toast for example. A most welcome offering after a busy working day or saturday shop and especially if eaten in front of the television with an old black and white movie showing.

A leisurely sunday start is the cue for a family fry-up with fried egg, fried bread, bacon rashers, mushrooms, tomatoes and sausages just brought back from the Farmer's Market with a still-warm wholemeal or olive bread loaf. Optional extras included hash browns, black and white pudding (the latter requested from any friends travelling back from north of the border), baked beans, pancakes and every conceivable variation of egg.

The cook book has a highlighted entry for Mum's Special of asparagus on poached eggs on hot buttered toast with a good dusting of freshly ground black pepper. Everyone in the family records their own favourites as well with Alice's Chicken and rice, Hannah's spag bol, William's burger and chips and my steak and ale pie.

If too lazy to cook then it is necessary to make a quick dash down to the Chinese Takeaway  with a regular order placed for beef and black bean sauce, spicy Singapore Chow Mein, quarter duck with pancakes, lemon chicken and of course curry and chips in together.

Healthy eating also has its place in the pages with aubergine and tofu satay, an avocado, chilli and ginger smoothie, salads and fresh fruit. The pages, written in felt tip, highlighter pen and marker are interspersed with great little drawings and sketches of method and ingredients giving an intensely personal touch to the work.

The meals do form an enduring legacy of our family and we often find ourselves returning to the mainstays even though we all have developed our own extensive repertoire and skills in the kitchen giving perhaps many more volumes to follow the unique and original first edition when we can find the time to do it, what with all that washing up to do.........

Family History Part 6

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 6. Marmite

After my comments in a previous blog about the origins of one of the ingredients for fruit gums from the leather tanning process you may be entirely justified in expressing surprise that the subject of my last family history series is another substance dredged out of an industrial process.

Although often associated with a meaty and beefy taste this is as far from the actuality as could be imagined. Marmite is a yeast extract. The original producers, long since absorbed by an American Corporation were based in Burton upon Trent, logically and logistically the ideal location just downwind in terms of proximity to the large commercial breweries that provided considerable employment, wealth and celebrity to the town. As a student, when it was not practical to otherwise cycle from Nottingham to home, some 90 miles or so, I would take the train and the line ran through and paralell to the huge operational plants. The hop silos, stainless steel vat and pipes proudly bore such British institutional brand names as Carling, Worthington and Bass and later Marstons and Coors. I was always aware of the approach to Burton upon Trent because it was soon in view  after passing through Tamworth where the Reliant car factory was and in the open ground close to the lines it was always interesting to see the fibre glass shells of the three wheeler Robins but incongruously next to the aggressive and quite well regarded Scimitar sports coupe.

The success of Marmite, also the french name for a large cooking pot as depicted on the classic label, also launched the Bovril product. In my mind it is an insult to Marmite to include that other stuff in the same breath and sentence. I had a bad experience with Bovril whilst holding a jar above head to try to see how much was left. The same exercise with Marmite holds no hazards but I did not allow for the looser, runnier composition also encouraged by inappropriate storage in a warm pantry cupboard and the grainy, bovine
derivative took some effort to wash out.

Through my teenage years I began collecting Marmite jars. I should qualify that these were not empty, washed out and clean but still each contained perhaps half a teaspoon. I was sure that yeast extract was indestructible and so with a tightly fitting old style metal lid there were no concerns over the nurture of a globally contagious bio-plague. I proudly had on display in my bedroom a full set of the different sized jars and a good number of spares behind the best example in each category. The collection went everywhere with me at key stages in my life.

Marmite went well with everything. Not just the fundamental toast topping but complientary on top of cheese, with scrambled egg, stirred into gravy or direct into a meat pie. A generous knife edge was required to thickly cover a slice of bread for a packed lunch sandwich and with enough left to be lavishly licked off the blade. I am aware that there are those who may feel a bit nauseous at this stage if they have not been brought up proper to love Marmite.

I was very upset by the sellout of the brand but ultimately reassured by the fact that there is little scope to spoil such a perfect taste. There has been an attempt to broaden the product range by packaging changes and collaboration with other brands. Most ridiculous has been a squeezy tube effect jar- what were they thinking. Most exploitative was the Guinness venture with limited edition production runs with jars traded on E-Bay rather than opened up and spread for enjoyment. Most trendy was its addition as flavouring on rice cakes. The commercial possibilities are potentially endless and no doubt there is a whole department within the Unilever skycraper dedicated to the infiltration of Marmite into the emerging economies. What next- Marmite flavoured rice, poppadoms and noodles? I was amused to hear that Stateside super and hypermarkets stock the product in their ethnic foods section.

My own children are fans of Marmite and the association with our family appears to bode well for continuation of this love affair into the future. My Mother has told me that on our return to the house from a night out on the town, as young adults, she and Father could only really relax and get to sleep in the early hours to the sound of the front door being locked and the noise and smells from the production of cups of tea and marmite on toast permeating up the stairs from the kitchen.

Family History Part 5

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 5. Scandinavian Furniture

A few bits of furniture get handed down through the family from one generation to another and between households within the close family and in-laws. It does take a lot of income and effort to fit out a house in order for it to operate as a going and growing concern. We have bought some items at Auction Sales, other second hand outlets and the rest on a cash purchase or interest free schemes from one or more of the out of town centre retail parks.

Not everything has survived but most items have served with distinction bearing the proud scars of shoe buckles, the scorch rings of cups of hot beverages, upended spillages of carbonated and soft drinks, fragments of crisps and random crumbled biscuits, various bodily fluids and age wrinkled leather cushions. The rubber-wood dining table and six chairs is just about holding out but has required some crude patching and bracing repairs using wedges of wood and glue to keep the legs straight and solid. One of the chairs is beyond salvage being very unstable and it is always a last minute manouevre to direct away friends and relatives intent on taking up that place setting in order to avoid injury, embarassment and a civil action.

The childrens bedrooms had started off in a pine furniture theme. The girls shared with matching single beds, heavy pine headboards and large carved acorns and the look was complimented by a large waxed pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. Our son, perhaps ahead of his time, got a metal fabrication of high level bed accessible by a vertical ladder with upholstered sofa bed and a ledge desk below. The altitude at which he slept was quite close to the ceiling and must, on reflection, have been quite a terrifying and lonely experience being so detached from the rest of the household.

The decision was made on practical and stylish grounds to go for the Swedish range through IKEA. A store had opened up beyond Leeds, some distance from home but very easy to get to on the M62 motorway. We had not experienced anything like it before, well not since the Habitat store closed in Hull. The IKEA store was huge. A low, sprawling retail shed painted corporate blue and with flashes of yellow from the National flag and colours.

We were unsure of how to proceed from the wide, bright entrance but were soon swept up in the relentless stream of customers, some determined purchasers and those just out for the day. The children grabbed handfuls of the small unfinished wood pencils and the tape measures and us parents followed shouldering a large in-store shopping bag. Whether very clever marketing or the only way to fit the stock under one roof the progress through the building was tortuous along very winding and quite disorientating pathways. The Scandanavians may well have modelled the store on a typical mythical journey through the mountain passages of their uplands or the densely packed forests of the hinterland. I was getting quite dizzy and woozy under the artificial lighting and atmosphere. Again, very clever or practical is the location of the cafe/restaurant and rest area midway along the quest through the store. A bit like a very welcome leafy glen during an arduous trek.

On first impression the room displays and assembled furniture was very striking. Not altogether surprising for a nation known for its innovative design and flair through such brands as Volvo, Saab, Dime Bars, Abba and pornography. We marked off in our catalogue those pieces that would go well in the childrens rooms. There were cabin beds with clever concealed storage for toys, clothes and bedding. Desks could take a PC and TV and with shelf and drawer space so that the children would not ever have to leave their rooms until for University. We speculated on a large display unit for the dining room. We left that day with nothing apart from countless pencils, tape measures and night lights.

A few days later I returned in, yes, you guessed it, the Volvo estate car to purchase and collect a long list of furnishings. It was only after struggling to push the largest trolley to the checkout that I realised the potential problem of getting the whole lot into the car. I would have to flatten all the seats and squash my chest cavity to the steering wheel to get maximum load bay depth. I looked at my son who had come along to help and wondered if IKEA had something like an overnight creche. Although all in flat pack boxes some were exceptionally long. It was a bit like a reverse Jenga game to load, unload, re-arrange, swear, load, recover my son from under the packaging, load, move son again and so on until the trolley was empty and the tailgate could very carefully be lowered and pressed shut. My son was somewhere behind the flat passenger seat. If I avoided heavy braking I would get him home in one piece.

The car tyres were, under the laden weight, almost rubbing in the wheel arches. The car was dangerously and recklessly overloaded. Fortunately it was now 9pm on a winters evening and my chances of attracting the attention of the motorway police was much reduced. My vehicle would have warranted a full 30 minute slot on STOP POLICE!. The journey home was very cautious. I averaged 56 mph and the in car computer recorded my best ever fuel economy at 66mpg which was unprecedented.

The assembly from flat packs was equally traumatic. The operation took up a whole room plus overspill. The generation of litter and waste was frightening. Clear and plain English instructions were very helpful and the diagrams easy to follow. Slowly and not altogether surely the 'whatever' would emerge from the one dimension into a full multi dimensional shape. Tricky bits included fitting in the shelves and the flexible sides and backs. As each piece of furniture was assembled and then moved to its resting place I noticed quite a collection of residual bolts, screws, nails, plastic fittings and metal widgets type things. Was this a matter for concern? Eventually all rooms were furnished. The composition was mainly veneer covered chipboard but there was still a very pleasant aroma of freshly cut wood. Eyes closed we could well have been in a forest anywere between Stockholm and Uppsala.

From the first day of use the IKEA furniture started to gradually fall apart.

Last weekend marked the demise of the last stubborn IKEA item. I struggled up the metal steps at the Civic Amenity Site with the violently dismantled parts of the 'Billy Bookcase' before launching them into the huge waste skip. As I glanced into the gloom I was certain that, but in no particular order, the whole of Aisle D section 4 of the Leeds IKEA store had been relocated to the same fate.

Family History Part 4

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 4- Greek Art

The current austerity measures being endured by the Greek nation are so far detached from our perception of their lifestyle that the impact is very difficult to appreciate. Most Brits, having experienced a summer holiday in Greece, will certainly upon returning to our cold and drudgingly boring shores, not be able to resist a daydream for a moment on the romantic aspects of selling up everything here and starting up a Taverna or Restaurant in the wonderfully warm climate and fantastic scenery of that country. In reality, the only business opportunities may be in the Greek equivalent of Scunthorpe or running a mini-mart, heaven forbid, only frequented by pink skinned English tourists looking to buy McCain oven chips and frozen Goodfellas pizza.

As a family our first foreign holiday involving air travel was to the Ionian Island of Keffalonia. We joked about the name of the place. Why do second hand car salesman like the island?  Because it has only had one careful owner. Boom boom. We were complete novices when it came to foreign travel . The package trip was through one of the main companies and I think we were quite shocked at the cattle market type approach from being herded into the queues at the airport, coralled on the plane, force fed from a trough type tray and then released, eyes blinking to become accustomed to the glaring sun and initially startling heat at our destination.

We had dressed for the whole journey in what we thought was sensible attire to cope with the dual climate of Manchester and Greece. We had misjudged the whole thing and amongst a plane load of replica football shirted passengers we must have looked like we had got lost on the way to a garden party. The first few hours on Greek soil were a complete blur. We had lost all sense of time after a very early arrival for our flight and some prior days of excitement interrupted sleep. It was about early afternoon as we boarded the coach for the transfer to our accommodation.

The road journey gave a brief glimpse of the island but only about ten feet ether side because of the very narrow lanes and either a precipitious drop to the sea below or a towering rocky cliff above. As our fellow travellers were dropped off in what appeared to be barren locations apart from a gate and steep footpath to whatever they had booked to stay in we became increasingly anxious about where we would be deposited. The brochure photo of our self catering apartment was very vague and blurry, a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage with a lawn in front.

The actual place was in fact a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage. There were three rooms for the five of us, one being the living area doubling up as a twin room plus Z bed for the children. The kitchen was a small galley. The shower room had a dry toilet. This was bemusing and quite frightening for an English family who were experts in flushing lavatories on any excuse or whim. Exhausted as we were I volunteered to go out to find food. I had no map, a distorted sense of direction in a foreign place, no comprehension of the Greek language and unsuitable footwear for the scorching road surface. I was not even sure where things like towns and shops were.

After a slog up the hill behind the apartment and down the other side I could not see any signs of civilisation. There were roadside shrines every few metres but I was not sure if these were for lost tourists or deceased locals. At last I reached Argostoli, the main town on the island. The first shop that looked like a general store loomed up like a mirage to my parched, dehydrated but curiously sweaty form. I played safe on the purchases in the absence of McCain oven chips or Goodfellas pizza.

The freshly minted Euro note I handed over to the proprietor brought him out in spasms of anxiety. It must have been a huge denomination and after some mutual progress through my perspiration soaked money belt he took a selection of lower numbered notes and seemed very happy. I was now faced with the return walk, considerably more drained than when I had set out and now with two plastic bags of bulky carbohydrates,sweets and other consumables. I must have looked quite a sight as I struggled back to the hillside road.

After some miles I was aware of a car moving slowly up behind me as though stalking my every move. I hoped that I was not going to have a shrine dedicated in my memory from a drive-by incident. As the car pulled alongside an English voice offered me a lift. The driver was staying in the same apartment building, had seen us arrive on the coach and thankfully had recognised me. That was not the best of starts to the Greek holiday. It did get considerably better and we fell one hundred percent for the climate and relaxed lifestyle. Vacations in the British Isles had always been a matter of cramming as much in to every hour as possible. The Greek equivalent was to do a bit in the cool of the morning, keep out of the sun for much of the day or immersed in a swimming pool, avoid being seen amongst the shops when closed for the protracted lunchtime of the locals and then emerge for a full 8 hours of casual activity from about 5pm.

Towards the end of our 2 weeks it was that time to buy souvenirs for family at home and as a good memento of our stay. In the clock tower gallery of Argostoli we had seen a painting of a sad youth in bright colours on what looked like the lid of a crate of citrus fruit. Three short lengths of wood with twin cross bracings at the back. The colours were vivid and the young subject was wistful and enigmatic with pronounced cheek bones, dark hazel brown eyes and cloaked in a bright red robe. Upon expressing an interest in the painting we were introduced to the artist. She explained that the character was Telemachus, the son of Odysseus who originated from the island of Ithaca which was only a short boat ride from the north east shore of Keffalonia. The young warrior had set out to look for his father who had been missing for 20 years. Apparently, something had kicked off involving his mother and his dad's attendance was required to deter the unwelcome attentions of some potential usurpers to his position as head of the dynasty. Telemachus and his errant father returned to wreak a horrible fate on the pretenders and the rest is set in legend. The background to the painting sealed our intention to buy it and what would have been our Duty Free budget was blown on five bits of overpainted wood.

The picture retains its vivacity and dynamism  even today after many years of being displayed at the foot of our stairs. As holiday souvenirs go it knocks a stuffed donkey into a cocked sombrero.

Family History Part 3

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 3- Brass Weigh Scales

In movies depicting major narcotics rings there is always a massive array of cash counting machines churning through the ill gotten gains of illicit business. The hoodlums and their lackies bring in grubby high denomination notes and in the first stage of laundering, call it a pre-wash, these are shovelled into the ticky-clicky machines, totted up and then wrapped in an elastic band in wads of say, £1000. Beyond that process is not always shown but usually involves a small bespectacled man walking away,with a limping gait, with an attache case.

In most supermarkets there sits in the entrance or in the corner near the toilets, a large Coinstar machine into which all ages of customers pour their loose-change for noisy counting followed by an often pleasant smile at how much has been accumulating in the Bells Whisky bottle or oversized pasta jar. The only disappointment is where a small accompanying child participates by pressing the 'Donate' button rather than the 'Collect' one.

On the fairly regular visits to the branch of Lloyds Bank where my father was Manager in the 1970's I would marvel at the swift manual counting skills of the staff. The essential tools to perform this skill were a ribbed rubber thimble and/or a small petrie dish sized glass bowl with a moist sponge. Fingers flashed through the paper notes with great dexterity and mental concentration only briefly interrupted by the need to dip a forefinger in the water in order to lubricate the process.

Just along the counter and for the weighing and bagging process of coins was a magnificent set of brass scales.

This stood about 2 feet high, originally bright and brash but with the metalwork having built up an immunity to the abrasive polishing by Brasso or other treatments over many decades. The colour was now tarnished but faintly gold in hue.  The scales were a tripod in appearance but embellished with mouldings and brazings which added to the majestic status. Chain links were looped at the top over a hook and run down equidistant to a tea plate sized dish on both sides. The central armature could be adjusted to balance out the scales with the fine tuning of a metronome. The two dishes rested just above counter level but could be raised with a pivoted lever to give a visual confirmation of a balance.

Complimentary to the scales was a full set of cast brass weights. These were fascinating to play with. The graduaded weights could be carefully stacked one in another to form a small but dense pyramidal tower. These ranged in our young minds from miniscule polo mint sized through to a hefty Burtons chocolate wagon wheel size. The weights were actually engraved in antique script and imperial measures from half an ounce to 1 ounce , 2 ounce and then at regular increases through 4 and 8 ounces up to the 1 pound, 2 pound and 4 pound weights. The combination of these eight weights could be used to assess the customer assembled contents of small pre-printed coin bags. This rapidly speeded up the counter process and made for happy customers. The set of scales were, in the modern banking age, surplus to requirements but represented a very strong symbol of commerce and banking that gave reassurance to savers and borrowers, investors and shareholders.

My father worked in banking for 40 years at a time when it was a greatly sought after and respected career. I was very conscious of the very high regard in which my father was held in our town and community as Branch Manager. He was trusted by personal and business customers, small and large Corporate concerns and gave good, sound and impartial advice.

Those were the days of banking when the Manager was able to endorse any request for a loan or a mortgage because there was a long term relationship with the customer and an understanding of what was really required and not as today an opportunity to cross sell everything from life insurance to car and health insurance.

Like a set of scales my father was a steady and dependable pair of hands in a fast changing and, unfortunately, an increasingly distrustful world.

Family History Part 2

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 2- Nautical Chart

The true environment for a Nautical Chart would be rolled up cocooned in others on a table in the wheelhouse of a seagoing vessel. Whilst treasured and meticulously preserved each chart would be able to convey its own story through signs of wear and tear, wind whipped edges, pencilled scribblings by way of observed amendments, the faded stains of a well earned fortified cup of tea, salt spray, sweat and tears and perhaps a few traces of fish entrails.

It was a hard decision to make but the May 1974 Gnonomic issue for England-East Coast at a scale of 1:50000 is now framed up and takes pride of place in our dining room.Whilst produced under the Superintendence of Rear Admiral G P D Hall, Hydrographer of the Navy, the chart belonged to George Brown, my father in law. He knew the area of coverage extremely well as it figured significantly through his lifetime. The northern landfall extremity of the chart shows just above the town of Withernsea and with the bottom right hand corner the dunes and marshes of the Lincolnshire coast below Grimsby. Farthest west is an inset panel of how to navigate up the Humber to Goole and below that a further extract of the entrance to the River Trent.

The course of the river meanders mightily as befits its role of draining one fifth of the landmass of England. To the east, the North Sea with navigation guidance as far as the former mooring position of the Humber Lightship. George was born in the port city of Kingston upon Hull in 1929. In his teens he was working on the river on low slung commercial barges which plied between the thriving Hull docks and the inland riverside towns. These vessels were the HGV's of the time carrying coal, fuel oil, grain and bulk goods in large and regular shipments.

George was on the river during the early part of the second world war and will have witnessed and indeed been exposed to the incessant airborne bombing raids on the docks and wider urban area in the peak blitz years of 1941 to 1943. His maritime experience, even though he was still under the age for conscription to the military was important and he was soon to be working much more hazardous waters on the lifeline provided to the country by the Arctic convoys.

After the war George took again to the sea but in a much warmer climate and was stationed in Malta in RAF Air Sea Rescue aboard what will have been former motor torpedo boats and also as flight crew on the Sunderland Flying Boats.

George was a grafter and provider for his family working, in civilian life in the large industrial plants of Hull and also on the Blackburn Aircraft production line at Brough some 7 miles west of the city. The 1974 navigation chart was acquired by George to go with his ownership of a sea-cobble fishing boat maintained and shore-berthed at Tunstall on the Holderness Coast.

The North Sea was still a very productive fishing ground at that time and the vessel provided access well offshore to reach the stocks of fat fleshy Cod, in particular, now very sadly depleted and emaciated by comparison.

Beach angling was also a favourite pursuit of George and the chart illustrates the sheer size and scale of the annual competitions which would attract participants from all over the country, europe and the world who would draw pegs at regular spots along the full length of the Holderness Coast from Spurn Head to Bridlington.

The chart is a technical document essential to an understanding and safe negotiation of a major and very busy watercourse but for George it was also the key to a very active and enjoyable lifelong association with things maritime.

Family History Part 1

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to my family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up. The series is repeated from some time in 2011.

Part 1; Africa

I never really knew and have great difficulty actually remembering my Grandfather on my father's side of the family. He died when I was about 4 or 5 years old. My only recollection is of a very strong smell of cigarettes in his presence and how he would produce from his cardigan a packet of sweet cigarettes for us when it was time to leave and go home. Other fragments of information came from my late father and a few bits of furniture or inherited objects that came with Gran when she moved in for the last 10 or so years of her long and generally healthy life. My grandfather worked for the Bank of British West Africa which helped to introduce modern banking to that part of the African continent. He travelled widely and had associations with business and trade in Liberia and I think Sierra Leone. Two objects that fascinated me as a small child epitomised the myths surrounding my grandfather.

The first is actually a pair of crocodiles. I am not sure if I contributed to loss of the lower jaw of one of the figures but I was not to know that carved ivory was quite brittle when roughly handled in play. They are about 6 inches long, perfectly straight, and with a girth of about the middle finger. The jaws have cerrated teeth and a gaping hole of a mouth that served well as a rest for a pencil or rolled up balls of plasticine but for which it was never intended. The reptiles had a flat belly underside and could sit flat and level on display. The tail tapered to a sharp point and the whole body had a raised series of scales. I would usually head for the crocodiles first in visiting the rather dark and grim inter war semi detached house where my grandparents lived.

The second object of fascination is a carved upright figure, standing about eight inches tall. It was skillfully carved by a native African out of a single piece of light, almost balsa or cork wood. This will have been sourced from what remained of a once extensive equitorial forest but decimated under a two pronged attack to clear land for farming and to provide fuel for a village hut or smallholding farmstead. The figure is very much a caricature, comic but authoritative, of a Colonial Officer, perhaps a Civil Servant or even a Missionary or Teacher. I liked to think, when young, that it was loosely based on my grandfather. The uniform includes a pith helmet in white pigment but now very much faded to a pale washy hue. The hat is removeable and has done well to accompany the figure through many Spring Cleans and a few house removals.  His facial features are sharp with a regular but dominating nose starting well up on the forehead. The eyes are almond shaped, almost feminine in apearance. Thick fleshy lips sit above a proud chin. There remains some trace of a sunburnt skin tone but with bleaching and blotching from catching the sunlight after close to a century of exhibition and play. Attired in a khaki safari suit the figure is quite dapper. The skill of the carver has produced faint folds of linen and the suit is well tailored but cool for the sweltering climate. Incongruously the man is wearing boots with quite a Cuban heel and retaining a bright burnt-umber shade to depict leather. The pose is sitting or rather perching on a bench and at a desk to symbolise a position of relative powerand control in the Colony. The desk is typical for a Board School furnishing. Stout vertical supports, low bracing bar doubling up as a footrest, hinged heavy lid, inset ink well and a groove for a writing implement. The front face of the desk has symbols of a circle and triangle, almost masonic but not thought to be of any significance or menace.

The figure is a personalised souvenir of Empire because it was individually carved with patience and artistic understanding. It may well have been one, however, of thousands of similar brought to the river bank or quayside, city square or hotel steps, railway platform or other embarcation point to be thrust into the view or hands of departing Civil Servants, Financiers, Businessmen, Private Tourists and my Grandfather.

Reverse Knob

Try to explain this to me if you can.

In my prime I just did not bonk very often.

Now in my sixth decade I find that  I am bonking with great frequency.

This could happen at any time.

There are a few tell tale signs. Perhaps a bit of lightness of head, the first sense of a blurring of vision in the corner of the eye, the perception of my scalp tightening as the pre-cursor to a headache, muscle cramps and an overwhelming craving for a Mars chocolate bar. In extreme cases of bonking I have almost fallen off my bicycle.

That word....Bonk.

In context I am of course referring to the definition of Bonk to mean the experience of sudden and severe fatigue in an endurance sports event due to glycogen depletion.

For those who did not realise that it was first and foremost a sporting term my revelations in the first few sentences may have conjured up all sorts of horrible images, in themselves promoting feelings of nausea and contractions of bodily parts.

That is because the same word, bonk, is used to describe amongst many other things, an act of sexual intercourse.

I picked up on the many meanings of simple words from the arrival in my email inbox of a short piece from the crowd funding organisation, stateside, Kickstarter.

I came across them after pledging some cash towards restoring the Spacesuit of Neil Armstrong in the "Reboot the Suit" campaign by the Smithsonian Institute.

They (Kickstarter, not The Smithsonian)  are fronting Wordnik in saving a million words and phrases from obscurity by collecting them together and giving them a definition so that they can seek refuge in the dictionaries of the world.

It seems that it takes a lot of actual use in practical language for definitions to be written and in particular many new words that are emerging do not have, as yet, fully documented ones. For these there is a form of suspension in what has been referred to as a lexical "dark matter".

In much the same way as Wikipedia invites contributions and comments, the team at Wordnik hope that collecting a million undefined words in one place will help people find, annotate and discuss them.

If there is in fact a word -lookupability-then that  is the goal of the campaign.

Back to that four letter word Bonk.

I have been amazed to read about its many wider definitions and meanings. It is used to describe something striking something else or coming into contact-illustrated by the sentence "She bonked her head going through a low doorway".

For those knowledgeable of verbs I have just used the transitive. The intransitive verb bonk describes a blow to the head or a hollow thud.

In popular culture bonk has been hijacked by skateboarders and snowboarders. The senior of the two, skateboarding, adopts it to mean hitting an object with the front wheels whilst in the air whereas on the slopes and runs it usually refers to coming into painful contact with a fir tree.

I have not used it to my knowledge when having a random meeting or in the case of a minor collision.

Unfortunately bonk has become a staple word of the British tabloid press as in its tacky and downright grubby application to the lewd and dubious behaviour of celebrities and wannabees and has been cheapened significantly.

Those of sharp eye and skilful at cryptic crosswords and puzzles will have noticed that bonk is "knob" written backwards which may explain its liberal use in kiss and tell and other exposes in the press.

I actually like the word for its comical connotations ,innuendo use and sheer sound more than anything else.

Bonk, Bonked, Bonking. As part of the Wordnik initiative it is actually possible to adopt bonk through Kickstarter.

Quick, find me my bank card.............

(As an added bonus it is, incidentally ,worth ten points in Scrabble)

Ditch Perfect

I was always a bit reluctant to take out and walk my dogs early in the morning.

This may have partly been down to laziness, the prospect of cold air supplanting that nice cozy, warm position under the duvee or the physical effort to propel my body along vertically when it was so much easier to give in to gravity and just lie prone and horizontal in bed. However, a tangible element in the whole reluctant attitude was that it always seemed to be reported in the media that the gruesome discovery of a body or bodies was always made by a man walking a dog or dogs in the early hours just after dawn.

I was happy to leave potential for such discoveries to the likes of taxi-drivers, joggers or the Postman. 

In much the same chain of thought I always got the impression that men digging ditches, in the old way by hand, were always likely to come up with interesting things.

This is borne out by my blog yesterday with the stumbling across, by ditch digging men in 1989 , of the treasure trove of artefacts, thought lost, but actually just stored in the buried basement rooms of the bombed Municipal Museum of Hull since 1943.

Of course, any excavations with shovel, pick and wrecking bar can be hazardous for those wielding the implements. In Hull, even today, any construction projects breaking into the heavy clay topsoils whether on a virgin site or previously built upon ground , stand a chance of unearthing unexploded Ordnance from the second world war. An academic year does not go by without a small child bringing in a live ammunition shell with German markings to 'show and tell' to classmates inevitably dug up from an urban flower bed by their Grandfather or Uncle. The sighting of the small white bomb disposal van with Police escort is still very common on our streets. 

Other risks include hitting an unforeseen pipe or cable or what must be a horrible initial feeling of the blade of a spade cutting into a human skull just under the surface. I have felt some concern for workers on a large housing estate on the site of derelict docklands close to the City Centre as my perusal of Old Maps indicates the prior existence of a Leprosy and Cholera Hospital. Diagnosis of symptoms of such afflictions may not be covered by Health Insurance if disturbed and made airborne by pick and shovel.

On rarer occasions, accepted,  the damp, waterlogged and unpleasant practice of ditch digging may find something fabulously significant;

Take these cheeky chappies. Just ignore the oversized genitalia for the moment and concentrate on the context of the image.

They were dug up by, yes, by a gang of labouring ditch diggers in 1836 way out towards the seaside town of Withernsea on a tract of agricultural land called Roos Carr. Their antiquity and significance were not really appreciated until modern radio carbon dating techniques were available in archaeological investigation and this revealed  them to be  about 2600 years old, well into the Bronze Age or early Iron Age. Experts without such technological assistance considered their origins as Viking from a raiding party or the work of an enthusiastic lone Scripture themed wood carver and depicting Noah and his family.

The location, so far in the past will have been reasonably inland from the coast particularly given that, in the documented period from the Doomsday Book in 1086 , there was at least three miles to the cliff top rather than about two farmers fields now. The location may have been thickly forested or marshy and barren.

The items, embedded in thick heavy blue clay were well preserved. As well as several of the distinctive and intimidating warrior Figures standing between 35cm and 41cm tall ( see picture above) complete with quartzite eyes and those nifty detachable genitalia, there was a serpent headed boat with paddles, and a wooden box. One of the figures appears to have gone missing until 1902 when it was acquired by Hull Museums after decades of having been played with as a doll by the daughter of one of the original labouring gang.

The Victorians fixed four of the figures with glue and nails into the serpent boat as it was speculated that they belonged as crew. Their prudish attitude either out of denial or to spare the blushes of Museum Visitors considered what was actually intended as the male parts to be short arms.

Carved from Yew their purpose has long since been a matter of informed discussion. The fact that they were buried suggests a Votive Offering to the gods with no intention for them ever to be recovered. The use of Yew is thought to have some significance as it was often associated with particular deities in the prehistoric world of ritual and religion.

Only 9 other similar caricature discoveries have been made in the British Isles and Ireland which makes the Roos Carr figures very important not only in the context of the history of this part of northern and western Europe but in world history. For all that, the figures are not that well known but were voted into the top 100 of the Yorkshire World Collection as part of the London Cultural Olympiad Programme. Presumably some way behind Geoffrey Boycott's cricket bat, Harry Ramsden's Fish and Chip Frying Range, Aunt Bessie's batter puddings, Pontefract Cakes, Black Sheep Ale, a night out in Hull and a picture postcard of Whitby.

Ruud (Rude)

I always have a tune in my head.

As far as my family are concerned that is not the problem.

Their sometimes very audible and visual annoyance manifests itself when that tune escapes into the open in the form of a loud hum or a high pitched whistling.

I have been doing it for so long that I do not realise that I am doing it. Others have noticed.

My mother in law enquired whether it was a symptom of stress.

Our longstanding former neighbours (we were the ones who moved) told my wife that they really missed the sound of my humming repertoire which they had gotten used to over 17 or so years. I am not sure whether they were a captive audience through the old solid brick party walls or when I was out and about in the garden or on the driveway.

When I lived with my parents in my late teens and early twenties they knew when I was back in the street after a late night out from the increasing approach of a whistled tune.

I cannot actually say why I do it.

I do have a musical background having the dubious distinction of being the longest serving 3rd row cornet ( a small member of the trumpet family)  in the town brass band. That may not sound too bad, at least I was in the band, but given that 3rd cornet was the kindergarten starter level it was a bit embarrassing that I was still there at the age of 15. Those players in the best seats in front of me had an average age of about 12.

Don't get me wrong I did value my time in Brass Banding having followed in the illustrious footsteps of my Grandad Dick and did participate in some memorable concerts and competitions all over the country or at least north of Birmingham. I dine out a bit on having performed on the stage at De Montfort Hall in Leicester in the wake, albeit a decade or so, of Led Zeppelin and a few years before I went to see Wham do a gig there. Some may be impressed by that sort of distant rubbing shoulders with the greats, well, at least Led Zep.

My humming and whistling can sometimes be triggered off by catching a few notes or bars of a tune on a radio or from a record player or boom box in proximity. I may just mimic the overheard phrase without really recognising the tune in its entirety but will relentlessly repeat it , to the horror of my wife and children. This usually, after a long period, leads to the identification of the tune, song or ditty or failing that someone will just shout out what they think it is in the hope that I will shut up.

It can be frustrating to have a tune buzzing around in my head but alone or with the reluctant assistance of others the source will eventually be discovered.

I was therefore thrilled to see, recently, a media article on a scientific basis to my own endeavours in hum and whistle.

In the 1940's two Stateside authors, Barlow and Morganstern published a book to help with the agonising process of identifying a song. In order to identify an unknown tune their method was to transpose the mystery tune into the key of 'C'. This allowed the actual notes to be written down and then the sequence of letters could be looked up against those listed in the book.

This was a revolutionary approach but did require the searcher to have a good deal of musical knowledge which raises the question of why the tune was a mystery in the first place.

There was scope to improve the science but it took until the 1970's for a Mr Denys Parsons to come up with a workable version and one, crucially, that did not require any musical knowledge at all.

Taking an exasperating tune there was no need to write any notation down. All it took was to recognise whether, over the first few notes starting with the second note, the pattern was higher, lower or the same. Using the letters 'U' for up, 'D' for down and 'R' for repeat Parsons found that after only 16 notes it was possible to distinguish more than 10,000 classical themes and that most popular songs could be named in only 9 notes or less.

A perfect illustration is the ever popular "Happy Birthday", which comes out as '*RUDUD DRUDU DDR" where * denotes the first note. The gaps between the letter sequences do not have any musical significance but just make for easier reading.

All of Parson's theory and practice was published in 1975 in his work entitled "The Directory of Tunes and Musical Themes". His hawking round to publishers had been unsuccessful with many sceptics in the professional ranks until taken up by Spencer Brown and Co.

The main section of the book has sections listing the sequences of classical and popular tunes and with a further section on National Anthems up until the date of publication.

The extensive piece of work is now out of print but copies have changed hands for upwards of £100.

Parsons dedication to the project did indicate some common opening phrases across music history.

 "*UU" is the most popular opening used in nearly a quarter of songs which is remarkable over around 400 years of music composition and with "*DR" being scarcely used at all at 2%.

Parsons did show persistence and ingenuity in his discoveries and revelations although in today's digital age that pesky and annoying hum or whistle can simply be fed into an algorithm based App or bit of software for instant relief.

How boring is that......family, keep back, what!......"*UUUUUUUDDDDUUUUURRRRRR"

Pat on the back for Cows

Is there such a thing as a World Celebration Day for Cows?

Their contribution to the human race has been immense since their domestication some 5000 years ago and I thought it would be nice to show some appreciation of this.

We may think we know a bit about these animals as they have always been around in our lives from cutesy soft toys, those milk carton novelties that moo-ed when turned over to featuring in children's story books and nursery rhymes but at the same time most of us in the UK do not have to travel far to see the real thing on a daily basis.

We should all be able to recount a few facts and myths about cows as well as tales of personal experience.

I spent a few days on a dairy farm in Somerset that belonged to my Father's cousins. The herd of 70 or so cows would be brought in from the pastures in the early hours to the milking parlour and under the artificial light in the winter months or the pale washy sunlight in summer relieved of their natural produce. I would keep well away from the herd because they did seem to be quite intimidating as well as, without warning, likely to evacuate their bowels under some tangible pressure and direction. My sisters got badly splashed and traumatised.

My Father's younger cousin would connect up and operate the milking machine from the concrete trench below and between the ranks of stalls which would cater for 20 animals at a time. All of the cows were individually named although to my unfamiliar eye I could not distinguish one of the distinctive black and white Friesians from another. The markings are all different like a fingerprint and each, according to David, had an individual character and temperament. Modern domestic cows are believed to come from only two species, Bos Taurus or Bos Indicus but there are about 920 different breeds worldwide.

Saying that did suggest a mutual respect between man and beast but on a few occasions they did throw about their bulk and weight indiscriminately and this did result in a few crushed ribs and broken limbs.

I was always thrilled by the ladling out and drinking of fresh milk from an open churn at cow-body temperature of 38 degrees Celsius before the chilling process for preservation at 4 degrees Celsius.

I would help after the 3 hours of milking to escort the cows back to the field although I got the impression that they were well capable of doing this unsupervised. The herd had to be destroyed during a subsequent outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease and milk production on the farm ended. The impact on the farming family was devastating on many fronts.

My next close-up experience of cows was in my late teens. The large public common land on the west side of my home town had grazing rights for qualifying citizens and from March to October there would be a surly bunch of young heifers and bulls milling about under the horse chestnut trees or causing mayhem amongst the traffic on the three main roads which crossed and led into town. They would loiter about on the verge before blindly but intentionally making their way into the pathway of vehicles. Motorists had little choice but to skid to an attempted halt before impact with about a ton of muscle and hide. One of my classmates had a collision with a cow on his first motorbike. He had to pay for the body of the unfortunate animal to be removed.

Some cows did manage to work out how to cross the metal cattle grid and visit the town centre. The traditional pit and grate form was replaced for a few years with just painted yellow lines in response to some psychological study that the arrangement inhibited the wanderings of cows. They still came into town and in larger numbers.

My Father was a main instigator and organiser of a campaign to raise sponsorship to buy reflective collars for the grazing cows to reduce road fatalities. These fitted a bit like Sam Browne belt on a cyclist but had to be regularly retrieved from the hawthorn hedges, boundary fences and the lower boughs of the Common trees where discarded during a rubbing and scratching session. The campaign excited considerable media interest including a TV crew from Japan.

I played a lot of football up on a rough grass pitch with goalposts on one of the few flatter sections of the Common. It was a good laugh to try to land a high ball in a pile of cow dung at the same time as the recipient of the pass was crouched down and concentrating on controlling it after it hit the ground. Splat was a very onomatopoeic sound.

It is good advice to keep a respectful distance from a grazing cow as they can be easily startled if approached. They do actually have good all round vision and senses but this can not be fully evident during their 14 hour a day regime of grazing and ruminating in their four compartment bellies. Whilst out dog walking with my wife we were menacingly corralled and eventually chased out of a meadow by a large herd of cows which definitely ranks as one of my scariest moments. There was recently a spate of fatalities at the hoofs of cows which although tragic did not really surprise me on the basis of my own narrow escape. Do not therefore be fooled by the impression given by cows of a gentle nature, docile, placid and unintelligent. They know what they are doing.

Conspiracy theories aside, the cow family have contributed greatly to human development. They have been wealth enabling through ownership and trading, abundant in the production of milk and the many associated foods and goods, providers of hides and by-products and a reason for the survival of much of the character of our agricultural pastures against great pressure for development. On a basic and practical issue I always check that I have an umbrella and coat when I see a field of cows in the lying down position because tradition and folklore dictates that it is likely to rain. Well worth at least one day a year in celebration just for that.

On the Job

You know the feeling.

Everyone says that you should never put things off until the next day if there is an opportunity to do it today.

In most circumstances there are no significant implications of postponing an action or event for that brief period. For example, you delay posting a letter even though you pass the postbox on the way home.  There may have been no opportunity to get parked close by drifting along the road  in searching out a space you were actually getting much nearer your own house. The letter may not get to its destination any slower anyway.

My favourite is having something to take to the tip in the back of the car. I have carefully bagged up, secured and loaded it and even have the intention of going straight to the tip. However, traffic, motivation and intent wane and that item, even if degrading, giving off methane, other noxious organic odours or secreting thick residues onto the upholstery can accompany me for a few more days until reaching unbearable and unhealthy status as well as becoming an attraction to a small cloud of flies.

I am not alone in this regard. It may be regarded by Psychiatrists as being a flaw in my character, this hanging on to something I have in effect given a personality to. I may have difficulty in letting go something that I have worked on. I may just be lazy.

I was reassured just this week that other people go through the same thought process. The particular case was however a bit more extreme.

A plumber, long since retired was selling up his house which, occupying about 4 acres and in a remote rural location was getting a bit too much to cope with for him and his wife. They had lived there over 40 years and it had been a good base for his plumbing business in that there was a extensive range of large outbuildings including an ex wartime RAF Nissen hut and a huge purpose built workshop, dry and powered for all types of project, domestic and commonwealth.

As a sideline he and his growing family had also developed another business amongst the sprawling land and further, lesser timber sheds and buildings. This was a combination of garden centre, aquatics and poultry farm.

Being located on a busy road, inland but connecting a couple of seaside towns there was good passing trade. The entrance, in a bit of a blind dip and on a hazardous bend, was ideally positioned as an enticement for motoring tourists as they would prudently slow down to negotiate the highway obstacles. Carefully positioned signage on the verges about 1 mile north and south of the gateway also gave ample notice to the public of the impending attractions and an opportunity to browse but not necessarily buy anything.

For a good proportion of drivers and passengers the indication that there was a WC facility was incentive enough to stop. That last cup of tea at Bridlington was working its way through and causing some fidgety discomfort. The Auntie Edith's in particular would be relieved by the news of a comfort stop.

A wide range of goods and products were offered. These included Free Range Eggs from the poultry sheds, garden gnomes and ornaments some a bit outrageously phallic looking to Auntie Edith, plants, live fish and supplies for those with aquariums. The instruction for callers to sound their car horn on entering the site would commence proceedings.

As the business proved to be viable so the operation expanded. Large cast concrete ponds and pools were built to house Koi Carp and other coldwater fish accompanied by the buzz and whirr of pumps and filters to aerate and cascade the water. More sheds sprang up with gardening implements, seeds and fertilisers. Post and wire fencing formed small compounds to grow and display larger trees and shrubs. Many borderline decisions would be made by visitors as to whether leave Auntie Edith in order that her back seat position in the car could be filled with bargain plants and purchases or a large, crudely gesticulating gnome.

Other ideas could be catered for in the broad acres and under the watchful and attentive service of the family members. Perhaps the conservatory at the house could be used as a Café and Tea Rooms, the grounds for a petting zoo or commercial kennels and cattery, the Nissen hut although with gaping holes in the curved and dusty asbestos roof would be good for childrens parties or wartime themed dances and functions for friends of Auntie Edith.

However, the business reached saturation point. Expansion would involve a level of investment not otherwise sustainable or justified. The Local Authority wanted paperwork and fees for planning issues. The road was still dangerous. Critically, the children in the family were getting a bit older and the novelty of having to work their evenings and all weekends was wearing off as well as impacting on their youthful activities. The older kids found out that a similar job in the nearest seaside town actually paid a wage.

The plumbing business would have to support the other rather than the reverse as had been hoped for.

The surrounding towns and villages were expanding with new arrivals, retirees or those just wanting to live at or near the coast. Their first action, invariably, was to call in a plumber to rip out and replace bathrooms with a nice walk-in shower or fit in an en suite.

Our man got a good share of the available work through his undeniable hard work ethic. On an average of one bathroom project per month for forty years his pick-up truck and hitched trailer plied regularly, fully laden, from customers houses to his home base. The nearest Civic dump that he could use to deposit the acrylic baths, un-recyclable ceramic ware and shattered wall tiles was about 20 miles away. His intention had always been to store a few loads within his acres and in the Nissen hut until viable to justify hiring a skip or a drop side truck to take a bulk load to the disposal site.

Unfortunately, home and home-grown business demands meant that although Phase 1 for stockpiling waste was regularly fulfilled, the essential Phase 2 of removal elsewhere was not.

That explained my confrontation this week with  a strange array of multi-coloured bathtubs , hundreds of them within the boundaries of the four acre property.

Some had been put to good use. An undamaged acrylic or older cast enamelled bath makes an ideal growing receptacle. If the plughole can be stopped up on a more permanent basis then fish and pond life can thrive in it. Filled with clay soil or a light concrete mix a bath embedded in an earth bank makes an excellent retaining wall. The shape of a modern bath is akin to an animal feed trough and therefore well suited for that purpose. Sunk into a crazy paved surround an Ideal Standard diarrhoea coloured tub from the early 1980's looks like a rock-formed pond or pool. Even those fittings damaged during removal from a cramped bathroom could be adapted as an impromptu chicken coop. Other baths just sat around, idle, looking like  high-tec non-degradable coffins. In addition to the gawdy moulded bathtubs was a closely rivalling collection of wall mounted and pedestal hand basins but less functional for alternative uses. These were arrayed at distorted and disturbing angles, propped up against outbuildings and fences. They seemed to serve a vital role as a buttress to prevent the Nissen hut from rolling over into the dyke.

I did ask the plumber about the unusually large mound, under grass, that was a major but rather alien landscape feature about half way into the site.

It did resemble a prehistoric tumuli or the earthworks of a Medieval Motte and Bailey Castle.  He was evasive and tried to divert my attention. I suspect that it consisted entirely of a mass of fractured and smashed ceramic bathroom tiles that would, in the distant future, require an extended series of the equivalent of Time Team to reach some sort of rational explanation.

Monkee Puzzle

I must have seen the many repeats on TV of The Monkees sometime in the 1970's.

The first broadcasts of the American show on UK Channels had been in 1967 to 1968 and at the tender age of 4 at that time I may not have been able to appreciate the significance of the concept of an engineered Boy Band.

That description is well worn in today's music industry accompanying spotty faced pre-puberty youngsters so at the time of the launch of The Monkees in 1966 the respective ages of the group at between 20 and 23 would have put them firmly in the category of old codgers by comparison.

The initial idea was that of TV Producers who saw an opportunity to commercially exploit somewhere towards the success of The Beatles who had stormed the USA music charts in the early to mid 1960's. The hysterical crowds of fans of The Fab Four, mainly of screaming teenage girls, had given an indication of the potential market in the emerging genre of "pop" music.

An advertisement in the music and theatrical press in September 1965 sought interest from males aged between 17 and 21 to audition for what was described as a wacky and madcap sit-com.

The back-story revolved around the antics and money making exploits and adventures of a struggling pop group hoping to succeed, and usually against all the odds.

From the screen testing of 400 applicants the final four were selected.

Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork, both aged 23, were musicians being joined by former child actors Mickey Dolenz and David Jones, both 20 years old.

The individuals had no previous connections coming together as complete strangers for the series which was first broadcast just over 12 months later on the main broadcast channel Stateside of NBC.

In the preparation period for the series there was a collaboration of the best music writers and studio musicians with The Monkees simply required to hold and mime with their instruments and only supply the singing parts. As an indication of the weight behind the idea the superstar Neil Diamond was persuaded to contribute one of his songs which became a major hit.

The image machine gave the actors Beatle-esque hairstyles and with publicity and media hype on overdrive. In spite of a good plan the whole concept was viewed with considerable scepticism and cynicism by  main TV Executives but the first episode was an immediate hit and the rest became pop history.

The success was attributed in large part to the charismatic influence of Nesmith, Tork, Dolenz and Jones but also saw the introduction of ground breaking special effects in its production including variable film speeds, multiple role play and rapidly changing sets which worked on such themes as Cowboys, Spies and in the desert. The Directors on one occasion hijacked the film set of a popular series, Iron Horse, which was a regular favourite which aired on another channel at the same time as The Monkees.

A key factor in the overwhelming success of the series was the performance in every episode of a pop song and in retrospect this has been regarded as the forerunner of the music video.

Hit after hit followed over the 58 broadcast episodes including "Last Train to Clarksville", "Daydream Believer", "I'm a Believer" and "Pleasant Valley Sunday".

The four Monkees were talented in their own right and began to demand more involvement than just being front men for a slick production process.

By 1967 The Monkees were outselling the Beatles and The Rolling Stones combined and toured extensively through the States, Europe and with a visit to England in that year.

The band stayed together until 1971 with its members pursuing solo careers and other interests in the music and film industry. Re-runs and memorabilia kept the interest alive and to date record sales have topped 75 million.

David Jones died in 2012 and Dolenz and Tork collaborate in concerts to the present day.

The whole concept could easily have been in the one hit wonder category but has endured because of undeniable talent and let's face it, some great pop songs.

Lock, Stock and Scraping the barrel

Thirty years of inspecting houses has given me a raft of knowledge about where their owners and occupiers keep certain things.

I stress that I do not snoop and pry but in the pursuit of information and insight into the structure and condition of a property I have a legitimate and implied reasonable right to open cupboards , lift edges of floor coverings, shine a bright torch into the dark recesses of a loft space and probe about in the far extremities of rooms.

In doing my job I have elicited the following amongst many ;

1)Everyone has a kitchen drawer packed with odds and sods.
2)Someone at some time has hidden money under a carpet.
3)Spare house keys are always on a hook in the most visible position possible .
4)There is an improvised weapon against intruders propped behind a bedroom door.
5)A boxed up, unused foot spa is always stashed in an attic.
6)The tool to lower the ceiling access hatch is in the airing cupboard.
7) Embarrassing vinyl records are stowed away in the top of a wardrobe.
8)The man of the house has a collection of dodgy magazines in a Sainsbury carrier bag on a garage shelf.

Sometimes this information is of use to me. Take a couple of days ago.

In a fully furnished but unoccupied house I was in desperate need of a screwdriver, brass polish and a jar of Marmite.

The place was an old cottage, built around 1800 or earlier in a small village. It could be described as ticking most boxes for an idyllic rural residence with a white picket fence, fruiting ancient pear tree trained up the front wall,cutesy dormer windows and traditional sliding sash windows. The description of a chocolate box illustration was pushing it a bit as at some period in its lifetime the structure had settled at one end giving more of a Grimm Brothers crooked cottage vibe. If there had been a broom made of twigs and a black cat at the front porch I would not have been too surprised.

In this instance my job was to find out and give an opinion as to whether the distorted appearance was a matter for concern or just part and parcel of an old artisan dwelling.

A basic test for any ongoing movement is to check on the operation and fit of the internal doors. Any historic movement will have been catered for by the trimming of the top edges of doors to achieve a snug fit. Telltales of sticky doors, an inability to close or evidence of recent hasty planing can be a give-away as to a problem of progressive movement.

Having struggled up a blatantly obvious gradient through the ground floor rooms from end to end I mountaineered the staircase up to a small central landing.

There were four rooms off with authentic plank doors, all of which were open.

The handles were shiny brass ones as a concession to modern style but had been fitted onto the ends of the old square shanked spindle which turned the catch in the old retained and operational door plates.

I pulled, in succession and working clockwise , the four doors shut. There was a reassuring click for each one as they engaged the lock plate on the frame. No issues to arouse suspicions of a problem there.

In repeating the sequence to open up the rooms I came to the last one, onto the main bedroom, and it was jammed shut, firmly and undeniably. Exerting a little pressure on the old planking did not do anything. Rattling the top and bottom of the door gave no hint of release.

Adopting a ruse I had seen in a spy thriller movie I retrieved my out of date plastic library card from my wallet, inserted it into the door jamb and slid it down over the position of the concealed door catch. Nothing.

I was annoyed, to say the least not helped by the laminated card threatening to snap off.

The situation was an unwelcome distraction from my job but at the same time I had to get into the room to complete the inspection. I could scarce afford to come back another time for just one room.

I leaned into the wood with my shoulder, It was not going to yield at all.

Armed with my knowledge of householders habits I descended the cliff-like stairs and went to a kitchen drawer. This was the usual place to find a screwdriver which, reluctantly, I would have to use to remove the three brass screws holding the handle to the old planking. I returned with a spoon and a stainless steel knife. The occupiers did not follow the rules.

My maternal Grandfather would have been aghast at my behaviour in using kitchen implements having been a skilled carpenter with great respect for trusted and well cared for proper tools for the job.

The spoon, a slim handled tea one was useless with the soft metal bending from trying to turn the first screw. The knife was a bit better although had to be inserted at an odd angle causing the blade end to skip about leaving scratches on the brass fittings and the door front. I had to find a screwdriver to speed up the process.

It took ten minutes to hunt down a sorry example from the back of a drawer in a Welsh dresser.

As the last screw was extracted I removed the handle. A disc of tarnished gold colour fell at my feet. It was part of the original 19th century lock.

The cause of the immoveable door was now clear to see.

The spindle was not projecting from the hole in the door but had started to slip out to the inner side. I tried to coax it out with the screwdriver but it only threatened to fall into the bedroom completely.

For some reason I thought of Marmite.

It may have been an attempt to comfort my anxiety at the ridiculous predicament as many a time a sandwich of the famous yeast extract had got me through difficult and trying times. However, I was this time inspired to use the gloopy and binding nature of Marmite to try to retrieve the spindle before it tumbled out of reach.

The screwdriver, pushed into a jar of Marmite in the pantry accumulated a reasonable residue of the black substance.

You can rely on Marmite to stay on a blade edge when being carried through a house, unlike that runny and insipid beefy Bovril stuff.

I had grossly overestimated the ability of Marmite to adhere to metal. The spindle, not obviously a lover of Marmite, shuddered a bit and did not move.

I contemplated at this stage to just refit the handle and abandon the property. It would be necessary to conceal my actions but in attempting to wipe away the Marmite from the door the spindle finally surrendered to gravity and I heard a soft, carpet muffled sound as it fell out into the room on the far side of the door.

I was distraught.

From the kitchen I brought more implements. Barbecue skewer, corkscrew, pallet knife, various pieces of cutlery were all thin enough, I estimated, to insert in the vacant space left by the spindle and by which to turn the catch to open the door. A pair of scissors eventually did it.

The swinging open of the previously impenetrable barrier was an Alleluia moment for me even though it was only a bedroom and not the hiding place of the Holy Grail or Nazi Gold.

Making good my trail of mayhem and destruction was in contrast quite pleasureable. The Brasso polish was a finishing touch to remove greasy fingermarks and perspiration stains.

Crime Scene Investigation would find no evidence of my ham fisted work.

On the drive back to the office I again thought of Marmite.

I remembered a former collection of the old style metal lidded, distinctive smoked glass jars and their residual contents which had remained palatable for perhaps 30 years. A horrible thought hit me. I had not fully wiped away the globules of Marmite from the spindle. I could envisage an occupier of the cottage, at some time in the future, being mystified by a strange, persistent but familiar odour lingering at the top of the stairwell.

Oh well, all adds to the character of the place.