Bread and Bread

There is nothing quite like the process of making bread to get that deep dirt out from your fingernails.

I say that from my own endeavours at home baking rather than discovering something sinister in my sandwich bought from Greggs of similar establishments.

I am really mad about bread. Not the making of it but the eating of it.

This is in spite of all of the speculation in the media about unhealthy diets with, invariably, bread now featured on the "to avoid" list for persons of my age and physical characteristics.

It is a staple of life and has been for millenia and yet the persecution of bread is now well founded, following on from a similar witch-hunt for potatoes, chocolate, coffee and all of the pleasureable foodstuffs in our lives.

I have fond feelings for bread at key stages in my life.

As a small child it was the comfort and bulk of Marmite sandwiches in a nursery tea.

Later it would be the veritable sophistication of toasties in the new fangled Breville before a return to, after a boozy night out as an early twenties something, plain toast and more marmite.

In my student years I could easily survive a whole day on a French baguette. I did once just sit in the doorway of a vacant shop in the city centre where I was studying and settled in to tackle a full sized baguette. It seemed a perfectly normal thing to do but a few passers-by made a point of making sympathetic faces before leaving small piles of low denomination coins on the raised step at my feet.

In my first paid job I could really appreciate having enough cash to pay for a filling for a baguette transforming it into a metre-long sandwich. I usually ate two of them to keep me going in a busy working day.

As a father of three children the value of bread and bread based products really came to the fore. Bread was to the under fives both filling and entertaining. The breakfast toast could be printed using plastic moulds into all manner of cartoon characters. A thinly cut and lightly toasted finger of bread is the ideal format for a soldier for a dippy egg.

There is something magic about a slice of french toast saturated with the best tomato sauce after all of the Heinz beans have been eaten. Packed lunches for school breaktime are nothing without a hastily prepared sandwich with popular fillings of tuna, meat paste, peanut butter and of course, Marmite.

Teatime and more toppings for bread, a particular favourite being grilled cheese or sardines.

There is a natural progression in a family to make their own bread. In the days prior to the availability of budget range automatic bread machines it was a very involved process to assemble the ingredients and manually work them into a dough. Children find it fascinating to see the dough prove in a bowl under the best tea towel and that warm yeasty odour has become to our youngsters a firm recollection of their junior years at home. The final product was always disappointing either failing to rise or cook all of the way through but nevertheless devoured with pride and a great sense of achievement.

Our first electric bread maker produced faultless loaves and rolls but at the cost of an educational and fun exercise for those involved.

I now have to accept, in my sixth decade, that I will have to review my bread intake on health grounds. I find that sad given the importance that it has been through my own life.

I may have to go all clandestine in my consumption. That should be easy enough. It just trying to explain my sudden accumulation of small denomination coins that may be more difficult.

Pink Martini

I don't think that I have seen so many performers on a stage.

Well perhaps I should qualify that statement.

There are of course choirs, brass bands, orchestras, ballets, operas and thespians but in this instance, by performers, I mean those with instruments, different musical instruments.

The Official Tour brochure has a cover photograph of 12 members of the band.

From our great seats, three rows from the front at York Barbican and just below eye level with the stage I counted 11 although the dozen many have been completed by someone obscured by the Steinway Grand Piano, an expansive drum kit or the sound system.

It was my first introduction to Pink Martini.

First response may be "Pink what?", "Martini Who?" .

There may be some justification in this because as bands go, Pink Martini are pretty niche but this is intentional as even they refer to themselves as an unlikely musical and entertainment phenomenon.

I have known about them for 10 years from family friends who have travelled the country attending gigs and functions. They gave me the first Pink Martini album on CD as a Christmas present and it played on random loop in my car for a few weeks making many previously tedious journeys in the course of my work so much shorter.

I could not believe that the CD dated from 1997 and that the reason for the 2016 Tour was to celebrate their 21st Anniversary.

The members of Pink Martini are a real United Nations of Professionals. The line up on stage included a Greek trombonist, Bulgarian Trumpeter, Cuban percussionist and a nucleus of founding US Citizens of diverse cultural origins.

These traits are reflected in music and lyrics drawn from Europe, Africa, the Americas, the Middle East and delivered in faultlessly authentic language and tone. There are classical influences and references to popular music from chart toppers, jazz standards, big band sound, love songs and traditional ballads but never far from the surface of whatever genre are the toe tapping, heart stirring Salsa rhythms that drive and motivate the band.

The York crowd were made up of dedicated and informed followers but most will have been ,like me, first timers drawn in by the relentless recommendation of friends, after hearing snippets of the best known songs heard on the radio or discovered even by accident on that huge resource that is You Tube.

That first CD, Sympathique launched on the bands own label , brought Pink Martini critical acclaim and success in Europe. Their reputation for lively, infectious on stage performances really strengthened a loyal fan base.

Hang on Little Tomato was released in 2004 after three years in the preparation and featured mostly songs in foreign languages seen as more evocative and beautiful to portray emotions and situations, French, Portuguese, Italian, Russian and Arabic amongst the most expressive.

To date Pink Martini are up to eight albums, self written, collaborative, conceptual and compilation but they not forgotten or relegated the importance of getting out there and performing to audiences worldwide.

If you want an immediate introduction to the style of Pink Martini you should try to find, from that first album, their unique rendition of the 1945 Fisher and Roberts song, "Amado Mio".

They opened their York concert with it and I felt immediately in a wonderfully happy place.

Musicology

Before my brain becomes addled and confused with age I felt it appropriate to list the live music gigs that I have been to. In true listomania fashion I have broken these down into decades and where remembered the venue and name of the promotional tour. Here goes;

Last Century-1970's

The Jam. Setting Sons tour at Brid Spa. Got Paul Wellers autograph on my tee-shirt. I was under the misapprehension that I was a mod in one of my Dad's suits.
The Police. Regatta de Blanc tour at Brid Spa. My sister got backstage with the band but no-one had a pen. She also panicked when her bra strap was undone whilst she was in a prime spot near the front.

1980's

Wham! The tour with the large lettered T shirts. Leicester de Montfort. Mate got his car broken into and everything stolen. Not sure if it was George or that other one who did it.
Thompson Twins. Into the Gap tour. Nottingham. Big hair and big hats.
The Simple Minds. New Gold Dream tour. Sheffield.
U2. War Tour. Derby. Bono climbing all over the speaker stacks but before people were interested enough to go through his bins.
David Bowie. Serious Moonlight Tour. NEC Birmingham. A real arena gig. Bad traffic jams.
The Stranglers. Rock City, Nottingham. Mate slept through the gig after eating some fungus.
Wishbone Ash. Got on a bus from Lincoln but more like a mystery tour.
Barclay James Harvest. Look them up if you've never heard of them before.
Spear of Destiny. Hull City Hall. Turns out he was Boy George's beau for some time.
Elkie Brooks. Nottingham. Just good music

1990's

Paul Weller. Hull. He did not really need the other two from 1979.
Texas. Hull. The Hush- Lush.
Bernard Butler. Hull Blagged these last two through my brother who had done BB's album graphics.
Ocean Colour Scene. Hull. Best edge of britpop band.
Craig David. Sheffield. Went with daughter for first gig. Me and 15,000 females.
Beautiful South, Brid Spa. Fantastic live band
Lindisfarne. Beamish. Stumbled across them whilst looking for the musuem gift shop.
S Club 7. Just parked up in the car whilst wife and daughters attended.

This Century- 2000's

REM. KC Arena. Poured with rain but great gig.
Tom Jones. Dalby Forest. One to see before he pops his welsh clogs.
Hem. Dalby Forest. Chilled out.
The Zutons. KC Arena. Before they were well known, Valerie.
Florence and the Machine. Will's first gig
James Taylor. Birmingham NEC. What a great musician, performer and showman.
Joe Bonamassa. Brid Spa. Best guitarist in the world and just getting started.
Kiss. Sheffield. Wow
Black Country Communion. Leeds. More Wow
Michael Schenker Group. Leeds. Rock and Roll
James Taylor Birmingham
Martin Turners Wishbone Ash. Local town hall. You never lose it.
The Scorpions at Munich Olympiahalle a week before Christmas.
Walter Trout in a basement in York
John Cooper Clarke at the Opera House, York. F****** Brilliant
Joe Bonamassa in Sheffield. Bigger and better
Thin Lizzy-only one original left
Clutch, deep Southern states rock
Joe Satriani
Shed Seven
James Taylor-Leeds
John Otway and Wild Willy Barratt- the greatest failure in rock and a friend
Don Henley- one of the last of the Eagles
Carole King- Hyde Park, amazing performance
Pink Martini- I know, I know.

Thank you , goodnight.

Terry's All Gold

The day “Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D’Arby” came out, in the autumn of 1987 on cassette, that's how long ago it was. Try explaining that medium to anyone under, what, 30 ?

It was an instant sensation, topping the charts and earning comparisons to everyone from Prince to Michael Jackson to Sam Cooke.

It remains an audacious début that brought soul music into the eighties, with hits like “If You Let Me Stay,” “Wishing Well,” “Sign Your Name,” and the Smokey-through-Michael-Jackson cover “Who’s Loving You.” The importance of the music was matched by the self-importance of its creator: D’Arby claimed that his album was the most monumental piece of pop music since “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” and used nearly every interview to anoint himself a peerless genius. He looked good, a sort of asexual being as was the trend of that era.

Two years later, there was another record, “Neither Fish Nor Flesh,” a compelling sidestep that frontloaded three long ballads, and, as a result, blunted the force of the balance of the album, which consisted of powerful, soulful, and funky compositions that were every bit the equal of the début (“This Side of Love” remains one of his finest moments).

The mixed reception to the record also effectively killed D’Arby’s commercial momentum. Then there were two more records, “Symphony or Damn,” in 1993, and “TTD’s Vibrator,” in 1995, uneven releases that seemed, at the time, like object lessons in diminishing returns. D’Arby didn’t want to play the superstar game, at least the way it was supposed to be played; he could be silly one moment and solemn the next, and he had a penchant for releasing singles with B-sides that were little more than wordless piano improvisations.

And then he vanished, or so it seemed.

When D’Arby returned, in 2001, he had a new album, an independently released opus called “Wildcard” that included a soaring opener, “O Divina,” and songs co-written with hit-makers like Glen Ballard and Dallas Austin. But he wasn’t Terence Trent D’Arby anymore.

Or, rather, he was and he wasn’t.

The album was released under both that name and the name Sananda Maitreya (which he had adopted during his years away from recording, and which he legally took in 2001). “Wildcard” was re-released in 2002, and this time there was no trace of Terence Trent D’Arby: it was a Sananda Maitreya album in full. He was typically maximalist in his explanation of the change: “Terence Trent D’Arby was dead,” he said. “He watched his suffering as he died a noble death. After intense pain I meditated for a new spirit, a new will, a new identity.”

There were other changes, too.

After the slow demise of his major-label career, Maitreya moved to Munich and then Milan, where he settled in 2002. The following year, he married the Italian architect and television host Francesca Francone. Many artists of his (former) stature would have stopped making music, or contented themselves with nostalgia tours, belting out lazily played arrangements of “Wishing Well” for decades.

But Maitreya was as stubborn and ambitious as D’Arby had been. In Milan, he started to make music again, creating it mostly on his own (he borrowed the “Written, Arranged, Produced, and Performed” credit from Prince). He distributed his songs primarily through his Web site, occasionally packaging them into multi-phase albums and selling CDs. It took him a while to develop a working pace and a release schedule, but once he did, he created as much as he ever had: “Angels and Vampires, Volume 1” came out in 2005; “Angels and Vampires, Volume 2,” the next year; “Nigor Mortis,” in 2009; and “The Sphinx,” in 2011.

All of the albums were proudly unclassifiable, veering between straightforward soul ballads, idiosyncratic experiments, personal confessions, and instrumental fragments. “Nigor Mortis,” for example, had a wordy bit of neo-soul (“This Town”), a jazzy dissection of intimacy in relationships (“A Wife Knows”), and a bit of raga-flavored hard rock (“Mrs. Gupta”). Along the way, Maitreya also created a mini genre of similarly titled odes to various women, possibly mythological (not just “O Divina” but, also, “O Lovely Gwenita,” “Ooh Carolina,” and “O Jacaranda,” which he rhymes with “I wanna be your panda,” a reasonable request).

They weren’t records that major labels would have released, or could have.

In 2013, right on schedule, Maitreya released “Return to Zooathalon,” a sprawling album that’s just as baffling, uneven, and wonderful as his best work. Listing its influences is exhausting: there’s Beatles and Stones and Motown and Sam Cooke and Prince, of course, but there’s also plenty of jazz and prog, not to mention yacht rock and arena rock.

At twenty-two songs, in fact, there’s a little bit of everything. There’s a two-part “Stagger Lee,” which has little to do with the classic Lloyd Price song and everything to do with gritty soul, something he still excels at more than a quarter-century after his début. There’s a cracked self-portrait (“Mr. Gruberschnickel”), a broken love song based on a preposterous pun (“Tequila Mockinbird”), a scene piece worthy of Jimmy Webb (“Albuquerque”), and a pair of instrumental compositions to wrap the whole thing up, one for kazoo (“D.H.S.”) and the other for piano (“The Last Train To Houston”).

What there is, mostly, is a conspicuous commitment to artwork and the messy, miraculous process of creation, which is a strange thing to say about a pop album at this point in time. How does the earnest, open-hearted “Free To Be” sit comfortably next to the surging, bitter “Kangaroo” (“Will I ever learn to jump like you?”)? It doesn’t, and that’s one of the album’s greatest assets. Throughout, pop melodies are wrapped around lyrics so specific and idiosyncratic that they demand (and reward) repeated listenings.

And there’s a song to a woman, of course: “Ornella Or Nothing,” which sings the praises of a girl who “punches poets just to keep it real” and features one of the loveliest choruses of his career. More than a decade after leaving American and British soul stardom behind,

Maitreya still has it all, at least artistically.

To us he will always be that Terence Trent D'Arby. Life is complicated isn't it?

The words are those of Ben Greenman in The New Yorker from June 2013. I added exactly three sentences

Brain Drain

It was just an ordinary looking inspection hatch cover at the back of the flagstone yard of the small terraced house. 

I stood and thought about whether the corroded rim of the cover would prove too much of an obstacle in trying to lift it. In many similar urban surroundings the householders would have little or no reason to raise the cover unless there were clear signs of a problem such as a blockage causing an overflow, an unpleasant back seepage or the persistence of a bad, drainy smell.

Placing my weight on it I sensed a slight pivot and rocking motion.That was an encouraging indication of a loose joint and not a seized-up one. 

Next stage was to attempt the lift. 

I was cautious with good cause as on a number of occasions I had suffered trapped fingers, grazed knuckles and had even fallen painfully into a gaping chamber when the flimsy galvanised lid had collapsed under my weight. A one legged descent whilst leaving the other foot at ground level was most unpleasant. 

The insertion of a screwdriver gave some leverage to the heavy hatch and I carefully found a resting position for it, just about vertical on the long outer edge. The effort was well rewarded with a beautiful example of late Victorian domestic drainage.

In fact, in almost 30 years in pursuit of drain covers and their contents I can honestly say that the big reveal was of the best systems that I have come across.

In many similar urban and inner city locations the old drains and drain runs have had to be renewed in order to cope with multiple new installations.

A typical middle class Victorian house would be likely to still have one toilet as would a more Artisan dwelling although importantly the more expensive property would have an indoor one. Modern lifestyles have dictated that most homes, regardless of size and calibre have at least two WC's although with en suites and guest bedrooms this could easily be more. Add to the foul drainage the potential levels of surface water in a combined system and multiplied within a closely packed street any existing drains could easily become overwhelmed.

I had first hand experience of this at my own home a few years ago when heavy rainfall heaved up an otherwise hefty hatch as though it were made of cardboard. The outpouring of effluent was frightening but countered by the look of embarrassment on a neighbours face when a few used contraceptive sheaths slowly bubbled up and floated out into the garden.She must have recognised them.

Back to this subterranean discovery.

The house the drains served was built in 1891. I must, retrospectively, pay my respects to the Civil Engineering of the original contractors as the brickwork to the chamber looks almost brand new and not two centuries back.

The best bits were right at the bottom. The benching is in a wonderful honey hued glazed brick with chamfered edges with no visible erosion or degrading in the constantly damp environment. The drain run itself is similarly glazed in chocolate brown and reflected back the mid morning sun that had found its way into that dark, dank hole.

My favourite bit of exposing  drains is dashing into a property and flushing a toilet before rushing back out to see what is happening.

In this case the flood of toilet duck infused water shot down the course and disappeared into the mains system under some distant street. The point of convergence of a smaller surface water drain should have had a ceramic plug arrangement as original detail to deter rats from clambering up into the house by this route but such a thing was missing.

In all, a superb surviving example of craftsmanship and function. I reluctantly lowered the heavy cover wondering if I would ever see the like again in my lifetime.

Coasting

How much is a sea view worth?

I have often been asked that question in the course of my Professional work as a Valuer.

This regular quizzing goes with the territory that I cover which includes some of the most breathtaking and dramatic stretches of coastline in the UK. Take the magnificent beaches and cliffs of North Yorkshire from the river inlet at Saltsend to the towering cliffs at Ravenscar. In between are the bustling whaling Port of Whitby and a precariously perched Robin Hoods Bay.

Southwards there are the twin sweeping bays of Scarborough, overlooked by the ruins of the Castle and then down to the genteel Filey. Bempton Cliffs are amongst some of the highest in Britain, a mass of nesting migratory birds. From the chalk headland of Flamborough towards the traditional resort town of Bridlington there is a distinct change in the scenery where the sea meets the land.

The sometimes dazzling chalk gives way to lower, squat cliffs in boulder clay, which run all of the way down to the fickle and transitory Spurn Point at the mouth of the Humber Estuary.

There lies the problem. Boulder Clays.

These originate from the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last Ice Age having been bulldozed along under the vast, slow moving ice sheet from many distant locations. At their heart, the boulder clays are not to be relied upon as either sound or sturdy.

It is a geographical anomaly that there are, between the Esk at Whitby and the Humber no actual rivers or notable watercourses discharging into the North Sea. If there had been such features then there would be a likelihood of silts and deposits washing out and then transported southwards in a bolstering and reinforcing effect to the shoreline.

The absence of alluvial material means that the relentless drive of the sea strips away and erodes the cliffs with little resistance possible.

The boulder clays are also prone to softening and slumping when saturated by surface water.

The two pronged attack by the elements and tides has, since the documented record of the 1086 Domesday Book led to sections of the East Yorkshire coastline receding by three miles, or at the break-neck pace of 1 mile every three hundred years or so.

I was talking just this week to the owner of a cliff top caravan park at Ulrome, just to the south of Bridlington on the boulder clays. He manages a diminishing business as he loses three metres of his static pitches at a time, not per year, but seemingly at the whim of nature.

This has prompted the Local Authority to allow him permission for a caravan site in an inland area where this had previously been denied so that the current location can be abandoned shortly.

I have worked along the coast for the last thirty years. It was a nice treat in a busy day to pull in at a clifftop cafe for a quick cuppa and enjoy the view out to sea but two of my regular establishments have long since been undermined and toppled the 5 metres down onto the beach.

Other properties are still at risk of going the same way but with little prospect of financial assistance if owners have the misfortune of living on a part of the coastline which is not strategic enough to be defended. It would be inconceivable if purchased some 30 years ago that a holiday home, seasonal let or retirement bungalow then a few fields away from the lovely beach would one day actually contribute to the composition of pebbles and sand.

There are some specific sections of the boulder clay cliffs that the Environment Agency have designated as a priority for protection.

I stood rather whimsically on the clifftop two days ago just on the northern edge of the town of Hornsea.

I had just run my tape measure from the living room window of a sea-front bungalow to the position of a low picket fence on the edge of the vertical drop onto the beach.

Mine was a repeat exercise that I had done about 10 years ago for a property in the same cul de sac location.

A faded page in an old notebook was consulted.

There was no difference in the measurement at all over the intervening years.

I was pleased with myself for what would pass as a bit of Professionalism in my work and no doubt impress my clients who were considering buying the bungalow.

The current owners had watched me nervously from the window. I was fully expecting that old question about the value of a sea view . Perhaps more to the point I prepared myself to recount to them what was certainly the good news that, for the time being, the bungalow was stable and saleable.

In surveying that scene on a calm, bright day I provided a definitive answer to that old chestnut of a question; the infinity effect of the cliff top garden above the North Sea, remained priceless.

Me. Inc

It is that time of the year when the autumn TV schedules begin.

It is depressing when you realise that the featured programmes will run through to mid to late December when there will be the utmost in cheesiness and false sentiments in the end of season Christmas Special.

One regular in the UK schedules is The Apprentice, a franchised programme that is run in many different countries, perhaps the most sensational, and all for the wrong reasons, being that with Donald Trump as the potential Corporate Employer and Role Model for aspiring businessmen and women in the United States.

The British version with Lord Sugar to be wooed for a share in a new joint enterprise has in recent series included wannabe or shamelessly self promoting entrepreneurs and larger than life individuals who, as they say, talk the talk but very rarely are able to walk the walk.

On this very theme I have come across, on a blog/forum entitled Bullshit Jobs, a do-it-yourself assembly job title generator which has potential to be very entertaining were it not for the fact that I regularly have contact with individuals who seem to have got to it first to justify their workplace roles.

Just take one title per column which I have called Principal Role (Column 1), Departmental Role (Column 2) and Funtion (Column 3) and have a go at giving yourself a fearsome status which carries influence and importance whether you are one lowly cog in a faceless Corporate Machine or self employed working from your own spare bedroom.

Thank you for your attention,

Yours sincerely,

Me,

Dynamic Infrastructure Co-ordinator

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Heads Up

Do you feel that some people, in particular academics and scientists, just have too much time on their hands?

I get that impression from the number and subject matter of studies that emerge from such sources on a wide range of topics, many downright obvious or blatantly ridiculous. These have included the optimal way to dunk a biscuit, on the collapse of public toilets in Glasgow, whether the wagging tails of catfish cause Japanese earthquakes and the conclusion that people who claim to have been kidnapped by aliens probably were.

Very much in the same field was a scientific paper that was published some time in 2013 by researchers in New Zealand.

It looked into the evolution of the facial expressions printed on Lego mini people—those one and half-inch toy figurines that come with Lego sets.

The time and effort put into the study demonstrated that Lego faces have become much more diverse in the past 35 years. Perhaps even more alarming was the finding that Lego is making more angry-looking mini-figures than ever before, to a point where the proportion of angry faces rivals that of happy ones.

The motivation behind the research is not, at first, clear.

We all know from our childhoods and even in later adult life about the therapeutic importance of old fashioned playing with Lego. Whether aged 10 or 50 I have spent many hours just swilling about in a carpet-dumped mound of the multi-coloured bricks with no particular final structure in mind but just perfectly happy messing about with different sizes and shapes. The tiny lego people are the finishing accessories to populate that town house, drive the fantastical off road vehicle, pilot the spaceship or sail the oceans in a sort of hybrid house/vehicle/ufo ship.

Unfortunately those purporting to have read and subjected the Lego expression report to close scrutiny did appear to be very much conspiracy theorists in that they came to the conclusion that the transition in facial expressions from vacant to demonic could have a damaging affect on children and their emotional development.

Typical media headlines following the publication of the report included

“Are angry Legos harming our children?,”
 “Lego study Reveals angry faces on toys could influence your child’s negative behaviour,” and
 “Lego creating more angry faces and it could harm children’s development.”

Those behind the study were astounded by this media interpretation of the research.

It was never intended, they stated, to be a definitive psychological, sociological or behavioural treatise. Rather it was just a bit of an eccentric,  quirky LEGO study, part of the team's larger research effort to simply categorise LEGO people.

In fact, the study did not involve children in any capacity, either playing or giving that uniquely honest opinion that only children can.

What is more worrying is that the sensationalist headlines that subsequently alarmed parents and responsible adults about Denmark's greatest gift to humanity were obviously a consequence of those in the media not being bothered about even reading the study.

In fact the Lego study proved more valuable as an ollustration of the lackadaisical and complacent attitude of the media.

The New Zealand researchers seem to have conducted another study in that they claimed that only 20 percent of reporters read the study beforehand and then the bad ones just copied what everybody else was writing.

This is unfortunate, because the findings of the study were interesting in their own right. Here are some of the main findings;

i)The imaginary LEGO world has become increasingly more complex.
ii)LEGO minifigures no longer fall squarely in classic “good” and “evil” categories as children can now interact with scared-looking heroes or villains with “superior smiles.”
iii)LEGO is now producing more faces with different facial expressions than ever before. This might actually be a cost-cutting measure, the scientists say, where creating different face prints is likely less expensive than creating new torso prints.

Finally a group of adults were asked to analyse the facial expressions printed on LEGO people manufactured between 1975 and 2010, The scientists found that adults interpreted LEGO emotions differently when the heads where placed on a body—giving the facial expressions more context—than when viewed unattached. Adding a body decreased the frequency of how often adults categorised a face as disgusted, sad or surprised.

If parents are truly worried about the impact of angry-faced LEGO on their children they can opt to follow the wisdom of a LEGO communications manager who summed up the simplicity and innocence of the toy in advising  “just switch heads with another figure.”

Sources; Scientific American 2013, My children's Lego collection

Posh Spice

Yes, I knew about and ate at Yankeeburger in Hull.

I include the old place in the city centre and when the business with its longstanding owner and proprietor made quite a revolutionary flit, at that time, to the Gipsyville suburb, well before an out of town location became necessary.

Unfortunately it didn't last much longer at the new place. This may have been down to the previously loyal customers not being able or perhaps now willing to make that trip, about 4 miles out even though they will have been lifetime converts to the Yankeeburger Burgers and fries.

It was a sad sight indeed to see the pink Corvette, a real model, stranded and vandalised on the roof of the building as it stood boarded up before eventual demolition to make way for an Ambulance Depot.

There may not be any physical signs left of that establishment and although the delicious Yankeeburger menu and the memory of the circumstances, which accompanied a visit, whether a night out in the city centre, a family gathering or other celebration, still give a warm, fond, fuzzy feeling there is one important surviving aspect- call it a legacy, a bit of popular heritage, a cultural icon even.

It is, of course, American Chip Spice. For those who do not come from the city of Hull or have not visited long enough to purchase a portion of chips will need to be told about it.

American Chip Spice is an American-style seasoning salt intended for chips, french fries,barbecues,burgers and more! 

Originating in Kingston upon Hull, East Yorkshire in the North East of England  today it is most commonly available in chip shops and takeaways in the Hull and East Yorkshire area and has cult status among locals and people that at one time have lived in the area.

For all of the fuss it actually consists of a small amount of ingredients.

In the current health conscious climate that we have descended into the original core constituents of Salt, Paprika, Tomato Powder, Ground Celery, Monosodiumglutamate, Onion and Garlic may be frowned upon. Salt content was reduced through Government Legislation and celery phased out as it caused allergic reactions in some.  What other elements may already be on the the radar for a campaign by a celebrity or the like to be banned altogether?

So what does it taste like?

It is a little peppy, like paprika but the exotic chip spice has a more potent taste, importantly without being sweat inducing or suppressing the food on which it is liberally sprinkled. Above all do not be alarmed by its very bright orange hue.

The actual idea for the savoury condiment came from a Hull couple who ran a spice blending company. They had come across the idea of spiced salt and paprika based seasoning, while visiting the United States in the late 70s. The concept was developed at their small food seasoning company, which supplied similar products to butchers and the food service industry both locally and nationally.

It then made its way to Yankeeburger in 1979 and the rest is legend.

By 1991 another food seasoning company existed in Hull, Phoenix Select, which had developed and was producing its very own Chip Spice recipe, which was sold under the name Yankee Chip Spice. Rather than there being a "spice wars" in the city, they hoped to tap into the ever increasing demand in the market for the spice. As chip shops and take-away outlets around the city took to adding Chip Spice to their range of condiments they also began to offer it to their customers. By 1992, there were two rival spice blends in the city.

Both recipes changed over time, as salt was reduced, due to "sodium legislation" and the ground celery was removed, due to its classification as an allergen. Phoenix Select was sold to a global American food company in 2013 and ceased trading in the city, and Yankee Chip Spice was discontinued as a product.
However American Chip Spice from Spice Blenders went on from strength to strength with the brand retained by its developers and now sold in ASDA, Morrison's and various other outlets mainly in and around Hull.

It is set to become an important feature in the forthcoming status of Hull as UK City of Culture in 2017.

Main facts taken from Weird Retro

Middle Earth

He has no perceivable form of income.

Yet, he resides in a hillside property which, if profiled on Zoopla, has an estimated market value of one and a half million pounds. It is a grand design of a place in the true sense of the word.  I suppose it is conceivable that he may have remortgaged it or even sold it and has a rental contract to occupy it on favourable terms, hence the impression of self sufficiency in monetary terms that comes with being cash rich and solvent.

He may have invested the capital receipt in return for an annuity. I cannot hazard a guess as to his age, perhaps anywhere between 30 and 120 years old and he could be drawing a pension if in the latter part of that range.

His impression of affluence may be based on an inherited fortune from his family but apart from a bit of agricultural activity there is not really any sustainable employment in the immediate area of the local shire.

I am aware of some great wealth on his mothers side, herself a great character and benefactor in the countryside, villages and towns and much admired and loved for all that. Although to all intents and purposes a self made man and with more than enough leisure time at his disposal he keeps himself active and engaged with his neighbours and friends, although one and the same.

A small circle of longstanding and trusted acquaintances regularly call in at the house and are well received with cups of tea and home made buns and cakes. There is no faulting his sense of occasion, tradition and hospitality. It must be difficult, however, for him to be truly at ease with a degree of local celebrity because at heart he is a very shy, retiring and private person.

The philosophy by which he leads his life is just to be kind and receptive to others as you would expect yourself to be treated by them. On warm, sunny days he can be seen sat on his terrace with a well stoked pipe and obviously enjoying the precious moments afforded by his status.

His eccentricities are characterful whereas in others they would be regarded as fairly revolting. Shoes have never dressed his feet and from the tramping of many miles the soles are leathery and hard and the uppers with matted, dusty and very, very thick hair. Fashion wise he just blends in with the locals , tweed and check dominate in his attire. The cloth is of exceptional quality but nevertheless shiny and threadbare to the elbows and knees.

You could set your pocket watch by his routine and behaviour not just to the second, minute and hour but to the decade and not beyond the imagination, to the century.

It was therefore a bit of a shock to me when I called around to his house to find a note to the effect that he had left on an adventure.

That was most unlike my good friend Bilbo Baggins.

Heapsters

It may prove to be a huge contribution to the lives of hard pressed parents and disgruntled babies.

I am prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt.

The double Grammy and 2010 Ivor Novello Award winner Imogen Heap has collaborated with others on producing a song designed and crafted to make babies, well, just happy.

‘The Happy Song’as it is aptly titled includes audio elements and sounds measured to produce happiness in infants and something about it must have struck a chord as just this week it has reached first place in the iTunes Children’s Music Song Charts.

The Happy Song is the first-ever song scientifically tested to makes babies happy.

BETC London an advertising agency, Goldsmiths psychologists Caspar Addyman and Lauren Stewart, and Felt Music all collaborated with Heap to produce the song.

The song was designed to be jolly, and thus, bring babies happiness.

1,000 parents also signed up to work on The Happy Song project. They named noises in a Cow & Gate baby club survey that made their own babies cheerful. As a result, only the most popular noises made it onto the track. Sneezing was first with 51%, baby laughter was second with 28%, and animal sounds took third at 23%. Strangely, aeroplane noises were also nominated and one of my personal favourites, the good old "boo" also made it into the mix.

As is to be expected and given my own parental experience of the short attention span of babies the Happy Song is not lengthy. It is in fact short, roughly around 2-and-a-half minutes in duration.

The idea is that it takes babies on a melodic journey of cute lyrics and funny sounds.  They include going to the sky ,down to the ocean, on a bike, submarine, and even on a rocket.

In addition, the song also features a 4/4 tempo, chosen due to its immense popularity. Heap took the decision to compose the song in E flat as this was the first note her two-year old daughter, Scout, sang during the first studio session.

Here is the science bit.

The psychologists advised on the need to balance simplicity to create anticipation and surprise, making recommendations on melody and rhythmic flow as well as tempo, chords and pitch to prioritise elements that would put babies in the most positive mood.

One of the advertising agency Press Releases states that "the Sound of Happy project is one of the ways that the Cow and Gate Baby Club are exploring the world of happiness"

Music has been a strong theme of previous C&G work, notably the TV campaign featuring 90 toddlers in a Supergroup playing the classic Dexy's track of "Come on Eileen" .

The project was specifically designed to produce a song that felt like the best way to engage with parents. It has obviously helped that  the campaign are giving the song out for free to make it even more accessible.

All I can say from my own parenting is that this may mark the sad end for Marmite sandwiches, a sandpit and Led Zeppelin's Greatest Hits in the lives of future generations of toddlers.

Sorry, but I can't be bothered to provide a link to the baby song.

Give it some Welly

I came across an interesting piece of memorabilia today in the form of a small framed handbill or leaflet.

This will have been put on display in Police Station's all around the country or in prominent public places. It is simple but effective in its message. The reason for the leaflet captured the attention of the nation and although now largely forgotten it has certainly earned a place in folklore and populist history.

It refers to a Portrait of the illustrious Duke of Wellington  by the renowned Spanish artist Francisco Goya and depicts the military commander and later statesman during the Peninsular War between Napoleon and the alliance of Britain, Spain and Portugal.

One of three portraits Goya painted of Wellington, it was begun in 1812, after his entry into Madrid, showing him as an earl in red uniform and wearing the Peninsular Medal. The artist then modified it in 1814 to show him in full dress black uniform with gold braid and to add the Order of the Golden Fleece and Military Gold Cross with three clasps bringing the picture fully up to date at the time.

The portrait was put up for auction in 1961 by its owner, John Osborne, the 11th Duke of Leeds. A New York based collector Charles Wrightsman , keen to purchase , was the favoured bidder at £140,000 which is the equivalent today of nearly three million pounds. Such was the importance of the portrait to the Britain that  the Wolfson Foundation offered £100,000 and the Govement added a special Treasury grant of £40,000, matching Wrightsman's bid and so securing  it for the National Gallery in London. It was first displayed on 2 August 1961.

Nineteen days later, on 21 August 1961 it was stolen.

The theft entered popular culture, as it was referenced in the 1962 James Bond film Dr. No. In the film, the painting was on display in Dr. Julius No's lair, suggesting the first Bond villain had stolen the work.

The actual story is quite interesting.

Kempton Cannon Bunton was a disabled British pensioner, aged 57, who allegedly stole Goya's Portrait of the Duke of Wellington from the National Gallery.

His motivation, he claimed, had been anger at the apparent waste of taxpayers money on the purchase when he, on his low income after working as a bus driver, struggled to pay his televison licence.

According to his own account, from conversations with the gallery guards, Bunton learned that the elaborate electronic security system, of infrared sensors and alarms, was deactivated in the early morning to allow for cleaning. Bunton claimed that, on the early morning of 21 August 1961, he had loosened a window in a toilet and entered the gallery. He had then prised off the framed painting from the display and escaped via the window.

Such was the apparent skill behind the theft that the police initially assumed that an expert art thief was responsible. In the days after the portrait disappeared a letter was received by the Reuters news agency requesting a donation of £140,000 to charity to pay for TV licences for poorer people and demanding an amnesty for the thief, for which the painting would be returned. The request was declined.

In 1965, four years after the theft, Bunton contacted a newspaper, and through a left-luggage office at Birmingham New Street railway station, returned the painting voluntarily. Six weeks later, he gave himself up to the police, who initially discounted him as a suspect, considering the unlikeliness of a now 61-year-old retiree, weighing 17 stone , carrying out such a high profile heist.

His story and a degree of sympathy amongst the public for Bunton led the jury in the Court Case to convict Bunton only of the theft of the frame, which had not been returned.

Bunton's defence team, led by Jeremy Hutchinson QC (also notable for his involvement on the defence team at the Lady Chatterley trial), successfully claimed that Bunton never wanted to keep the painting, thus meaning he could not be convicted of stealing it. Bunton was sentenced to three months in prison.

Section 11 of the Theft Act 1968, which made it an offence to remove without authority any object displayed or kept for display to the public in a building to which the public have access, was enacted as a direct result of the case.

In 1996 documents released by the National Gallery implied that another individual may have carried out the actual theft, and then passed the painting to Bunton.

Bunton's son John was mentioned.

In 2012 the National Archives released a confidential file from the Director of Public Prosecutions in which Bunton's son John had confessed to the theft following his arrest in 1969 for an unrelated minor offence.

John Bunton said that his father had intended to use the painting as part of his campaign and that it would ultimately have been returned to the National Gallery. He said that both he and his brother, Kenneth, had been ordered by their father not to come forward despite the trial.

Sir Norman Skelhorn, the Director of Public Prosecutions, told the police that John Bunton’s admission of guilt was almost certainly not sufficient to prosecute him. Skelhorn also advised that it would be difficult to prosecute Bunton senior for perjury as the prosecution would have to rely on the evidence of the son, who was clearly an unreliable witness. No further action was taken.

Bunton senior died in Newcastle upon Tyne in 1976.

Park and (Taken for a) Ride

There are many urban myths around the annual event of Hull Fair in East Yorkshire, UK.

It is the largest travelling funfair in Europe and for 8 days and nights it occupies its longstanding site on Walton Street just to the west of the central city area. Many who make a point of attending the inaugural evening have to consider the urban myth that they are in  fact just guinea pigs to check that, under a full compliment of riders and passengers, all of the nuts and bolts have been tightened up, the safety bars and cages are indeed secure and the complex electronics and controls of the latest technologically sophisticated attractions are working as they have been designed for.

The first night has not been without danger and tragedy in the past with well documented accidents and incidents but given the enforcement and sanctions that are an integral part of modern health and safety culture these are very much diminished and this year, as far as I am aware, the Fair passed without any thing to report by way of injury.

Other myths revolve around the food stalls that are very much a tradition amongst the pastimes and recreations.

Take one of the most famous purveyors of Fair fare, the home grown Bob Carvers Emporium. His reputation of providing good old grub has been established through his city centre shops for decades. A Saturday night out on the town would not be complete without his fish and chips after pub closing time, the cooking fat soaking through the newspaper and putting your best going-out clothes and taxi upholstery at risk of reasonable salvage.

The stall bearing Carver's livery and under startlingly bright floodlights is always crowded with hundreds queuing up for the signature dish of gritty chips, mushy peas and a pattie.

In my early years in Hull I regularly heard stories about the reason for the gritty texture of the famous chips. This could range from the use of poor quality potatoes in rotten or bruised skins to the failure of Carver's Staff to actually clean the soil and field debris from the newly delivered stock. What the chips were cooked in was also a matter of speculation from second hand fat to the positively unthinkable.

I actually stumbled across the true reason for the distinctive crunchiness of the chips when, in Hull Fair week, I was stuck behind a pick-up truck with the open load bay full of plastic bins of cut chips just barely covered in scummy water. I could see the surface of the bins collecting the particulates of pollution as the vehicle crawled through the traffic congestion, generally worse than usual because of the road closures and volumes of Fair-goers. Although very evident as the source of the unusual texture I still made sure that a Carver's supper was on of my first purchases at the Fair.

The huge exodus of the public to the Walton Street venue produces its own problems in terms of transport and parking.

In recent years a Park and Ride Service has been laid on from the western suburbs and this has proven popular as trying to find any parking place for the duration of a visit to the Fair is very difficult.

The surrounding streets are full of just residents cars and there is a high possibility of getting a parking ticket if frustration just leads you to abandon your vehicle anywhere.

Enterprising businesses within a short walk of the Fairground and with an empty out of hours Car Park or spaces can cash in on the demand with anything from £3 to £5 charged for a 2 to 4 hour session.

I was talking to a property owner just yesterday, a mere 4 days after the travelling entourage of the Fair had dispersed for their winter holidays or to move to the next pitch.

His large double fronted house within 100 metres of Walton Street was being renovated and so was vacant. A Contractors van had damaged the side gates to the rear yard and this meant that there was nothing in place to stop Fairgoers, if they were minded to do so, from using the spacious yard as impromptu and free parking.

The man and his wife made their way to the property on the thursday evening or day 6 of Hull Fair. The trip was to include their usual check over the premises but also with the intention of enjoying all the fun of the Fair.

At the side drive of the house there was a dark clad figure and next to him a neatly hand written sign of "Hull Fair Secure Parking £5".

This shocked the couple and even more so the gesturing of the self styled attendant to move along and find a space before paying him.

They pulled up alongside the house, in effect blocking in the 8 or more cars already using the facility.

When challenged by the couple if this was with the owner's consent the positive was offered most enthusiastically.

"If that is the case then I am due half of your takings as I am the owner"

There followed a swift legging it of the individual down the street and out of sight.

Syd. The Diary. #2

July 2016

I am such a busy bod. Early July and Grandpa carries me around shoulder high. My world looks really good from up there. His head is a bit like mine at the moment. I go to see the new house of Uncle Chris and Auntie Sarina but their Astroturf messes with my perception of what grass should be. I am posed for a photo between two strange country folk, beardy weirdos in the garden. My diet is amazing and I drink some water melon juice for the first time. I just want to be into everything but Dad says that I should not touch the artwork in galleries. That's no fun at all. I cannot see the attraction of just standing and looking at that fine art stuff. Mum and Dad remain entertaining and at the Oxo Tower we play see saw. We all flop out together when they get over tired.

August 2016

That Ragnar Kjartansson is something else and the Barbican exhibition is quite inspiring if you like roody doodies.  It is Dad's Birthday this month and I offer to shell out at The Hoxton but pockets on baby clothes must be an extra spec. I get to see some interesting buildings like the Serpentine Pavilion. Give me a couple of years and I'll be able to climb up that easy.  I'm globetrotting again and I get some pool time in Tarragona in that Spain place. My RUN DMC tee shirt goes down well with my posse. The beach sun is really hot . Bods with my complexion have to cover up well. It is a nice time with Mum and Dad.

September 2016

Where have cup cakes been for the first 11 months of my life? They are scrummy.  I am now able to stand up at the rides and things in my local park. I am under pressure to decide on a football team to support. Dad says Liverpool and Grandpa Simpson likes Queen Spark Angels and a team called Right-on. It's full on with fashion and I am already at my second Preen show held in a long corridor this time.  At the end of the month I tag along at a grown-up's holiday by the seaside in Kent. There is a funny stretched out hairy dog on the guest list called Archie. He has a damp smell when he comes in from a walk. "The Gang" as they call themselves act a bit silly but it is lovely to see Mum and Dad relax. I am not sure about floorboards where they are just painted over.

October 2016

Small coloured flags appear in the holiday house. There must have been some power cuts or a pay rise for those in "The Gang" just about January 2015 as Nilou, Margie and Izzy are all the same age as me  Does that make us baby boomers?  I have a nice long run up to my Big Day with a full weekend of activities in West Sussex and Nanna has made an escape from Up North to join us all.

It is all balloons and cake for me. The presents are amazing and I shall have great fun with all of them, but especially the noisiest.

I am now One and everything is possible, or at least after my nap.

Syd. The Diary #1

Syd's Year as portrayed on Instagram

October 2015

I was born to Jo and Mark, the two most stylish parents a boy could hope for. One of my earliest memories is my Dad wearing a stripey T shirt whilst he gazed with an amazed look at what he had done. Horizontal red stripes must be a family thing as one of my first photo's is wearing a one-piece wrapped in a beautifully knitted blanket of golden brown. I must have really shaken up Mum and Dad's lifestyle and so made a point of keeping them awake as much as possible. Grandma came to see me with Grandpa. Thanks to more knitting skills I must have been the only new born with 5 pairs of booties. By the 30th October I was out and about in my manor, Hackney wrapped up warm against the autumn chills. Some people say that parents live out their lost dreams through their children. That can be the only explanation for my skeleton onesie for something called Halloween and a scary carved orange gourd with my name in a Hollywood style font.

November 2015

Switching to a black and white media I show my tiny toes to the world and then out again to London Fields to exercise parents. Mum and Dad have a great line in hats and big coats. We look really good as a family unit. A lot of the time I seem to be modelling a knitwear range by my talented Grandma, I must check to see if I am on a royalty based contract. The chunky cable knit is a particular favourite of mine. I go on adventures in the buggie with Grandma and Grandad and we go to Hampstead Heath. On 7th November I am issued with an official Certificate of Birth. Me and dad stand in front of some big blue metal sheet doors and a lot of graffitti. Must be Dalston. I get more lovely presents, good designer and vintage stuff. I like to hang out with Grandad who is cool. I look really cute when I am asleep although that can take a long time. I get to meet Sunday Flower Boy but haven't a clue who is hiding behind the bouquet. The Syd Lectures #1 are published on 20th November.

December 2015

4am, a popular time for me to wake up the whole house is very dark this month. My "Good job" babygrow gets some use and is a great combo with a hand knitted yellow bobble hat. Uncle Adam is brought in to give Mum and Dad some so called "quality time" and we go graffitti hunting. I dress up as a teddy bear for no special reason, but who needs one. A green tree thing appears in the house and is soon covered in bright shiny things. Something is happening soon and I am excited. It is quite cold now and I am thankful for good quality knitwear. Franklin comes to tea a week before this Christmas thing. I seem to have two residences, London and the South Coast. My first Christmas is 20th December ahead of a lot of travelling and socialising. Aunty Susan gave me an Elf hat and I show off in a moose motif onesie. Apparently the north of England also has a seaside which is also beautiful. I get to meet the rest of the Thomson's- a strange bunch indeed.

January 2016.

Back to normal as Nanna Thomson says a lot. I get back to my normal routes on the Regents Canal towpath and Victoria Park but start a new direction in fashion with my first fashion show and I'm only 3 months old. I like my new friend Alba but am not thinking of anything serious at this stage. Quite a busy month.

February 2016

My gorgeous new sleep wear is in the style of Wee Willy Winky. I must be on a fast track programme as I am swimming by early february although a purple ruff float is not very becoming. My introduction to Modern Art is at Whitechapel Gallery. Not that impressed I must say.  Invited to a Preen Fashion Show and I am not out of place. Those models could do with some Farleys Rusks as they look hungry. I am in demand from Uncle Adam to sort out his vinyl collection. On the last day of the month I go to Kew Gardens.

March 2016

My wardrobe is changing rapidly and I go a bit African thanks to someone going to Benin.  Good clothes mean you have to be seen and Grandpa takes me to dine out at Carluccios. I am doing the rounds at Mum's College and I am very popular. You have to work on personality though. Dad trusts me to be allowed to sit in the white car that gives off a lot of fumes, I think it is called a Folks Wagon. I am really starting to get my own things in the flat where I live. I must share with the likes of Dixie, Mia and Milun.

April 2016

My collection of cravats is now extensive, almost one for each week day which is fortunate as I am a bit of a dribbler, they say. I love my food! I am cuter by the minute.

May 2016

My passport arrives and the world is at my feet. Education first and I get an honarary toddler-ate at Mum's workplace. We leave for Spain soon and I am a little bit excited even though I am not sure what Spain are. Phoo, it is hot in somewhere called Asturias. I get my blanket on the beach before the German babies-yes! Sand gets everywhere and I mean everywhere. I learn a foreign language as in "hola, mi nombre es Senor Syd".

June 2016
Embarrassing photo taken under the caption of my New Romantic Phase. It is summer in London. Scorchio. Mum and Dad have an anniversary, 9 years. I am well good at sitting up now and everything is within reach. I discover the delights of avocado's.

July 2016
to be continued.....................................it's well past my bedtime.

The Penny Drops

We are not an adventurous family when the fun fair comes to town.

You will not find us on the high altitude, thrill a minute rides. We can easily give the Waltzers and even the traditional Carousel a miss. One year we managed to just get through an impulsive go on the Giant Ferris Wheel, but never again.

Don't be mistaken by this reticence and deep rooted fear as we are faithful fans and supporters of the great Hull Fair, reputed to be Europe's largest travelling event, when it sets up in the city in the second week of October.

Regardless of the weather we will be there to savour the sights, sounds and smells that assault the senses on all sides.

One attraction that we always get drawn to is a specific Amusement Arcade operated by the same family business that graces Hull Fair for as long as I can remember.

As if you already regard us as a bunch of meek and cowardly beings from our avoidance of the big noisy fairground rides I should reassure you that we do not gamble recklessly as though seeking some sort of self- affirmation.

The sole purpose of our visit to the arcade is to try to outwit, beat, conquer and defeat the Penny Falls machines. Often called Coin Drop Machines they are well known as a mainstay of Fairground Culture and have been for decades if not longer.

The English versions are typically operated using 10 pence coins as the maximum tariff but our particular challenge takes 2 pence coins.

Themed on  Post-War Americana, Elvis Presley or something anachronistic as the machines are evidently ancient they take a familiar physical form.

There are three coin slots within a stainless steel facade. A formed matrix draws the coins downwards before they cascade randomly onto the upper of two sliding shelves. Adding more coins, individually or using all three slots, is with the intention of shunting the upper tier coins over the edge and onto the lower shelf. This is where all of the action takes place with the tantalising promise of  Chupa Chup lollies, Refresher chewy sweets, plastic novelties, a high denomination bank note and , yes, multiple 2p coins being pushed into the prize slot to be gathered up with relish.

Our domestic budget during Hull Fair Week includes a fund for expenses at the Penny Falls.

We each collect our plastic bank-teller bags of a pounds worth of 2p coins and make a quick but calculating tour of the bank of gawdy and noisy, self promoting machines for a likely candidate for a concerted effort at swelling the family finances.

A feeling of anticipation and excitement always takes over at this point. It is all consuming and for the duration we are oblivious to anything else around us. In truth, the rest of the fair could have already packed up and departed for their next venue without us realising.

We are immersed in the Penny Falls and yet we are normally quite a rational bunch, not easily fooled, and the first to howl in disbelief at Tv programmes where individuals fall prey to scams, fiddles and tricksters.

We are in fact being bamboozled by one of the oldest and most lucrative of machines for fairground operators.

However hard you think about or hope for it, there is no freak of mathematical probability in the progression of the coins onto the sliding shelves.

Brian Cox, the physicist would be hard pressed to come up with an explanation for the apparent ability of the 500 coins, there assembled, to display a fluidity and yet no critical mass is reached which would result in a hoped for payout.

I think that even Albert Einstein would struggle to formularise the processes at play.

We still shovel the 2 pence coins into the slots.

One of our family is the designated runner who, when the plastic coin bags start to feel lighter in our hands, makes for the Change Booth to hand over more pound coins for fresh supplies.

In spite  of our manic and, let's face it, uncharacteristic behaviour for anywhere other than the Fairground, we do accept, somewhere in our collective hearts and minds that their is no actual material or tactical way to beat the Penny Falls.

It is a clever feature on the lower shelf that heralds our ultimate disappointment.

Just tucked away within the mirrored sheen of the shelf surround, on each side, are narrow holes. They may be concealed in the Hollywood-esque designs but are actually in full and plain sight.

These voids allow accumulated coins on the lower shelf to be cleaned away periodically so that new arrivals just seem to be absorbed into the precarious pile on the lip of the prize shute.

The manufacturers of Penny Falls play on a unique selling point in that the balance between coins played and those paid out can be adjusted to ensure profitability for the operator and yet give the by now obsessive player some sense of being rewarded.

Most manufacturers recommend a retention rate to the operator of around 72%.

We fully understand that the game works against us under the phenomena of diminishing returns but we can easily wile away a good half an hour in pursuit of any ultimately elusive recompense for our financial outlay.

That thirty minutes of together family fun makes the fair special and we would not, perhaps illogically, forfeit the same experience , year in ,year out.

It is all of the fun of the Fair.

Happy Daze

The genetic traits and gifts that I have inherited from my Grandparents and Parents are many and varied and all of them invaluable in defining who I am. I just hope that my own children feel they can say the same about my contribution to their lives and outlook.

I come from that most fortunate of generations, the so called Baby-Boomers, who retained strong links with their Grandparents and so benefitted from the wisdom, discipline, moral compass and frugality of those who had seen momentous times in social, economic and world history.

Perhaps using the word "seen" is a bit disrespectful as my Grandparents were not casual passengers to fate but actual participants in global conflicts, political and financial crises and all of these as a turbulent background to making their own way in the world.

My generation may have been the last to enjoy regular contact with the role models and solid citizens of my Grandparents era before the well catalogued decline in the family network which was inevitable under the pressures and stresses of modern society. I count myself as blessed in having had a conventional family tree with just the two traditional sets of Grandparents and the same Mother and Father on a continuous basis.

Many of my contemporaries saw a schism and fracture of their own family framework through divorce, absenteeism, bereavement and other forces at play which could inflict irreparable damage on relationships. I am not preaching or engaging in self congratulation because the human spirit is strong and resilient and people just get on with their lives and make the best of their situations.

Well, that is the heavy stuff covered.

I inherited from my maternal grandparents and through my Mother a musical, creative and artistic gene. It is there for sure although it has taken quite a bit of effort to squeeze anything remotely representative out of my body.

My Grandfather played in a brass band and I followed him into that great institution in playing the trumpet at school and then a cornet in the town silver band. I sat at the back of the brass section for a good few years with no real ambitions to progress beyond 3rd cornet. I regret my laziness as even that small town band travelled the length and breadth of the country playing in competitions and giving concerts to the public enjoying some success and acclaim.

I played at the de Montfort Hall in Leicester, in various Social Clubs and venues in the Nottinghamshire coalfield heartlands and at the end of Cleethorpes Pier. It was a good time.

I cannot think that today there would many opportunities to find such a wide and diverse range of individuals with the same age, social background, gender and skills profile as those who, on a weekly basis, occupied an upstairs backroom at a pub and belted out hymns, anthems, brass band classics and crowd-pleasers for the sheer enjoyment of it.

I must have been a bit of a waste of space on that back row and perhaps I may have been asked to leave as there was a flow of new , younger talent who were rapidly promoted above my lowly position and through the ranks, obviously with their ultimate goal being the prestigious 1st cornet seat. As it was my family moved out of the area and I could hand in my resignation saving some face and a semblance of pride.

The memories of my brass band years remain very strong.

I have very little by way of memento's of that period apart from a faded, once plush black dickie bow tie which formed part of the band uniform and an occasional persistent, raking cough. I put this down, nostalgically, to the extremely heavy cigarette smoke that had to be squinted through in order to see the Band Conductor at the likes of the Edwinstowe Miners Welfare Hall in the 1970's. Happy Daze.

Steiff Little Fingers

The following is my edited and re-worked version of a media report of what could be either a fascinating story or just a cynical marketing ploy to drum up business. It is based on an article produced for the BBC in 2011.

What became the famous Steiff Bear Company was originally established by seamstress Margarete Steiff in Germany in the 19th Century.

In 1880, needing a present for a nephew, she found a pattern for a toy elephant and made it from soft felt. Drawn to how soft and cuddly they were, children in the neighbourhood were soon asking for elephants too. She started to make the elephants alongside her dressmaking business but it was her nephew Richard Steiff who is thought to have come up with the idea of a toy bear.

As a student at art college in Stuttgart he used to visit the zoo and sketch the bears. At the zoo they had cross-bred brown bears with polar bears and these may have been the seed of the inspiration for the first life-like toy bear. Events on another continent however may have been the catalyst for Richard and his Ursus idea.

It all goes back, allegedly to President Theodore Roosevelt in the United States. In 1902 he was invited on a hunt and was presented with a captured and bound bear for him to shoot. He declined and the story made the headlines.

Simultaneously, inspired by this moral stand, Steiff and an American toy manufacturer brought out soft toys under the title of "Teddy's Bear" in or around 1902 to 1903.

The Steiff Bear was exhibited at a buyers fair in Leipzig  unromantically called PB-55 although logically referring to its height and with P for plush and B for beweglich, German for moveable.

What was thought to be the world's first teddy bear was not at all well received by the market and in frustration the display bears were reputedly sold to a Stateside broker who thought that they would sell better in the US and so placed an order for 3000 of the initial bear,

The premises of the Steiff business could not cope and they had to build a new factory in which to make the bears.

In 1903, 3,000 teddy bears by the then fledgling manufacturer Steiff were sent by Transatlantic sea-freight from Germany to America. The Steiff archives have copies of orders right from the beginning. The orders were made and there have been claims that examples of the packaging materials existed from when they were packed and shipped.

The bears never arrived.

In the Steiff museum, in the German town of Giengen, the mystery of the missing bears is explained to the visiting children with a tale that they were lost at sea.

The idea of shipwrecked teddy bears captures the imagination, but is it true?

In fact, researchers have been unable to prove that the order existed in the first place as there are no records held by any shipping companies nor customs and excise departments in either the country of origin or at the destination.

Given the subsequent rise to exceptional collectability of Steiff Bears it is now believed that as the bears were the first ever made they would now be the most valuable in the world.

So what happened to them?

The mystery, although undoubtedly newsworthy in 1903 did not surface as a story until 1953 which coincidentally marked the 50th anniversary of the teddy bear. A clever employee of the marketing department was writing a little festival book and that was the first time the story came up.

It may, for all of its mystery and sensationalism have just been a good marketing idea.

This fictional basis would appear to be supported by the fact that if they had been shipped, why have none ever appeared in attics or auction houses?

The construction of the bear may have been its downfall in terms of survival to the present day. The arms and head and legs were jointed to the body with strings making them susceptible to breakage.

Sales of teddy bears remain strong even after the heyday of teddy bear auctions in the 1990s when 1,500 people went to Christie's bear auctions.

Collectors and fans of the PB-55 still hold out for the emergence of one of their number for public sale and many appeals have gone out to householders to look out  at  home and in attics to see if there is a strange looking bear knocking around.

By way of guidance for potential treasure hunters, in addition to the  dark colour, the elusive bear, unlike the characteristic of subsequent Steiff Bears has no button in his ear - the buttons only being sewn in from 1904.

Teddy bear enthusiasts are able to buy a limited edition replica of the PB-55 bear online for £399 but if any originals were to be found then they would be expected to break all existing world records without question.

The current world record is over £180,000.

Double Jeopardy

I have been run over twice in my life, to date.

The circumstances of both running-overs were very similar which can be taken as an indication of either a freakish coincidence or just my failure to learn from the first time to avert the repeat on the second occasion.

In my defence I was not at all at fault at either time. I was a victim to the recklessness and inattention of the other parties .The collisions both took place in the dark and with me on my bicycle. The perpetrators were motorists.

My first assailant was quite a celebrity in that he had been the first person in the UK to win a legal action for loss of marital rights arising from an accident he had had a few years before. He did not, to his credit and character, attribute his careless driving on the night he met me head-on to the sad and mournful loss of his testicles as they parted company from the rest of his body. That is what apparently happened in the process of his undercarriage getting caught on the handlebars of his motorbike as he was thrown forward and clear after a shunt from behind. The thought of the pain and the later realisation of the tragic loss of a favourite organ did serve to mute my own discomfort at the time of my involuntary dismount. I had been fortunate in exiting sideways rather than up and over. In fact he was quite sympathetic to my plight and was more than prepared to drive me and what was left of my bike to any destination of my choice. I just wanted to get back home.

The second time was a lucky escape. I was in the middle of the road making a move to turn right into a junction lit up like  Blackpool Illuminations on wheels when a pair of car headlights approaching me suddenly developed into four abreast. The slow progress of a queue of vehicles along a series of slow bends had frustrated a following driver. The sight of a long and apparently clear straight road was the catalyst for him to stamp on the accelerator and take the line in one go. Unfortunately I was in his way and in full acceptance of getting hit by the overtaking car I just relaxed awaiting the inevitable impact. This action or rather inaction did, I am convinced, save my life. The driver only noticed me at the peak of his speed. His rapid deceleration amid screeching brakes and a long scorch mark on the tarmac meant that he hit me at about 30mph rather than 60mph. I rolled up his bonnet and in a foetal position, by chance and not intention, I smashed his windscreen with my upper shoulder before being thrown clear in the road. I expected another vehicle to hit me but everything, as they always say, had become grossly exaggerated in slow motion and then it was deathly quiet.

I cannot remember what happened between the impact and being bundled into an ambulance. I may have been a bit sarcastic to the driver whilst he looked on anxiously but possibly I give myself too much credit for being that lucid and clever-witted in the circumstances.

My bike had taken a good part of the impact and I was glad to have paid a bit more for a quality frame of tempered metal which had prevented me from being skewered by a set of inflexible steel tubes of a cheaper machine.

The paramedics were intent on taking me to the local Hospital but I insisted that apart from a bruised upper shoulder, a few pulled ligaments and the grief I felt for my bike I could be counted as the walking wounded. The ambulance, arriving at my parents house caused quite a stir and with the crushed, fractured and dismantled frame emerging first I can remember the look on my mother's face in expectation of what I would look like when I eventually got manhandled out of the back doors.

They say that those fit in body recover quickly from an injury that would lay other people up for a long time. I returned to work the next day. In hindsight that was a bad decision. The real victim of my accident turned out to be one of the car owners in the Municipal car park that day. My stiff shoulder prevented me from turning around and negotiating a proper reversing movement. In a sickening crash and tinkle of car body parts I careered into the vehicle.

What with excess payments and hire car costs the Insurance settlements for both events just about cancelled each other out.

I made a full recovery but sadly,I have never been able to replace that beloved bike.

Class Divide

The human mind, as an archive of a lifetime, is a truly amazing thing.

The faintest of smells, a millisecond of a sound or a brief glimpse of something can transport you back to a point in time, a place or an experience that made an impression on you, even if that is decades or more in the past.

I was transported back to when I was 5 years old (I am now 53) by a chain of events just yesterday.

The sensory journey began with my volunteering to help out a friend by providing a lift as the means to get the youngest of his three children to a new school for the very first time.

It was a first for the little lad in many respects.

He is a recent arrival in the UK, confronted by a different language, culture, environment and expectations which is daunting for most of us, let alone to those of his very junior years.

To a certain extent he may have hoped for a bit of a holiday based on his obvious excitement and look of amazement  at being reunited with his Father after three years of enforced separation. The look on his face upon my arrival to collect him and his family was the farthest possible away from that I had seen over the last few weeks, more akin to terror and a feeling of betrayal and impending abandonment in a strange place.

He was distraught.

The howls and the constant stream of tears down his face were all too familiar emotions to me at that same age. I could sympathise with his position entirely. He struggled as his father tried to fasten his shoes and there was a tustle and wrestle to get his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

I could, even after the passing of 48 years of my own life,  recall all of the tricks and traits of my own attempts to avoid going to infants school.

I could always rely on claims of a stomach ache.

If that was not convincing enough to dissuade my parents of their well intentioned efforts to get me to school then I could always revert to holding my head or feign the possibility of throwing up a recently consumed breakfast of porridge, toast and orange squash, a fearsome combination indeed.

We were always marched to school. This was a practical arrangement for myself and my sisters as we were close in age and until the age of 11 attended the same junior school in the town. My father's workplace was within walking distance of home and the school gates were but a small deviation from the shortest route to it.

It was obviously quite a logistical effort to get all three of us ready on a morning, our Mother's specialist department, but we were, as small children, very much oblivious to the hard work that we made it.

Our family would soon expand to another two brothers and it was not until I was a parent myself that I came to appreciate what early morning school preparation entailed.

As for my friend's wee son, he was a real handful.

Although we had not spoken together about education avoidance tactics he showed admirable skills of his own. I wish that way back in 1968 I had mastered the mock-ailment, as he showed, of wobbly weak legs. His father had to carry him out of the house under this affliction.

The limpet effect is something I regularly adopted, aged 5. This is where a grab and hold is made of all and everything within arms reach to hinder progress through the house and outdoors. Obviously this trait is well known globally as the small boy, I reiterate a new arrival to the UK, displayed good aptitude and understanding of suitable objects, both static and mobile.

His father carefully negotiated the garden obstacles and street furniture before depositing the still howling child onto the back seat of my car directly behind my drivers seat.

I flicked on the door lock mechanism to prevent any attempts at his doing a runner, termed "doin' one".

In retaliation I could feel two feet kicking my seat back in protest. That was one of my best methods to antagonise my parents on the rare occasions that we were taken to infants school or indeed the Doctors, Church or Dental Surgery in the family car.

I found the foot pounding most annoying but realising how much grief I must have inflicted on my parents under the same activity I made a point of not reacting in any way.

The short road distance for his first school attendance was noisy and not a little bit distressing.

Single pedestrians on the route could be seen reacting to what must have seemed like an act of child cruelty or an abduction although I did notice that members of the public pushing buggies or endeavouring to keep their own children under control did not bat an eyelid. They knew the score well indeed.

On the narrow street on which the school was located there was the usual traffic congestion of an inner city and the pavements swelled with those making their way for the 8.30am start of the school day.

The little lad went for the well tried removal from car deterrent of making himself as small and tightly wrapped as possible whilst still, in his own lyrical language, expressing disapproval at what was happening.

Eventually and still protesting he disappeared through the school gates under close guard of his father and older siblings.

The sudden silence in which I found myself was remarkable although the constant ringing in my ears from the previous few minutes of one-child riot certainly muted its full qualities.

Returning to the car those who had delivered the little boy to the education system  remained quiet as though, and I can appreciate this as a parent, a part of them had been ripped away and they were somehow no longer a tightly knitted unit.

The whole experience had really brought to mind in sharp relief the sensations and emotions of my own 5 year old self.

It exacted a sobering influence on me for the rest of the day, a poignant reminiscence.

I caught up with the new pupil later that afternoon.

He had really enjoyed his first day and tomorrow could not come fast enough to do it all again.