I could not fail to notice that every moveable item in the house had a label attached to it. The traditional type of label with a small tie of clean white string through a reinforced punched hole in the cream coloured paper tag, about the size of a library card.
Some of the labels bore just a single initial, the majority had the same surname but prefixed with various initials, a few had a very formal and civil full name approach as though for a neighbour or acquaintance who had once admired the item and then the rest just said the single word of Charity.
It was the slow process of the clearance of a house by a grieving family, some quicker than others to claim their entitlement amongst the furniture, framed prints and ornaments.
I had met a middle aged man at the house. It had been a long time residence for his late father, in fact the family had bought the property from new in the late 1940's and he himself had been born in the place as had his siblings. It was a long time to be in a house but why think about moving when everything is provided under the current roof.
I was there to value the property, less the chattels.
I was left to wander about through the disarray of furniture, the small collected piles of similar items, a few bags of clothes, stacks of paperback books, kitchen pans and utensils and all the accumulated ephemera of a long life.
It was difficult to negotiate a way through most of the rooms because of the upheaval and aftermath of family, friends and distant relatives searching and scouring the contents for a memento or keepsake.
The loft hatch had been removed and had been rested against the staircase spindles. Smudges of dust streaked fingermarks indicated that the roof void had also been the subject of familial investigation and part clearance of the manageable items of worn suitcases, packing boxes and bundled up old curtains and sheets.
A standard sized tea-chest had been evidently lowered through the loft hatch, and had snagged the wall with an unruly piece of the metallic edge trim before being deposited disappointingly empty in the doorway to the small front box-bedroom. I examined the abraded scar in the old wallpapered finish and then carefully moved the sharp edged chest out of the way to inspect the room.
Of all the spaces in the house the smallest one was empty, that was apart from a bicycle.
As a keen cyclist myself, I thought that I was the only person who kept a bike in the house and not in the shed or garage.
The bike in the loft was not complete or serviceable.
It had wheels but these were of the metal rims only, no tyres and of a poorer modern aluminium type usually provided with a new starter or junior racing bike. They had obviously been hastily fitted to keep the frame of the bike upright and safe from damage.
It was clear that the frame was of good quality beneath the faded and corrosion speckled paint job. The lug work around the head tube was elaborate and well crafted. The same quality showed on the brazings for the main tubes and around the bottom bracket housing where the pedals will have fitted.
I inserted two fingers of my right hand under the mid point of the crossbar and lifted slowly. Even with the dead weight of the modern wheels the bike was feather-light in weight.
This, in its heyday, had been a top calibre machine for road-racing or the off-season leisure rides into the countryside, perhaps up to Scarborough or the North Yorkshire Moors.
As I lifted the bike higher, engrossed in its lightness, the wheels fell off from their loose association with the front and rear drop-outs.
The clatter of noise brought the man to assist me, concerned if I was alright and apologising for the state of the house which was now completely the opposite of the standards kept by his parents and latterly his widower father.
From the initial suspicion of me on my arrival this noisy interlude broke the ice and we got to talking on the subject of his father and his passion for cycling.
That actual bicycle in the house had been all he could remember from his earliest years.
He recalled that it had always been in pristine condition, shining and chrome polished even after a run out in mixed weather. The original wheels had been made of cane for absolute minimal weight. The components had been the best his father could afford.
In the 1930's cycling was a major interest in this City and there were a number of very well patronised clubs catering for racing, socials, longer weekend runs to cafe's and cycle-touring.
His father, a keen member of 'something or other Wheelers' had met his wife to be through the mutual love of cycling in a large group. The front of the frame was moved into the sunlight from the window. The man pointed out the emblem on the tubing below the handlebar head.
It read "F H Grubb".
This immediately sparked a memory from a conversation with my father about his cycling days, when as a mere teenager he had pedalled through Holland, Belgium and to Paris. He had spoken of many classic bike makers and Grubb had stood out as both unusually ugly for a commercial venture and a bit comical.
The pedigree of the frame had been validated beyond doubt.
The frame did not have a label attached so cheekily I asked what was to become of it. The man said that it would probably go to a youngster in the family as was his responsibility as Executor for his father's estate. I had immediate visions of the frame sprayed lurid yellow, fitted with a front wheel smaller than the rear and used for stunts and jumps over scrap-wood ramps or dirt hills.
The frame would prove disappointing in such pursuits as it would surely buckle and fold on any minor impact for which it was not intended.
I asked if he would consider selling it to me.
He said he would if I took it all away, frame ,wheels and , also, a box of bits which over the years had become detached or broken off . He disapperared into another bedroom. I heard some shuffling, the moving of heavy items, a profanity and then a cry of success. The box was indeed full of cycle related components topped by the protruding curl of clearly the original handlebars.
I would check the boxed contents out in more detail later.
The transaction did not take much to close. I offered £30 which was immediately accepted. The man obviously felt I was an idiot to want nothing more than a collection of welded pipes on wheels, notwithstanding the sentimental value.
Personally, I could not believe my good fortune.
Later, after work I took the frame, less the cheap wheels, to present to my father. He was amazed at my acquisition and availed the full story of the great Freddie Grubb, a Silver Medallist at the 1912 Summer Games in Stockholm in the individual and team road races before his retirement and setting up in the bike making business.
My father and Freddie, whilst a generation apart, did have a common association with Croydon, north of London as a place of birth and manufacturing respectively.
F H Grubb built bicycles from 1914 and even into the late 1970's with the Holdsworth brand continuing his name two years after his death in 1949.
My father over the following months took on the restoration of the frame as a project. It took much time and care to strip back the frame to the bare metal after accumulated dirt and corrosion had dulled the definition between lug and tube.
Unfortunately, the task could not be completed within the lifetime of my own father but all the hard work has been done and I look forward to completing the project at some time in the future.
Wednesday 30 November 2016
Tuesday 29 November 2016
I.D
I am now the proud bearer of a proper lanyard on which dangles a formal type of identification. It denotes that I have been considered by a Third Party Organisation to be safe, trustworthy, innocuous, honest, decent, truthful, etc, etc.
It has taken nigh on 28 years of my working in the same employment to reach this level of validation.
I had generally not been challenged or accosted in the period prior to my lanyard nor had I excited the interest of neighbourhood watch groups or other have-a-go vigilantes. However, I have had some awkward moments.
On one occasion it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability who caused me some difficulty and embarassment.
I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat in a highly regarded residential area of a well to do market town.
The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.
I suppose that I must have given to impression of behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the senior citizens asking with some combined momentum "who are you and what are doing?".
Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage which it transpired belonged to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.
They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into that form with copious amounts of tea and cake.
I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering.
It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.
At least one of these responses seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily but habitually went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a younger man in a captive situation against a garage door.
They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key.
It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.
I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.
I slunk into the darkened vehicle bay to wait until my escape route was clear.
In that deep, vacant space the sound of two pairs of sensible outdoor shoes was accentuated before gradually fading away as the ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the safety of their flats.
It has taken nigh on 28 years of my working in the same employment to reach this level of validation.
I had generally not been challenged or accosted in the period prior to my lanyard nor had I excited the interest of neighbourhood watch groups or other have-a-go vigilantes. However, I have had some awkward moments.
On one occasion it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability who caused me some difficulty and embarassment.
I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat in a highly regarded residential area of a well to do market town.
The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.
I suppose that I must have given to impression of behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the senior citizens asking with some combined momentum "who are you and what are doing?".
Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage which it transpired belonged to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.
They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into that form with copious amounts of tea and cake.
I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering.
It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.
At least one of these responses seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily but habitually went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a younger man in a captive situation against a garage door.
They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key.
It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.
I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.
I slunk into the darkened vehicle bay to wait until my escape route was clear.
In that deep, vacant space the sound of two pairs of sensible outdoor shoes was accentuated before gradually fading away as the ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the safety of their flats.
Monday 28 November 2016
The Allamo
As a one man protest it is not even close to those that have been witnesses to history.
We are familiar with ultimate sacrifices of self-immolation, taking the place of others so that they can survive, risking life and limb to save innocents and in civil protest inviting arrest, imprisonment and harm.
I am talking about the man I stood in front of today who will have thought long and hard about the form and consequences of his own particular protest..
He will have consulted others, spent hours agonising with his memories and conscience.
The inevitable emotional journey will have affected relationships at home and amongst his friends, many of whom may have felt equally aggrieved and will even have considered acting in support but could not go through with it.
He had obviously invested a lot of his life energy, time and resources in what he was now fully prepared to give up.
I was, for the first time in ages, standing at the ticket office counter at the Hull City Football Club Stadium.
I did, in better business years, have five seats in the West Stand and all of the hospitality that came with the hefty monthly subscription. The economic downturn and the need to make sharp budget cuts sounded the death knell for what, for six years was a great experience following my home town team from their struggles in the lower English Leagues into the Premier League.
In the last few years I have only been to a handful of matches and those thanks to the use of seat passes from one of my wife's nieces.
Ironically I went to this saturday's game with West Brom and I was today buying tickets for the EFL Quarter Final with Newcastle tomorrow night.
Two games in four days is unprecedented for me.
As my purchase was being processed another sales assistant approached the man, then unsighted, behind me.
In answer to the question "Can I help you?" the disembodied voice replied that he was only there to hand in his notice of cancellation of his Season Ticket.
There was a slight wavering in his voice which caught my attention. I recognised it as that half-way emotion between outright anger and downright tearfulness. It takes great self control to achieve that balance.
I was interested in where the conversation would go next.
The assistant was well trained and enquired why he felt that was necessary.
That opened up the flood gates.
The man was exercising his right of protest and like a worker withdrawing his labour from his employee he was making the sacrifice of divorcing himself from his lifelong allegiance to his beloved football team.
He was no fair weather fan. He cited 60 years of being a supporter which suggested, from his now visible demeanour, that he had been taken to his first game at the age of about ten.
That would have placed him in the front line of Hull City's perennial struggles in respective leagues and competitions from the austere post war years through to the great team players of the 1960's, the volatile 70's, dodgy 80's, precarious 90's, insolvency risky early 2000's and then the move to the Stadium and successive years of accomplishment and culminating in Premier league status, albeit on a yo-yo basis.
He would certainly have some tales to tell of being frozen or alternately baked on the old Boothferry Park terraces.
How many meat pies and hot chocolates will he have sought warmth and solace from in that time?
The reason for his drastic action.
Blame, he placed, squarely on the owners of Hull City and their reluctance to invest in the team whilst, he argued, they were obsessed with milking every pound of value out of the club in order to make the balance sheet look peachy (my word) for prospective buyers.
The huge financial benefits of Premier League status are a major attraction in any purchase bid, more so than any real affinity, loyalty or sympathy to the City, town and supporters that inevitably are integral to the deal.
The man was in full flow in presenting his well rehearsed tirade.
It was eloquent and succinct. Unfortunately only me and about four others, three of these being Club Shop employees were there to hear it.
I like to think that the club Owners were in the stadium at that time and watching the event unfold on a CCTV link. That is what happens, in my experience, in all of those movies involving beleagured Industrialists and magnates, under pressure mobsters and gangsters.
I decided to follow the man out of the shop to make sure that he got safely into his car to drive home, undoubtedly very sad but above all, morally vindicated.
My concerns were borne out of a vision of the Club Owners shouting with some menace and intent into the Stadium intercom for their minions to "Kill Him".
Come on you Hull.
We are familiar with ultimate sacrifices of self-immolation, taking the place of others so that they can survive, risking life and limb to save innocents and in civil protest inviting arrest, imprisonment and harm.
I am talking about the man I stood in front of today who will have thought long and hard about the form and consequences of his own particular protest..
He will have consulted others, spent hours agonising with his memories and conscience.
The inevitable emotional journey will have affected relationships at home and amongst his friends, many of whom may have felt equally aggrieved and will even have considered acting in support but could not go through with it.
He had obviously invested a lot of his life energy, time and resources in what he was now fully prepared to give up.
I was, for the first time in ages, standing at the ticket office counter at the Hull City Football Club Stadium.
I did, in better business years, have five seats in the West Stand and all of the hospitality that came with the hefty monthly subscription. The economic downturn and the need to make sharp budget cuts sounded the death knell for what, for six years was a great experience following my home town team from their struggles in the lower English Leagues into the Premier League.
In the last few years I have only been to a handful of matches and those thanks to the use of seat passes from one of my wife's nieces.
Ironically I went to this saturday's game with West Brom and I was today buying tickets for the EFL Quarter Final with Newcastle tomorrow night.
Two games in four days is unprecedented for me.
As my purchase was being processed another sales assistant approached the man, then unsighted, behind me.
In answer to the question "Can I help you?" the disembodied voice replied that he was only there to hand in his notice of cancellation of his Season Ticket.
There was a slight wavering in his voice which caught my attention. I recognised it as that half-way emotion between outright anger and downright tearfulness. It takes great self control to achieve that balance.
I was interested in where the conversation would go next.
The assistant was well trained and enquired why he felt that was necessary.
That opened up the flood gates.
The man was exercising his right of protest and like a worker withdrawing his labour from his employee he was making the sacrifice of divorcing himself from his lifelong allegiance to his beloved football team.
He was no fair weather fan. He cited 60 years of being a supporter which suggested, from his now visible demeanour, that he had been taken to his first game at the age of about ten.
That would have placed him in the front line of Hull City's perennial struggles in respective leagues and competitions from the austere post war years through to the great team players of the 1960's, the volatile 70's, dodgy 80's, precarious 90's, insolvency risky early 2000's and then the move to the Stadium and successive years of accomplishment and culminating in Premier league status, albeit on a yo-yo basis.
He would certainly have some tales to tell of being frozen or alternately baked on the old Boothferry Park terraces.
How many meat pies and hot chocolates will he have sought warmth and solace from in that time?
The reason for his drastic action.
Blame, he placed, squarely on the owners of Hull City and their reluctance to invest in the team whilst, he argued, they were obsessed with milking every pound of value out of the club in order to make the balance sheet look peachy (my word) for prospective buyers.
The huge financial benefits of Premier League status are a major attraction in any purchase bid, more so than any real affinity, loyalty or sympathy to the City, town and supporters that inevitably are integral to the deal.
The man was in full flow in presenting his well rehearsed tirade.
It was eloquent and succinct. Unfortunately only me and about four others, three of these being Club Shop employees were there to hear it.
I like to think that the club Owners were in the stadium at that time and watching the event unfold on a CCTV link. That is what happens, in my experience, in all of those movies involving beleagured Industrialists and magnates, under pressure mobsters and gangsters.
I decided to follow the man out of the shop to make sure that he got safely into his car to drive home, undoubtedly very sad but above all, morally vindicated.
My concerns were borne out of a vision of the Club Owners shouting with some menace and intent into the Stadium intercom for their minions to "Kill Him".
Come on you Hull.
Sunday 27 November 2016
Rumour, Hearsay, Gossip
Like most great legends, fables and myths the storyteller, in their role as the next voice in the timeline of its recounting , starts off with one or more of the following statements "I have not seen it myself", "Those who witnessed it have said" or "This is what I have heard".
This announcement gives a bit of scope for a personal embellishment of the facts, some poetic licence or a few white lies and red herrings.
I would rely on the the third position in the case of a tale told to me in recent days.
I was standing with a householder and looking out of a first floor window to their garden. Just beyond the back fence was the paralell arrangement of a two track railway line. I made the usual enquiries about the frequency of use of the line and if any resultant noise intruded on the occupation and enjoyment of the house. The combination of familiarity with the timetable over longstanding residence and the effectiveness in noise abatement of modern double glazing led the occupant to truthfully say that they did not notice them at all.
At that moment a double carriage service passed by from left to right and yes, there was no tangible accompaniment of the clickety, click, clickety clack stereotypical soundtrack of a train to be heard from indoors.
I made my usual joke of having failed to get the number of the diesel engine unit as just the once in my life have I owned a train spotters book and for a few weeks in a school summer vacation in the 1970's I had become a little bit obsessed with ticking off the listings.
In order to reclaim some respect following this admission I started a general conversation or, if you like, a different train of thought.
It was a story that I had come across in a roundabout way of a lady being thrown from a train on the very same railway line and more to the point no more than one hundred metres or so from our current location.
The incident in 1853 had led to the unfortunate demise of the woman some days later from the injuries sustained by the attack, thought to have been disguised as a robbery but with plenty of gossip about it being a falling out of an extra-marital affair between victim and perpetrator.
The story had elicited much local and also national press coverage.
My theme of locomotive based crimes and misdemeanours was continued by the householder.
There was mention of strange goings on at the nearby railway crossing gates involving the periodic manifestation of a lady on a bicycle.
My host was keen to state that "I have not seen it myself" but it was relayed that on some occasions of the gates being in the down and closed position for traffic the apparition in female form would appear.
Unusually for a ghost the figure had been clearly described by a number of startled motorists and pedestrians whilst held up at what is an awkward dog leg arrangement.
Tall, thin and elegant the woman wore normal day attire for the late Victorian or early Edwardian eras of full length skirt, matching jacket over a blouse and with fancy trimmings in contrasting cloth. Although probably quite a casual outfit in the day it would certainly strike our modern consciousness as being quite stiff and formal.
The bicycle, it had been agreed on by a number of witnesses, was a sit up and beg type with a high saddle and handlebar stance and a step through frame. Closer scrutiny may have included items consistent for bicycling in those years of a wicker basket and a skirt-catcher.
Those who had seen the figure offered varied speculation on her identity. Residents close to the crossing would compare their own notes and offer opinions on this when chatting together in the forecout frontages or over the back fences of the terraced houses, coincidentally dating from the same period as the appearance of the woman suggested.
As important as who she might be was the reason for her haunting presence in this specific location.
The authenticity of the claims of sightings appears plausible.
The railway line, first opened in 1846, was originally developed by the York and North Midland Railway before being run by the more famous North Eastern Railway (NER). It ran from the City of Hull at its southernmost point all of the way up the East Coast of England to the genteel seaside and Spa town of Scarborough, with stations at Cottingham, Beverley, Driffield and Bridlington as well as numerous smaller stopping off points along the route.
The style of bicycle was one of many brands emerging for public purchase from the late 1880's when innovations such as the pneumatic tyre (1888) and coaster brake (1898) made for easier use. In 1896 one writer stated that the bicycle and its accessibility had done more for the emancipation of women than anything else in the world.
The outfit of the figure suggested a middle class lady perhaps a teacher or housewife either at leisure or going about some related business. In that era the streets close by were popular for residential development including for wealthy merchants, a number of Dutch persons by birth who had settled in the business of horticulture in the district and an emerging Professional Class.
The road, crossing the railway line, will in that era have been little more than an unsurfaced track although reasonably busy as a route to and from what was a growing suburban area into the rapidly expanding regional city and port town of Hull.
In the case of this particular road crossing there will have been manually operated gates as part of the original operation. With a railway employee living in a tied house adjacent to the crossing for the purposes of operating the gates it was unlikely, but not impossible, that a road user would be at peril from being struck by a train appearing to rule out a haunting by a soul lost through such an accident.
Was the lady waiting at the crossing to wave to a lover or sweetheart?
Could the apparition simply be down to one of those time-warp aberrations that science fiction writers like to rely upon?
Perhaps the bicyclist was just a regular commuter on that route and continues to ride it in the supernatural world.
We may never know the truth.
It is an interesting story based on what those who have witnessed it have said.
This announcement gives a bit of scope for a personal embellishment of the facts, some poetic licence or a few white lies and red herrings.
I would rely on the the third position in the case of a tale told to me in recent days.
I was standing with a householder and looking out of a first floor window to their garden. Just beyond the back fence was the paralell arrangement of a two track railway line. I made the usual enquiries about the frequency of use of the line and if any resultant noise intruded on the occupation and enjoyment of the house. The combination of familiarity with the timetable over longstanding residence and the effectiveness in noise abatement of modern double glazing led the occupant to truthfully say that they did not notice them at all.
At that moment a double carriage service passed by from left to right and yes, there was no tangible accompaniment of the clickety, click, clickety clack stereotypical soundtrack of a train to be heard from indoors.
I made my usual joke of having failed to get the number of the diesel engine unit as just the once in my life have I owned a train spotters book and for a few weeks in a school summer vacation in the 1970's I had become a little bit obsessed with ticking off the listings.
In order to reclaim some respect following this admission I started a general conversation or, if you like, a different train of thought.
It was a story that I had come across in a roundabout way of a lady being thrown from a train on the very same railway line and more to the point no more than one hundred metres or so from our current location.
The incident in 1853 had led to the unfortunate demise of the woman some days later from the injuries sustained by the attack, thought to have been disguised as a robbery but with plenty of gossip about it being a falling out of an extra-marital affair between victim and perpetrator.
The story had elicited much local and also national press coverage.
My theme of locomotive based crimes and misdemeanours was continued by the householder.
There was mention of strange goings on at the nearby railway crossing gates involving the periodic manifestation of a lady on a bicycle.
My host was keen to state that "I have not seen it myself" but it was relayed that on some occasions of the gates being in the down and closed position for traffic the apparition in female form would appear.
Unusually for a ghost the figure had been clearly described by a number of startled motorists and pedestrians whilst held up at what is an awkward dog leg arrangement.
Tall, thin and elegant the woman wore normal day attire for the late Victorian or early Edwardian eras of full length skirt, matching jacket over a blouse and with fancy trimmings in contrasting cloth. Although probably quite a casual outfit in the day it would certainly strike our modern consciousness as being quite stiff and formal.
The bicycle, it had been agreed on by a number of witnesses, was a sit up and beg type with a high saddle and handlebar stance and a step through frame. Closer scrutiny may have included items consistent for bicycling in those years of a wicker basket and a skirt-catcher.
Those who had seen the figure offered varied speculation on her identity. Residents close to the crossing would compare their own notes and offer opinions on this when chatting together in the forecout frontages or over the back fences of the terraced houses, coincidentally dating from the same period as the appearance of the woman suggested.
As important as who she might be was the reason for her haunting presence in this specific location.
The authenticity of the claims of sightings appears plausible.
The railway line, first opened in 1846, was originally developed by the York and North Midland Railway before being run by the more famous North Eastern Railway (NER). It ran from the City of Hull at its southernmost point all of the way up the East Coast of England to the genteel seaside and Spa town of Scarborough, with stations at Cottingham, Beverley, Driffield and Bridlington as well as numerous smaller stopping off points along the route.
The style of bicycle was one of many brands emerging for public purchase from the late 1880's when innovations such as the pneumatic tyre (1888) and coaster brake (1898) made for easier use. In 1896 one writer stated that the bicycle and its accessibility had done more for the emancipation of women than anything else in the world.
The outfit of the figure suggested a middle class lady perhaps a teacher or housewife either at leisure or going about some related business. In that era the streets close by were popular for residential development including for wealthy merchants, a number of Dutch persons by birth who had settled in the business of horticulture in the district and an emerging Professional Class.
The road, crossing the railway line, will in that era have been little more than an unsurfaced track although reasonably busy as a route to and from what was a growing suburban area into the rapidly expanding regional city and port town of Hull.
In the case of this particular road crossing there will have been manually operated gates as part of the original operation. With a railway employee living in a tied house adjacent to the crossing for the purposes of operating the gates it was unlikely, but not impossible, that a road user would be at peril from being struck by a train appearing to rule out a haunting by a soul lost through such an accident.
Was the lady waiting at the crossing to wave to a lover or sweetheart?
Could the apparition simply be down to one of those time-warp aberrations that science fiction writers like to rely upon?
Perhaps the bicyclist was just a regular commuter on that route and continues to ride it in the supernatural world.
We may never know the truth.
It is an interesting story based on what those who have witnessed it have said.
Saturday 26 November 2016
Sex in perspective
A recent commentary by a Domain Name Company indicated that, in the UK alone, there are 20 million word searches a month for websites containing the word "sex".
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless. I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishoners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of a) insex commonly found in the UK, b) sextional concrete garages , c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless. I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishoners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of a) insex commonly found in the UK, b) sextional concrete garages , c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
Friday 25 November 2016
Restoration Man
We stood, on that late winter afternoon, just in the shadows behind the old terraced houses on Lambert Street, Hull.
I have known Mr Addy for, well, it is just over 30 years now but I cannot persuade myself to call him by his first name out of respect. He is the only person in the world who calls me Pete.
For a short time in the 1980's we worked in the same building in Hull city centre.
I arrived there as a fresh faced graduate in 1985, coinciding with the Centenary Year of the well known firm of Estate Agents, Surveyors and Property Managers. The company fractured some two years later, not down to anything I did (I think) but down to a combination of a takeover and irreconcilable differences amongst the managing partners.
Mr Addy took his part of the business elsewhere in the city. I stayed on with the new owners and ended up being relocated to another county before returning, within a few years, to become self employed in the property sector.
It was inevitable that I would cross paths with Mr Addy in the course of my Professional work and not a small part down to the fact that I married Allison, whom I had met whilst she worked for him in his side of the original company.
I can say that in the last three decades he has not changed at all in his character and demeanour.
That is quite something to be admired and applauded in what can be quite a mercenary and selfish industry.
On that chilly afternoon meeting I gestured that we should move towards a small patch of sun warmed concrete to make the most of the limited natural warmth. That surge of vitamin D gave a sort of energy boost after what had already been a bit of a long-ish day for both of us and we in turn recalled our experiences in property.
We got onto the subject of old buildings.
Mr Addy has always known a lot of people. He has managed their lettings, given sound advice on what to do and as a consequence has made them better off than they could otherwise have hoped for.
A spin-off is that, naturally, he is offered first refusal on any property interests and that head-start is crucial in what can be a very competitive market.
He cited a case from some years ago.
A longstanding client was thinking of disposing of an old and character double fronted house as part of a winding down to retirement. It stood grandly amongst similar double fronted villas which were built in the 1860's. With a forecourt frontage to a busy tree lined city street it will, in its halcyon days have been the residence of well-to-do merchant family, industrialist or lawyer.
Unfortunately, as a consequence of wartime bombing and subsidence, it was now less than grandly at a precarious angle to its neighbours. It was, in fact, a wreck. A lopsided one at that
Half thinking of the purchase, in a conversation with the City Planners about potential uses for the blighted house mention was made of the availability of funding in the form of Grant aimed at increasing housing units at a time of shortage of accommodation in the inner city.
This initiative could be the saving grace for the old place or rather made it viable to demolish a single dwelling and rebuild on the site a good quality block of flats.
The Council and Planners were thrilled with the idea but not so the Civic Society.
Hull suffered badly from Luftwaffe bombing in the second world war in fact only just behind London and large tracts of housing and infrastructure were damaged.
Mr Addy, in his proposals for redevelopment of the property, was villified in the principal media of the Hull Daily Mail for achieving with this front line property what Hitler had failed to do. That was certainly very harsh.
Although given the Statutory green light it would be a case of vigilant scrutiny of the scheme by the self professed guardians of Hull's civic heritage. They were relentless.
A concession for the new build was that the facade would be an exact replica of the original involving technical and material difficulties.
The Civic Society considered this to be a travesty, an insult to the memory of the old house.
At roofed in stage the Architect for the project was recalled early from his holidays to respond to complaints from the Civic Society that the building was too high. This was defused by the explanation that the original house had actually sunk by a foot into the soft Hull clay subsoils and its reincarnation was authentic to the original elevation and stature.
The guerilla action resumed with added vigour given that the heritage people had been thoroughly belittled and were desperate to regain the moral high ground.
After some months following full completion and grateful occupation by previously homeless tenants a phone call along the lines of "Hello, this is the Hull Civic Society" reached Mr Addy.
Frustration and annoyance turned to a feeling of utter satisfaction as the voice continued " we would like to award your property with this months prestigious Civic Award, it is a splendid conversion and fully justifies acknowledgement".
I have known Mr Addy for, well, it is just over 30 years now but I cannot persuade myself to call him by his first name out of respect. He is the only person in the world who calls me Pete.
For a short time in the 1980's we worked in the same building in Hull city centre.
I arrived there as a fresh faced graduate in 1985, coinciding with the Centenary Year of the well known firm of Estate Agents, Surveyors and Property Managers. The company fractured some two years later, not down to anything I did (I think) but down to a combination of a takeover and irreconcilable differences amongst the managing partners.
Mr Addy took his part of the business elsewhere in the city. I stayed on with the new owners and ended up being relocated to another county before returning, within a few years, to become self employed in the property sector.
It was inevitable that I would cross paths with Mr Addy in the course of my Professional work and not a small part down to the fact that I married Allison, whom I had met whilst she worked for him in his side of the original company.
I can say that in the last three decades he has not changed at all in his character and demeanour.
That is quite something to be admired and applauded in what can be quite a mercenary and selfish industry.
On that chilly afternoon meeting I gestured that we should move towards a small patch of sun warmed concrete to make the most of the limited natural warmth. That surge of vitamin D gave a sort of energy boost after what had already been a bit of a long-ish day for both of us and we in turn recalled our experiences in property.
We got onto the subject of old buildings.
Mr Addy has always known a lot of people. He has managed their lettings, given sound advice on what to do and as a consequence has made them better off than they could otherwise have hoped for.
A spin-off is that, naturally, he is offered first refusal on any property interests and that head-start is crucial in what can be a very competitive market.
He cited a case from some years ago.
A longstanding client was thinking of disposing of an old and character double fronted house as part of a winding down to retirement. It stood grandly amongst similar double fronted villas which were built in the 1860's. With a forecourt frontage to a busy tree lined city street it will, in its halcyon days have been the residence of well-to-do merchant family, industrialist or lawyer.
Unfortunately, as a consequence of wartime bombing and subsidence, it was now less than grandly at a precarious angle to its neighbours. It was, in fact, a wreck. A lopsided one at that
Half thinking of the purchase, in a conversation with the City Planners about potential uses for the blighted house mention was made of the availability of funding in the form of Grant aimed at increasing housing units at a time of shortage of accommodation in the inner city.
This initiative could be the saving grace for the old place or rather made it viable to demolish a single dwelling and rebuild on the site a good quality block of flats.
The Council and Planners were thrilled with the idea but not so the Civic Society.
Hull suffered badly from Luftwaffe bombing in the second world war in fact only just behind London and large tracts of housing and infrastructure were damaged.
Mr Addy, in his proposals for redevelopment of the property, was villified in the principal media of the Hull Daily Mail for achieving with this front line property what Hitler had failed to do. That was certainly very harsh.
Although given the Statutory green light it would be a case of vigilant scrutiny of the scheme by the self professed guardians of Hull's civic heritage. They were relentless.
A concession for the new build was that the facade would be an exact replica of the original involving technical and material difficulties.
The Civic Society considered this to be a travesty, an insult to the memory of the old house.
At roofed in stage the Architect for the project was recalled early from his holidays to respond to complaints from the Civic Society that the building was too high. This was defused by the explanation that the original house had actually sunk by a foot into the soft Hull clay subsoils and its reincarnation was authentic to the original elevation and stature.
The guerilla action resumed with added vigour given that the heritage people had been thoroughly belittled and were desperate to regain the moral high ground.
After some months following full completion and grateful occupation by previously homeless tenants a phone call along the lines of "Hello, this is the Hull Civic Society" reached Mr Addy.
Frustration and annoyance turned to a feeling of utter satisfaction as the voice continued " we would like to award your property with this months prestigious Civic Award, it is a splendid conversion and fully justifies acknowledgement".
Thursday 24 November 2016
Light Entertainment
It is that time of year, and still much too early even for mid to late November, when we keep a watching brief and high state of alert to spot the first house in the city to put up and activate Christmas lights and decorations.
From past experience there a couple of properties that consistently compete for the dubious honour and one-upmanship brownie points and even if not strictly on our route to and from work, the shops or general errands we will nevertheless make a detour to check who has been victorious between them.
We disregard, of course those households who have left the fascia dangled illuminated icicles up all year round and the student properties where a fake pine tree in a window, lit up from the new term in september, is part of the general kitsch.
It is though Christmas proper begins only after your front door has been visited by ghouls, vampires and pirates (yes, I know???) and thereafter announced formally by the explosion of fireworks.
I do not have much of a working knowledge of the Bible and the run up to the birth of Christ but I am pretty sure that trick or treating and bonfire night are not mentioned as main catalysts to the events in the stable.
Everyone knows that it truly begins upon finding a holly shaped chocolate novelty behind door number one on an Advent Calendar.
The last few years has certainly seen a proliferation in very public seasonal exhibitions on the front of private homes.
These have in some cases been very extravagant.
There have been multiple strings of lights, still, flashing, rhythmic and pulsating, neon bright outlines of festive things such as sleighs, reindeer and oversized stars , inflatables of a bulbous Father Christmas and also that icon of the giving season, Homer Simpson. Natural features of trees and bushes have been draped with twinkling pinpoints and coloured lanterns.
I have sensed some dimming of my own house lights when such civic scale installations have been fired up in my neighbourhood.
The policy of affixing as much illumination as physically possible on a house frontage is unfortunate and particularly so to those, like myself, who appreciate a bit of symmetry and regularity. A few kindly souls make a collection for a charitable concern with a bucket attached to a gatepost for loose change and this should be applauded. Others just like to put on a swanky show of unrestrained expenditure to aggravate the neighbours.
I will not even think about this years display at our house until mid December.
We are quite modest and conservative in our efforts but feel this is right and fitting for what is still, when we last looked, a religious celebration and festival and not a riot of consumerism and materialism.
From past experience there a couple of properties that consistently compete for the dubious honour and one-upmanship brownie points and even if not strictly on our route to and from work, the shops or general errands we will nevertheless make a detour to check who has been victorious between them.
We disregard, of course those households who have left the fascia dangled illuminated icicles up all year round and the student properties where a fake pine tree in a window, lit up from the new term in september, is part of the general kitsch.
It is though Christmas proper begins only after your front door has been visited by ghouls, vampires and pirates (yes, I know???) and thereafter announced formally by the explosion of fireworks.
I do not have much of a working knowledge of the Bible and the run up to the birth of Christ but I am pretty sure that trick or treating and bonfire night are not mentioned as main catalysts to the events in the stable.
Everyone knows that it truly begins upon finding a holly shaped chocolate novelty behind door number one on an Advent Calendar.
The last few years has certainly seen a proliferation in very public seasonal exhibitions on the front of private homes.
These have in some cases been very extravagant.
There have been multiple strings of lights, still, flashing, rhythmic and pulsating, neon bright outlines of festive things such as sleighs, reindeer and oversized stars , inflatables of a bulbous Father Christmas and also that icon of the giving season, Homer Simpson. Natural features of trees and bushes have been draped with twinkling pinpoints and coloured lanterns.
I have sensed some dimming of my own house lights when such civic scale installations have been fired up in my neighbourhood.
The policy of affixing as much illumination as physically possible on a house frontage is unfortunate and particularly so to those, like myself, who appreciate a bit of symmetry and regularity. A few kindly souls make a collection for a charitable concern with a bucket attached to a gatepost for loose change and this should be applauded. Others just like to put on a swanky show of unrestrained expenditure to aggravate the neighbours.
I will not even think about this years display at our house until mid December.
We are quite modest and conservative in our efforts but feel this is right and fitting for what is still, when we last looked, a religious celebration and festival and not a riot of consumerism and materialism.
Wednesday 23 November 2016
Knobby Styles
I have not spoken this particular word for some time. It just crept into a conversation today.
I suppose that in certain social situations and amongst those who would consider themselves either experts, enthusiasts or just collectors it would be mentioned frequently. It is a word synonymous with the spirit of scientific and commercial co-operation.
It is Bakelite. (Bay-kerr-light)
To those of a certain generation, and from which in my 6th decade I would actually exclude myself, anything made or fashioned in Bakelite still holds a certain style, mystique and appeal.
I do come across it on a periodic basis in residential properties of the halcyon period of its production and availability in such things as electrical socket and light switch facings, drawer and cupboard knobs, casings of older audio and visual appliances and as part of objets' d'Art and other miscellanea.
Bakelite claimed its place in human history as the first synthetic plastic and amazingly this was way back in the first decade of the 20th Century.
There had been earlier experimentation and production of substitutes for increasingly scarce natural resources. A shortage of ivory in 1863 caused enough concern amongst the manufacturers of billiard balls to announce a competition to find a replacement. Two brothers, the Wesley-Hyatts found a way to combine natural compounds of cellulose nitrate and camphor into what became celluloid.
Bakelite, in being synthetic represented a major innovation due to the hard work, not without disappointment and set-backs by Leo Baekeland (1863 -1944).
The entry in his laboratory notebook at the time of the realisation of his discovery reads;
"I found tube broken perhaps in irregular expansion but the reactions seems to have been satisfactory because the resulting stick was very hard and below where there was some unmixed liquid A there was an end (?) of solidified matter yellowish and hard and entirely similar to the product obtained by simply heating A alone in sealed tube. This looks promising and it will be worth while to determine in how far this mass which I will call D is able to make moulded materials either alone or in conjunctions with other solid materials as for instance asbestos, casein, zinc oxid (sic), starch, different inorganic powders and lamp black and thus make a substitute for celluloid and for hard rubber"
The properties and uses of Bakelite illustrated its versatility. Bakelite could be moulded and very quickly, which was an enormous advantage in mass production processes where many identical units were produced one after the other. Bakelite was a thermosetting resin and once moulded,it retains its shape even if heated or subjected to various solvents.
Bakelite was also particularly suitable for the emerging electrical and automobile industries because of its extraordinarily high resistance (not only to electricity, but to heat and chemical action as well). It was soon used for all non-conducting parts of radios and other electrical devices, such as bases and sockets for light bulbs and electron tubes, supports for any type of electrical components, automobile distributor caps and other insulators.
Along with its electrical uses, moulded Bakelite found a place in almost every area of modern life.
From novelty jewellery and iron handles to telephones and washing-machines impellers, Bakelite was seen everywhere and was a constant presence in the technological infrastructure.
The Bakelite Corporation adopted as its logo the mathematical symbol for infinity and the slogan, "The Material of a Thousand Uses," but they recognised no boundaries for their material.
The Achilles heel was however colour. The pure Bakelite resin was an iconic amber, and it could take other colours as well but unfortunately, it was quite brittle and had to be strengthened by "filling" with other substances, usually cellulose in the form of sawdust.
After resorting to such fillers, all colours came out opaque at best and often dull and muddy.
In my own experience I have only ever seen the mass produced black or dark brown incarnations .
It would be inevitable that consumers who demanded greater choice and range of colours and finishes would mean that Bakelite was subsequently replaced by other plastics that shared its desirable qualities, but could also capture the imagination of the new market trends amongst an aspirational and increasingly wealthy population.
Many examples of Bakelite products have however survived and have become sought after for their pioneering qualities, desirability, functional beauty and sheer collectability.......
I suppose that in certain social situations and amongst those who would consider themselves either experts, enthusiasts or just collectors it would be mentioned frequently. It is a word synonymous with the spirit of scientific and commercial co-operation.
It is Bakelite. (Bay-kerr-light)
To those of a certain generation, and from which in my 6th decade I would actually exclude myself, anything made or fashioned in Bakelite still holds a certain style, mystique and appeal.
I do come across it on a periodic basis in residential properties of the halcyon period of its production and availability in such things as electrical socket and light switch facings, drawer and cupboard knobs, casings of older audio and visual appliances and as part of objets' d'Art and other miscellanea.
Bakelite claimed its place in human history as the first synthetic plastic and amazingly this was way back in the first decade of the 20th Century.
There had been earlier experimentation and production of substitutes for increasingly scarce natural resources. A shortage of ivory in 1863 caused enough concern amongst the manufacturers of billiard balls to announce a competition to find a replacement. Two brothers, the Wesley-Hyatts found a way to combine natural compounds of cellulose nitrate and camphor into what became celluloid.
Bakelite, in being synthetic represented a major innovation due to the hard work, not without disappointment and set-backs by Leo Baekeland (1863 -1944).
The entry in his laboratory notebook at the time of the realisation of his discovery reads;
"I found tube broken perhaps in irregular expansion but the reactions seems to have been satisfactory because the resulting stick was very hard and below where there was some unmixed liquid A there was an end (?) of solidified matter yellowish and hard and entirely similar to the product obtained by simply heating A alone in sealed tube. This looks promising and it will be worth while to determine in how far this mass which I will call D is able to make moulded materials either alone or in conjunctions with other solid materials as for instance asbestos, casein, zinc oxid (sic), starch, different inorganic powders and lamp black and thus make a substitute for celluloid and for hard rubber"
The properties and uses of Bakelite illustrated its versatility. Bakelite could be moulded and very quickly, which was an enormous advantage in mass production processes where many identical units were produced one after the other. Bakelite was a thermosetting resin and once moulded,it retains its shape even if heated or subjected to various solvents.
Bakelite was also particularly suitable for the emerging electrical and automobile industries because of its extraordinarily high resistance (not only to electricity, but to heat and chemical action as well). It was soon used for all non-conducting parts of radios and other electrical devices, such as bases and sockets for light bulbs and electron tubes, supports for any type of electrical components, automobile distributor caps and other insulators.
Along with its electrical uses, moulded Bakelite found a place in almost every area of modern life.
From novelty jewellery and iron handles to telephones and washing-machines impellers, Bakelite was seen everywhere and was a constant presence in the technological infrastructure.
The Bakelite Corporation adopted as its logo the mathematical symbol for infinity and the slogan, "The Material of a Thousand Uses," but they recognised no boundaries for their material.
The Achilles heel was however colour. The pure Bakelite resin was an iconic amber, and it could take other colours as well but unfortunately, it was quite brittle and had to be strengthened by "filling" with other substances, usually cellulose in the form of sawdust.
After resorting to such fillers, all colours came out opaque at best and often dull and muddy.
In my own experience I have only ever seen the mass produced black or dark brown incarnations .
It would be inevitable that consumers who demanded greater choice and range of colours and finishes would mean that Bakelite was subsequently replaced by other plastics that shared its desirable qualities, but could also capture the imagination of the new market trends amongst an aspirational and increasingly wealthy population.
Many examples of Bakelite products have however survived and have become sought after for their pioneering qualities, desirability, functional beauty and sheer collectability.......
.............................................and of course, don't forget the knobs
Tuesday 22 November 2016
Storeys of working life
First impressions count.
That is why you would probably not give a second glance to the terrace of properties that sits towards the south eastern outskirts of the North Yorkshire town of Thirsk.
It is a quite ordinary and rather functional looking block of, now, 4 properties, comprising at the northern end a conversion to flats adjoining a former Bed and Breakfast Guest House and the remainder being two private houses.
The frontage is flush to the pavement of what is a busy road to and from the traditional market town from the south where there is a junction with the A19 which runs from the Great North Road into industrial Teeside on the north eastern coast of England.
One clue to something unusual about the block is the existence of recessed lightwells in the pavement indicating a basement level of accommodation.
In full frontal mode the building in its entirety gives a sense of something substantial but when viewed end -on what strikes you is the very thin depth, only one room or about 15 feet in imperial measurement per floor and,including the basement, there are four floors.
The local brick is a warm, multicoloured clay and arranged in English garden wall bond with tying in courses every fifth course.There are no embellishments which again suggests funtion rather than form. Unfortunately,what will have been a slate roof originally was replaced about 20 years ago in a plain concrete tile and all of the windows are UPVC framed. This is not a matter of flagrant breach of planning and conservation policies but simply because the building is not particularly notable in architectural terms and no restrictions apply, within reason.
However, as a piece of social history the building should be Listed and protected as on the rear wall can just be made out a long band of faded signage bearing the words "Model Lodging House".
By the late 1840s the government was becoming increasingly aware of the threat posed to public health by the lack of cheap accommodation for labouring single men and unaccompanied women, for itinerants such as hawkers, chair-menders, knifegrinders, street musicians, and many other trades. and for those "on the tramp" - i.e. walking the roads in search of work.
These were not paupers or vagabonds (because they eked out some sort of income albeit a pittance) so were not eligible for accommodation in the workhouses.
In towns and cities they were often lodged in overcrowded and insanitary doss-houses set up by and profiteered from by unscrupulous private land lords.
Public health concern arising from the cholera and typhoid epidemics of the time led to legislation setting up minimum standards for such establishments, to be classed as "Common Lodging Houses" and to be subject to formal inspection.
Many purpose built properties were financed as a business with shareholders who were eligble for a modest return on their investment. This led to the rather mercenary description of those putting their money into schemes as "Five percent Philanthropists".
These were still very spartan lodgings even in those days, but the fees charged were affordable to the working poor.
These facilities were soon extended by establishments offering slightly better accommodation which were the "Model Lodging Houses" - still cheap, but aiming to cater for the next stratum of the itinerant or casually employed population.
A contemporary report from 1857 stated the following;
The Act for the well ordering of the Common Lodging houses has been in operation since 1851and has had some beneficial results in alleviating the evils of overcrowding, filth, water, poor ventilation, disease, misery and crime. Registration of the premises which has been enforced under the Act has made property increase in value, but the cost of lodging in the improved houses has not increased accordingly. Charges for the lodgings vary from 2d to 6d per night, with no charge for the Sunday if the lodger has been there all week. The amount of labour necessary for enforce regulations has been considerable, including the collection of statistics on which this report is based. Model lodging houses now number 104. These premises have higher charges than ordinary lodging houses. The regulations under the Act have significantly removed nuisances, and removed the sick to a hospital or parish infirmary. Houses or rooms given over to families are exempt from the provisions of the Act. The author wishes to see an extension of the Act to cover outstanding problems, i.e. tenants of single rooms may be prevented from taking lodgers, and the licensing of single rooms, notice given of contagious disease. The author would also like to see an extension of the law to provide a supply of water, and the prevention of licensed victuallers from using their houses as lodging houses, as there are problems with the supply of liquors at illegal hours.
The property in Thirsk dates from around 1850 and it's location is significant being on the outskirts of the town at the cross-roads where the main north-south road between the Tees and York crossed at that time the east-west route between the coast and the industrial West Riding. The majority of wayfarers would have passed this way. Significant, also, is the fact that on the opposite side of the crossroads stood the Union Workhouse, with its casual ward for vagrants.
Every property has its own story. It is just that the best examples, those of fancier facades and with grander features receive all of the attention, accolades and protection against what can be the relentless progress of urban change and redevelopment.
Source; Thirsk Museum Records
That is why you would probably not give a second glance to the terrace of properties that sits towards the south eastern outskirts of the North Yorkshire town of Thirsk.
It is a quite ordinary and rather functional looking block of, now, 4 properties, comprising at the northern end a conversion to flats adjoining a former Bed and Breakfast Guest House and the remainder being two private houses.
The frontage is flush to the pavement of what is a busy road to and from the traditional market town from the south where there is a junction with the A19 which runs from the Great North Road into industrial Teeside on the north eastern coast of England.
One clue to something unusual about the block is the existence of recessed lightwells in the pavement indicating a basement level of accommodation.
In full frontal mode the building in its entirety gives a sense of something substantial but when viewed end -on what strikes you is the very thin depth, only one room or about 15 feet in imperial measurement per floor and,including the basement, there are four floors.
The local brick is a warm, multicoloured clay and arranged in English garden wall bond with tying in courses every fifth course.There are no embellishments which again suggests funtion rather than form. Unfortunately,what will have been a slate roof originally was replaced about 20 years ago in a plain concrete tile and all of the windows are UPVC framed. This is not a matter of flagrant breach of planning and conservation policies but simply because the building is not particularly notable in architectural terms and no restrictions apply, within reason.
However, as a piece of social history the building should be Listed and protected as on the rear wall can just be made out a long band of faded signage bearing the words "Model Lodging House".
By the late 1840s the government was becoming increasingly aware of the threat posed to public health by the lack of cheap accommodation for labouring single men and unaccompanied women, for itinerants such as hawkers, chair-menders, knifegrinders, street musicians, and many other trades. and for those "on the tramp" - i.e. walking the roads in search of work.
These were not paupers or vagabonds (because they eked out some sort of income albeit a pittance) so were not eligible for accommodation in the workhouses.
In towns and cities they were often lodged in overcrowded and insanitary doss-houses set up by and profiteered from by unscrupulous private land lords.
Public health concern arising from the cholera and typhoid epidemics of the time led to legislation setting up minimum standards for such establishments, to be classed as "Common Lodging Houses" and to be subject to formal inspection.
Many purpose built properties were financed as a business with shareholders who were eligble for a modest return on their investment. This led to the rather mercenary description of those putting their money into schemes as "Five percent Philanthropists".
These were still very spartan lodgings even in those days, but the fees charged were affordable to the working poor.
These facilities were soon extended by establishments offering slightly better accommodation which were the "Model Lodging Houses" - still cheap, but aiming to cater for the next stratum of the itinerant or casually employed population.
A contemporary report from 1857 stated the following;
The Act for the well ordering of the Common Lodging houses has been in operation since 1851and has had some beneficial results in alleviating the evils of overcrowding, filth, water, poor ventilation, disease, misery and crime. Registration of the premises which has been enforced under the Act has made property increase in value, but the cost of lodging in the improved houses has not increased accordingly. Charges for the lodgings vary from 2d to 6d per night, with no charge for the Sunday if the lodger has been there all week. The amount of labour necessary for enforce regulations has been considerable, including the collection of statistics on which this report is based. Model lodging houses now number 104. These premises have higher charges than ordinary lodging houses. The regulations under the Act have significantly removed nuisances, and removed the sick to a hospital or parish infirmary. Houses or rooms given over to families are exempt from the provisions of the Act. The author wishes to see an extension of the Act to cover outstanding problems, i.e. tenants of single rooms may be prevented from taking lodgers, and the licensing of single rooms, notice given of contagious disease. The author would also like to see an extension of the law to provide a supply of water, and the prevention of licensed victuallers from using their houses as lodging houses, as there are problems with the supply of liquors at illegal hours.
The property in Thirsk dates from around 1850 and it's location is significant being on the outskirts of the town at the cross-roads where the main north-south road between the Tees and York crossed at that time the east-west route between the coast and the industrial West Riding. The majority of wayfarers would have passed this way. Significant, also, is the fact that on the opposite side of the crossroads stood the Union Workhouse, with its casual ward for vagrants.
Every property has its own story. It is just that the best examples, those of fancier facades and with grander features receive all of the attention, accolades and protection against what can be the relentless progress of urban change and redevelopment.
Source; Thirsk Museum Records
Monday 21 November 2016
Leg Ends
I have met a few former professional footballers.
They are from the generation who played in the 1960's and 1970's in the top echelons of the English League, then known as the First and Second Divisions.
Now very much of senior citizen status they carry and endure the scars and impairments from a professional game where, by modern standards, the level of physiotherapy, nutritional advice, medical care and of course , financial remuneration were rudimentary.
I have come across them in their own homes and have learned to wait patiently for their laboured footfalls from degenerated muscles to reach the front door after having rung the bell some minutes before. In the lounges of the football stadium on match days they act as hosts to avail corporate guests and civic dignitaries of the stories of their time in the game.
It is good to see the respect in which they are held by a captive audience. However,in the quiet moments after everyone has made their way to their reserved seats the stiff joints from arthritis will surely return to remind them of their mortality.
I followed football very closely in the early 70' although I did not attend my first proper league match until some years later.
Like most 9 year olds in that era I avidly collected football cards and stuck these in an album , the packets being two and a half new pence each which was all of my pocket money. The 1972-1973 season for the old First Division was the only album that I fully completed. My favourite team was Liverpool.
As you can see I used sellotape rather than glue which explains the messy appearance. Ignore the juvenile scribbling in the top left hand corner.
The album usually sits at the bottom of a storage box but was retrieved a couple of weeks ago for a bit of research following a piece of writing I felt necessary to commemorate the demise of the former Leeds United goalkeeper, Gary Sprake.
Working through the faces on the Liverpool team page evokes many happy memories of black and white television coverage albeit quite sparse at the time but more from recollections of being huddled against the valve induced warmth of an old radio set on which I would listen to the weekday matches of Liverpool in the league and on those magical nights of competitive games in Europe. Was it always the case the Liverpool needed and got three goals in the second and home tie against a German team to get through to the next round?
The Liverpool team at the beginning of the 1972 season were an exceptional bunch.
It is amazing to realise that the youngest and arguably the most celebrated , Kevin Keegan is 65 years old and Peter Thompson the most senior is 73.
Unfortunately, Emlyn Hughes, the inspirational Captain and Brian Hall, have passed away.
So what happened to the rest of them in that period from leaving Liverpool (if at all they did) until statutory retirement age?
The end of a football career in that era often meant the beginning of a new venture in order to save for that distant time when putting their feet up was possible.
The options appeared to have been limited to staying on in a scouting, training, physio or managerial role or running a pub.
Those of the 1972-73 album page going into management had varied experiences. Roy Evans, John Toshack and his former strike partner Kevin Keegan all had success with a number of teams. Ray Clemence worked on the Football Association staff until recently but retirement was enforced by cancer which he still battles with his family.
A few players headed for the United States at a time when the game was attracting good money and an attractive lifestyle. Steve Heighway and Alec Lindsay were enticed to the Stateside league but later returned to roles in youth squad development and a publican respectively.
A deeply rooted knowledge of the game gives a great insight into scouting future talent and Chris Lawler took this path.
Playing to a football crowd must have been inspirational and both Tommy Smith and Larry Lloyd continued in this vein in Public Speaking and Radio Broadcasting and Jack Whitham performed regularly as a singer around the UK Club Circuit.
The oldest of the squad, Peter Thompson for a time ran a caravan park before going into the hotel and hospitality business. Phil Boersma worked as a physiotherapist in football in England, Scotland and Wales.
Ian Callaghan perhaps sums up the lot of the professional footballer of his era.
He was a member of the 1966 World Cup winning squad but it was not until 2009 that he was awarded his medal after a campaign to extend this honour beyond those who actually played in the Final.
Like most great figures their true value will not be appreciated until they hang up their boots for good.
They are from the generation who played in the 1960's and 1970's in the top echelons of the English League, then known as the First and Second Divisions.
Now very much of senior citizen status they carry and endure the scars and impairments from a professional game where, by modern standards, the level of physiotherapy, nutritional advice, medical care and of course , financial remuneration were rudimentary.
I have come across them in their own homes and have learned to wait patiently for their laboured footfalls from degenerated muscles to reach the front door after having rung the bell some minutes before. In the lounges of the football stadium on match days they act as hosts to avail corporate guests and civic dignitaries of the stories of their time in the game.
It is good to see the respect in which they are held by a captive audience. However,in the quiet moments after everyone has made their way to their reserved seats the stiff joints from arthritis will surely return to remind them of their mortality.
I followed football very closely in the early 70' although I did not attend my first proper league match until some years later.
Like most 9 year olds in that era I avidly collected football cards and stuck these in an album , the packets being two and a half new pence each which was all of my pocket money. The 1972-1973 season for the old First Division was the only album that I fully completed. My favourite team was Liverpool.
As you can see I used sellotape rather than glue which explains the messy appearance. Ignore the juvenile scribbling in the top left hand corner.
The album usually sits at the bottom of a storage box but was retrieved a couple of weeks ago for a bit of research following a piece of writing I felt necessary to commemorate the demise of the former Leeds United goalkeeper, Gary Sprake.
Working through the faces on the Liverpool team page evokes many happy memories of black and white television coverage albeit quite sparse at the time but more from recollections of being huddled against the valve induced warmth of an old radio set on which I would listen to the weekday matches of Liverpool in the league and on those magical nights of competitive games in Europe. Was it always the case the Liverpool needed and got three goals in the second and home tie against a German team to get through to the next round?
The Liverpool team at the beginning of the 1972 season were an exceptional bunch.
It is amazing to realise that the youngest and arguably the most celebrated , Kevin Keegan is 65 years old and Peter Thompson the most senior is 73.
Unfortunately, Emlyn Hughes, the inspirational Captain and Brian Hall, have passed away.
So what happened to the rest of them in that period from leaving Liverpool (if at all they did) until statutory retirement age?
The end of a football career in that era often meant the beginning of a new venture in order to save for that distant time when putting their feet up was possible.
The options appeared to have been limited to staying on in a scouting, training, physio or managerial role or running a pub.
Those of the 1972-73 album page going into management had varied experiences. Roy Evans, John Toshack and his former strike partner Kevin Keegan all had success with a number of teams. Ray Clemence worked on the Football Association staff until recently but retirement was enforced by cancer which he still battles with his family.
A deeply rooted knowledge of the game gives a great insight into scouting future talent and Chris Lawler took this path.
Playing to a football crowd must have been inspirational and both Tommy Smith and Larry Lloyd continued in this vein in Public Speaking and Radio Broadcasting and Jack Whitham performed regularly as a singer around the UK Club Circuit.
The oldest of the squad, Peter Thompson for a time ran a caravan park before going into the hotel and hospitality business. Phil Boersma worked as a physiotherapist in football in England, Scotland and Wales.
Ian Callaghan perhaps sums up the lot of the professional footballer of his era.
He was a member of the 1966 World Cup winning squad but it was not until 2009 that he was awarded his medal after a campaign to extend this honour beyond those who actually played in the Final.
Like most great figures their true value will not be appreciated until they hang up their boots for good.
Sunday 20 November 2016
Brintervention
In the many and myriad TV offerings from the United States which tend to find their way to these shores, us Brits get a glimpse of the lifestyle and cultural influences of that fledgling and rather disparate nation.
Some are strange to comprehend, very much mixed up in the loose association with something referred to as "The American Dream".
In recent months we would not be blamed for assuming that characteristics of this are that anyone can become President, there is a strong defence of the right to carry armaments (just in case lethal force is needed in an everyday domestic situation) and with the principal aspirations of a good proportion of the population to be wealthy and obese.
I am of course being a bit harsh and relying on stereotypes.
One particular aspect of American life depicted by TV programmes is that of the Intervention.
This is where family and friends take it upon themselves to confront one of their number in an attempt to steer them away from perceived self harm, destructive behaviour, unhealthy lifestyle practices and, this being a popular one, a feckless tendency not to be able to commit to anything.
In my own life I have recently been the focus of an American style intervention.
Before you speculate on what grounds for drastic action may apply in my case I should quickly clarify that the family conference arose on the matter of my work and how I do it.
I have been self employed for the last 25 years in the property sector. Although I have a fully staffed and functioning office in an idyllic riverside location overlooking one of the UK's greatest architectural achievements my established mode of operation is to be out on site all daylight hours and then catch up with the paperwork in the evenings or from an early morning start.
Balancing an often heavy workload and being very much a home-loving bod means that the best place for me to work, out of office hours, is from the dinner table amongst the welcome hubbub of the comings and goings of my family.
I have always worked this way and my wife and three children have become accustomed to it.
I accept that occupying half of the living space in the house is an imposition on normal family function even when I sneak a few hours after everyone has gone to bed and before they are wake up. The inevitable baggage that accompanies paper-based work such as laptop, reference books, pro-formas and a large pot of coffee does occupy a certain amount of space. A cleared surface on the table top was made for school text books when the children were doing their studying and a little bit of distraction in the form of questions and the muted sound from headphones I found welcome.
When not being used the aforementioned items would be piled up on a nearby dining chair or on the sideboard not, in my understanding, causing anyone any inconvenience. Those warranting an intervention do not of course have any appreciation of what their actions and implications of their actions are doing by way of collateral damage to their nearest and dearest.
There have been a few hints of the impact of my working practices on the family in the past.
My pile of stuff would occasionally disappear from the table and chair and materialise in another part of the house. Although the dining table was, by default my office it was not exclusive and could be easily commandered for other activities such as Fuzzy Felt, a Lego construction site and , oh yes, mealtimes.
It took a move to a new house to give the family the idea of an intervention.
At that time two of the children were living away at college or as part of their first employment and so space was available for me to have a dedicated study/home office in a former (temporarily as is turned out) bedroom. This was at the top of the house and to all intents well set up having a large work surface, good lighting and a cosy and warm environment.
I occupied it happily adorning the walls with my framed cycling jerseys and bike memorabilia. It was, as they say, a man cave.
However, something was not quite right.
I had a feeling of being detached from the household. There was the sound of the television and that comforting hubbub of conversation from another place. I expressed genuine concerns, so as to thoroughly convince myself, that my habitual early morning working would disturb those sleeping in the now adjoining bedrooms.
In what may have appeared like a covert operation I began to move my stuff back downstairs to the familiarity and ambience of the dining room.
There was now an atmosphere of stand-off with the family, and I felt like an insurgent in a sovereign state.
The full intervention was shortly to follow.
The American version is a full-on affair but it is evident that us Brits can contribute an altogether more civilised approach.
I am now the very happy occupant of a ground floor room at my house which my family have kitted out as a very pleasant work space. It has a fantastic eye level view into the public park across the road and I can, between concentrated work efforts of course, watch the world go by, man and dog included.
Trouble is, my family now keep popping downstairs on a regular basis to find out why I am spending so much time in there.
Some are strange to comprehend, very much mixed up in the loose association with something referred to as "The American Dream".
In recent months we would not be blamed for assuming that characteristics of this are that anyone can become President, there is a strong defence of the right to carry armaments (just in case lethal force is needed in an everyday domestic situation) and with the principal aspirations of a good proportion of the population to be wealthy and obese.
I am of course being a bit harsh and relying on stereotypes.
One particular aspect of American life depicted by TV programmes is that of the Intervention.
This is where family and friends take it upon themselves to confront one of their number in an attempt to steer them away from perceived self harm, destructive behaviour, unhealthy lifestyle practices and, this being a popular one, a feckless tendency not to be able to commit to anything.
In my own life I have recently been the focus of an American style intervention.
Before you speculate on what grounds for drastic action may apply in my case I should quickly clarify that the family conference arose on the matter of my work and how I do it.
I have been self employed for the last 25 years in the property sector. Although I have a fully staffed and functioning office in an idyllic riverside location overlooking one of the UK's greatest architectural achievements my established mode of operation is to be out on site all daylight hours and then catch up with the paperwork in the evenings or from an early morning start.
Balancing an often heavy workload and being very much a home-loving bod means that the best place for me to work, out of office hours, is from the dinner table amongst the welcome hubbub of the comings and goings of my family.
I have always worked this way and my wife and three children have become accustomed to it.
I accept that occupying half of the living space in the house is an imposition on normal family function even when I sneak a few hours after everyone has gone to bed and before they are wake up. The inevitable baggage that accompanies paper-based work such as laptop, reference books, pro-formas and a large pot of coffee does occupy a certain amount of space. A cleared surface on the table top was made for school text books when the children were doing their studying and a little bit of distraction in the form of questions and the muted sound from headphones I found welcome.
When not being used the aforementioned items would be piled up on a nearby dining chair or on the sideboard not, in my understanding, causing anyone any inconvenience. Those warranting an intervention do not of course have any appreciation of what their actions and implications of their actions are doing by way of collateral damage to their nearest and dearest.
There have been a few hints of the impact of my working practices on the family in the past.
My pile of stuff would occasionally disappear from the table and chair and materialise in another part of the house. Although the dining table was, by default my office it was not exclusive and could be easily commandered for other activities such as Fuzzy Felt, a Lego construction site and , oh yes, mealtimes.
It took a move to a new house to give the family the idea of an intervention.
At that time two of the children were living away at college or as part of their first employment and so space was available for me to have a dedicated study/home office in a former (temporarily as is turned out) bedroom. This was at the top of the house and to all intents well set up having a large work surface, good lighting and a cosy and warm environment.
I occupied it happily adorning the walls with my framed cycling jerseys and bike memorabilia. It was, as they say, a man cave.
However, something was not quite right.
I had a feeling of being detached from the household. There was the sound of the television and that comforting hubbub of conversation from another place. I expressed genuine concerns, so as to thoroughly convince myself, that my habitual early morning working would disturb those sleeping in the now adjoining bedrooms.
In what may have appeared like a covert operation I began to move my stuff back downstairs to the familiarity and ambience of the dining room.
There was now an atmosphere of stand-off with the family, and I felt like an insurgent in a sovereign state.
The full intervention was shortly to follow.
The American version is a full-on affair but it is evident that us Brits can contribute an altogether more civilised approach.
I am now the very happy occupant of a ground floor room at my house which my family have kitted out as a very pleasant work space. It has a fantastic eye level view into the public park across the road and I can, between concentrated work efforts of course, watch the world go by, man and dog included.
Trouble is, my family now keep popping downstairs on a regular basis to find out why I am spending so much time in there.
Saturday 19 November 2016
Dunk- the fallout
All I said in my blog of yesterday, entitled "Dunk" was that a Jaffa Cake, that three layered treat comprising a Genoese sponge layer, orange jelly filling and dark chocolate top, was disqualified from being considered as a serious item to dunk because of its ambiguous and contentious status.
In that simple statement I seem to have whipped up a storm in a tea cup and a few persons have come at me with both biscuit barrels blazing.
I had not realised the depth of emotions that a Jaffa Cake envokes amongst the wider public.
I can only apologise for my seeming lack of understanding and appreciation for what has, after all, been part of the British lifestyle since it appeared from the McVities factory way back in 1927.
Surprisingly, and no doubt someone lost their employment status for it, the original mega-bakers failed to Trademark the name Jaffa Cake which explains why you can purchase said item from multiple retail outlets and get some tangible variance in quality of ingredients and taste.
In the dour and visualised as black and white inter war years , a time of social and economic depression, the sudden arrival of a taste of exotica must have been pretty welcome.
Of course the name Jaffa is derived from the Mediterranean Port of the same name synonymous with the growing and supply of Orange fruit.
For decades the Jaffa Cake maintained its position quietly and unassumingly in the top echelons of baked goods but then in 1991 it came into the gun sights of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise and in their attempts to place on it the maximum possible rate of Value Added Tax, at that time recently increased from 8% to 15% and currently at a whopping 20%.
The Revenue policy and classifications levied a zero rate on biscuits and cakes as in very British pragmatism, borne out of the tradition of a tea break in everyday life , such items are necessities and not luxuries.
However, a coating of chocolate on a biscuit does make it a luxury therefore attracting the top rate but a similar coating on a cake does not. In the eyes of the men from the Excise, a Jaffa Cake was a biscuit for their revenue generating purposes.
McVities went all out to prove the opposite argument for one of their best sellers also perhaps fearing that HM Customs and Excise would, if successful in this instance, go after other items from their production line.
The defence worked on the following pretences.
The product's name was regarded as a minor consideration. The ingredients were regarded as similar to those of a cake, producing from a thin cake-like batter rather than the thick dough of a biscuit. The product's texture was regarded as being that of a sponge cake. The product hardens when stale, in the manner of a cake. A substantial part of the Jaffa Cake, in terms of bulk and texture, is sponge.
The Revenue stood by their initial opinion in that ,in size, the Jaffa Cake is more like a biscuit than a cake.The product was generally displayed for sale alongside other biscuits, rather than with cakes. The product is presented as a snack and eaten with the fingers, like a biscuit, rather than with a fork as a cake might be.
To complicate matters the Tribunal overseeing the legal action also considered that children would eat Jaffa Cakes in "a few mouthfuls", in the manner of a sweet.
In the face of considerable pressure from the State it was the ruling of the VAT Tribunal that indeed a Jaffa Cake was a cake and in being covered in chocolate was not therefore at all subject to VAT.
The decision was clear and should have resulted in a National Day of Celebration although more likely to have been with a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake. A recent ruling by the Irish Government did re-introduce the element of ambiguity and contentiousness by applying a 13.5% VAT rate but tempered from the full prevailing 23% rate on the basis of a 12% moisture content.
Like the filling in a Jaffa Cake in the hot sweaty hands of a devotee the controversy may just run and run.
In that simple statement I seem to have whipped up a storm in a tea cup and a few persons have come at me with both biscuit barrels blazing.
I had not realised the depth of emotions that a Jaffa Cake envokes amongst the wider public.
I can only apologise for my seeming lack of understanding and appreciation for what has, after all, been part of the British lifestyle since it appeared from the McVities factory way back in 1927.
Surprisingly, and no doubt someone lost their employment status for it, the original mega-bakers failed to Trademark the name Jaffa Cake which explains why you can purchase said item from multiple retail outlets and get some tangible variance in quality of ingredients and taste.
In the dour and visualised as black and white inter war years , a time of social and economic depression, the sudden arrival of a taste of exotica must have been pretty welcome.
Of course the name Jaffa is derived from the Mediterranean Port of the same name synonymous with the growing and supply of Orange fruit.
For decades the Jaffa Cake maintained its position quietly and unassumingly in the top echelons of baked goods but then in 1991 it came into the gun sights of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise and in their attempts to place on it the maximum possible rate of Value Added Tax, at that time recently increased from 8% to 15% and currently at a whopping 20%.
The Revenue policy and classifications levied a zero rate on biscuits and cakes as in very British pragmatism, borne out of the tradition of a tea break in everyday life , such items are necessities and not luxuries.
However, a coating of chocolate on a biscuit does make it a luxury therefore attracting the top rate but a similar coating on a cake does not. In the eyes of the men from the Excise, a Jaffa Cake was a biscuit for their revenue generating purposes.
McVities went all out to prove the opposite argument for one of their best sellers also perhaps fearing that HM Customs and Excise would, if successful in this instance, go after other items from their production line.
The defence worked on the following pretences.
The product's name was regarded as a minor consideration. The ingredients were regarded as similar to those of a cake, producing from a thin cake-like batter rather than the thick dough of a biscuit. The product's texture was regarded as being that of a sponge cake. The product hardens when stale, in the manner of a cake. A substantial part of the Jaffa Cake, in terms of bulk and texture, is sponge.
The Revenue stood by their initial opinion in that ,in size, the Jaffa Cake is more like a biscuit than a cake.The product was generally displayed for sale alongside other biscuits, rather than with cakes. The product is presented as a snack and eaten with the fingers, like a biscuit, rather than with a fork as a cake might be.
To complicate matters the Tribunal overseeing the legal action also considered that children would eat Jaffa Cakes in "a few mouthfuls", in the manner of a sweet.
In the face of considerable pressure from the State it was the ruling of the VAT Tribunal that indeed a Jaffa Cake was a cake and in being covered in chocolate was not therefore at all subject to VAT.
The decision was clear and should have resulted in a National Day of Celebration although more likely to have been with a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake. A recent ruling by the Irish Government did re-introduce the element of ambiguity and contentiousness by applying a 13.5% VAT rate but tempered from the full prevailing 23% rate on the basis of a 12% moisture content.
Like the filling in a Jaffa Cake in the hot sweaty hands of a devotee the controversy may just run and run.
Friday 18 November 2016
Dunk
It is 18 years since Scientists first explained the perfect way to dunk a biscuit.
Has the world benefited over the two decades since this startling piece of research?
Given the turmoil that we have seen in all parts of the world in just in the last 12 months the signs are not good.
To recap, the revelation of the study by the University of Bristol in the west of England that a mathematical formula governs the whole process was seen back in 1998 to be the perfect remedy for those people who up to that time had endured lumpy tea when their favourite biscuit based treat disintegrated to form a grey sludge at the bottom of the mug.
Their work was set to revolutionise tea and coffee breaks the world over, so what happened?
The whole premise of the study was based on the undeniable fact that different brands and types of biscuits have different dunking times.
We dunk because we know that more of the flavour of the biscuit is released into our mouths if it has first been dunked in a hot drink.
The scientific team calculated that up to 10 times more flavour is released this way than if the biscuit is eaten dry.
It must have been quite a pleasureable bit of research as it took two-months of constant and detailed investigation to establish the best strategy for dunking, my particular favourite, a nice chocolate biscuit.
Here are the technical details for choccy biccy's .
It is advisable to adopt the "flat-on" approach whereby the selected nibble is immersed biscuit side down. This minimises "chocolate bleed" into the tea or coffee and keeps the coating rigid enough to prevent the biscuit from breaking in half.
It is important to understand what goes into making a biscuit.
For all of the money spent on focus groups, slick advertising and point of sales displays we should not overlook that a biscuit is only lumps of starch glued together by sugar.
It is because of this structure that when hot tea or coffee enters the pores in the biscuit the sugar melts, the starch swells and the structure becomes unstable. It then becomes a race to enjoy the dunking experience before everything deteriorates.
The Scientists felt that the world would be reassured by the devising of an equation to explain what is going on in the beverage biscuit stakes.
Here goes- the average pore diameter in a biscuit is equal to four times the viscosity of the tea, multiplied by the height the liquid rises squared, divided by the surface tension of the tea, multiplied by the length of time the biscuit is dunked.
That is all very well but could it be explained any easier?
Back in 1998 there was much talk about publishing critical times for different types of biscuit so that persistent dunkers could do so with absolute confidence.
This for some reason did not materialise until 2015.
Here are the important facts. I apologise that this relates to only UK brands. I would be pleased to receive data from readers on their home produced brands.
I would like to hear how good or not to dunk are Polvoron (Spain), Aachener Printen (Germany), Florentines (Italy), Choc Chip Cookies (US), Coyotas (Mexico), Paprenjak (Croatia), Ghorabiye (Iran), Tirggel (Switzerland), Jodenkoek (Holland), Koulourakia (Greece) and the iconic Krumkake from Norway.
UK Placings (in reverse order)
11th place: Ginger Nut .Breaking point: 22 seconds Recommended dunking time (RDT) 3 seconds
10th place: Digestive Breaking point: 23 seconds RDT 3.5 seconds
9th place: Hobnob Breaking point: 36 seconds RDT 6 seconds
8th place: Chocolate Hobnob Breaking point: 44 seconds RDT 9 seconds
7th place: Rich Tea Breaking point: 47 seconds RDT 4 seconds
6th place: Chocolate Digestive Breaking point: 60 seconds RDT 5.5 seconds
5th place: Malted Milk Breaking point: 76 seconds RDT 6 seconds
4th place: Shortbread Breaking point: 102 seconds RDT 10 seconds
3rd place: Jammie Dodger Breaking point: 47 seconds RDT 7 seconds
2nd place: Bourbon Breaking point: 125 seconds RDT 7.5 seconds
The winner is: Custard Cream Breaking point: 125 seconds RDT 8.5 seconds
(Disqualified for its ambiguous and disputed status: Jaffa Cake- not a biscuit)
So, the whole process has taken nearly two decades to reach this stage.
I could as easily have conducted my own experiments in my own regular tea breaks.
Has the world benefited over the two decades since this startling piece of research?
Given the turmoil that we have seen in all parts of the world in just in the last 12 months the signs are not good.
To recap, the revelation of the study by the University of Bristol in the west of England that a mathematical formula governs the whole process was seen back in 1998 to be the perfect remedy for those people who up to that time had endured lumpy tea when their favourite biscuit based treat disintegrated to form a grey sludge at the bottom of the mug.
Their work was set to revolutionise tea and coffee breaks the world over, so what happened?
The whole premise of the study was based on the undeniable fact that different brands and types of biscuits have different dunking times.
We dunk because we know that more of the flavour of the biscuit is released into our mouths if it has first been dunked in a hot drink.
The scientific team calculated that up to 10 times more flavour is released this way than if the biscuit is eaten dry.
It must have been quite a pleasureable bit of research as it took two-months of constant and detailed investigation to establish the best strategy for dunking, my particular favourite, a nice chocolate biscuit.
Here are the technical details for choccy biccy's .
It is advisable to adopt the "flat-on" approach whereby the selected nibble is immersed biscuit side down. This minimises "chocolate bleed" into the tea or coffee and keeps the coating rigid enough to prevent the biscuit from breaking in half.
It is important to understand what goes into making a biscuit.
For all of the money spent on focus groups, slick advertising and point of sales displays we should not overlook that a biscuit is only lumps of starch glued together by sugar.
It is because of this structure that when hot tea or coffee enters the pores in the biscuit the sugar melts, the starch swells and the structure becomes unstable. It then becomes a race to enjoy the dunking experience before everything deteriorates.
The Scientists felt that the world would be reassured by the devising of an equation to explain what is going on in the beverage biscuit stakes.
Here goes- the average pore diameter in a biscuit is equal to four times the viscosity of the tea, multiplied by the height the liquid rises squared, divided by the surface tension of the tea, multiplied by the length of time the biscuit is dunked.
That is all very well but could it be explained any easier?
Back in 1998 there was much talk about publishing critical times for different types of biscuit so that persistent dunkers could do so with absolute confidence.
This for some reason did not materialise until 2015.
Here are the important facts. I apologise that this relates to only UK brands. I would be pleased to receive data from readers on their home produced brands.
I would like to hear how good or not to dunk are Polvoron (Spain), Aachener Printen (Germany), Florentines (Italy), Choc Chip Cookies (US), Coyotas (Mexico), Paprenjak (Croatia), Ghorabiye (Iran), Tirggel (Switzerland), Jodenkoek (Holland), Koulourakia (Greece) and the iconic Krumkake from Norway.
UK Placings (in reverse order)
11th place: Ginger Nut .Breaking point: 22 seconds Recommended dunking time (RDT) 3 seconds
10th place: Digestive Breaking point: 23 seconds RDT 3.5 seconds
9th place: Hobnob Breaking point: 36 seconds RDT 6 seconds
8th place: Chocolate Hobnob Breaking point: 44 seconds RDT 9 seconds
7th place: Rich Tea Breaking point: 47 seconds RDT 4 seconds
6th place: Chocolate Digestive Breaking point: 60 seconds RDT 5.5 seconds
5th place: Malted Milk Breaking point: 76 seconds RDT 6 seconds
4th place: Shortbread Breaking point: 102 seconds RDT 10 seconds
3rd place: Jammie Dodger Breaking point: 47 seconds RDT 7 seconds
2nd place: Bourbon Breaking point: 125 seconds RDT 7.5 seconds
 |
| Main Contenders in the dunking stakes |
The winner is: Custard Cream Breaking point: 125 seconds RDT 8.5 seconds
(Disqualified for its ambiguous and disputed status: Jaffa Cake- not a biscuit)
So, the whole process has taken nearly two decades to reach this stage.
I could as easily have conducted my own experiments in my own regular tea breaks.
Thursday 17 November 2016
Dogmatic
We were a family living with dogs.
It was a sort of community arrangement. If it was dog walking time, we all went. A restless dog spelled stress and anxiety amongst the human household. A loving and attentive dog made us all happy and content. Even an outbreak of canine worms was a shared experience.
Our whole existence revolved around the dogs, whether decisions on holidays, short day trips, consideration of overnighters, the prospect of visitors and even casual callers all had to be thoroughly thought through from the point of view of our hairy, shaggy family members.
For all of that, it was a great time and we all benefitted greatly from it, especially our children who would often, when they were little, be found curled up in a pile of dogs on the living room floor. There is also something valuable to the human soul in having responsibility for another living creature.
The practicalities of being a doggy family were clear.
We were in charge of feeding, exercising, entertaining, cleaning up after and keeping our two hounds out of harms way.
It could be hard work.
Our active animals intent on charging about in the muddy fields, muddy riverbank, muddy park and mud flat beaches did generate considerable muck and grime which ended up on our clothes, through the back of the car and all over the house upon our return.
As well as the actual dirt there was also that distinctive damp doggy smell that permeated all of the soft furnishings. Unfortunately we would soon become acclimatised to the pungent odours when in close proximity. It would take a short spell away or the grimacing look on the face of a visitor to the house to make us realise that there was certainly a bit of an atmosphere.
What to do?
We invested in a good, heavy duty combined wet and dry vacuum cleaner. The discovery that wearing rubber soled boat shoes and adopting a shuffling motion across carpets could remove all stubborn dog hairs was a revelation. These actions dealt with the collateral damage.
As for the grubby dogs- well we could certainly have done with this advertised invention.
Fed up of the struggle involved in washing your pooch when it returns muddy and smelly from a walk in the forest?
Tired of having to clean the bathroom after you've perhaps wrestled with an unwilling dog intent on escaping as you, shampoo in one hand, shower head in the other, succeed only in flooding the place?
Simply no longer willing to make regular and sometimes costly trips to a specialist groomer to have your faithful four-legged friend washed and blow-dried?
Help is finally at hand in the shape of Shower Dog Corner - a washing machine for man's best friend - now available in France.
It only takes a half-hour session in, what to all intents and purposes is, a dog washing machine.
You simply put your dog in the machine, close the door . choose the programme and pay your money before sitting back to watch as the dog is automatically sprayed with water and shampoo for just four minutes and then blow-dried for the remaining time.
The machine is veterinary approved uses less water than would be required during a session at a conventional parlour and gentle so as not to strip away the protective grease contained in the fur.
It has proven particularly user friendly for big dogs and "those of a nervous disposition" who might be refused entry to a more conventional grooming parlour.
Now, if only there had been invention out there to pick up the dog poo off the lawn?
It was a sort of community arrangement. If it was dog walking time, we all went. A restless dog spelled stress and anxiety amongst the human household. A loving and attentive dog made us all happy and content. Even an outbreak of canine worms was a shared experience.
Our whole existence revolved around the dogs, whether decisions on holidays, short day trips, consideration of overnighters, the prospect of visitors and even casual callers all had to be thoroughly thought through from the point of view of our hairy, shaggy family members.
For all of that, it was a great time and we all benefitted greatly from it, especially our children who would often, when they were little, be found curled up in a pile of dogs on the living room floor. There is also something valuable to the human soul in having responsibility for another living creature.
The practicalities of being a doggy family were clear.
We were in charge of feeding, exercising, entertaining, cleaning up after and keeping our two hounds out of harms way.
It could be hard work.
Our active animals intent on charging about in the muddy fields, muddy riverbank, muddy park and mud flat beaches did generate considerable muck and grime which ended up on our clothes, through the back of the car and all over the house upon our return.
As well as the actual dirt there was also that distinctive damp doggy smell that permeated all of the soft furnishings. Unfortunately we would soon become acclimatised to the pungent odours when in close proximity. It would take a short spell away or the grimacing look on the face of a visitor to the house to make us realise that there was certainly a bit of an atmosphere.
What to do?
We invested in a good, heavy duty combined wet and dry vacuum cleaner. The discovery that wearing rubber soled boat shoes and adopting a shuffling motion across carpets could remove all stubborn dog hairs was a revelation. These actions dealt with the collateral damage.
As for the grubby dogs- well we could certainly have done with this advertised invention.
Fed up of the struggle involved in washing your pooch when it returns muddy and smelly from a walk in the forest?
Tired of having to clean the bathroom after you've perhaps wrestled with an unwilling dog intent on escaping as you, shampoo in one hand, shower head in the other, succeed only in flooding the place?
Simply no longer willing to make regular and sometimes costly trips to a specialist groomer to have your faithful four-legged friend washed and blow-dried?
Help is finally at hand in the shape of Shower Dog Corner - a washing machine for man's best friend - now available in France.
It only takes a half-hour session in, what to all intents and purposes is, a dog washing machine.
You simply put your dog in the machine, close the door . choose the programme and pay your money before sitting back to watch as the dog is automatically sprayed with water and shampoo for just four minutes and then blow-dried for the remaining time.
The machine is veterinary approved uses less water than would be required during a session at a conventional parlour and gentle so as not to strip away the protective grease contained in the fur.
It has proven particularly user friendly for big dogs and "those of a nervous disposition" who might be refused entry to a more conventional grooming parlour.
Now, if only there had been invention out there to pick up the dog poo off the lawn?
Wednesday 16 November 2016
Go on, Go on, Go on.
Some books just hit the shelves at the right time to be successful and others are just slow-burners that may take years or even decades to come to the attention of the public.
A book, clumsily entitled "Nudge: Improving Decisions About Health, Wealth and Happiness" by joint authors Cass R Sunstein and Richard H Thaler", first published in 2008, hit the ground running soon being referred to by economists and even a Prime Minister as an influential work .
It was on the subject of behavioural psychology and specifically in relation to the nuts and bolts of what the policy makers are always striving to achieve- to make people pay their taxes, look after their health, keep safe and all manner of things contributing to a smoothly run and equitable nation.
A newspaper article on this trend-setting book summed it up nicely.
Behavioural economists have found that all sorts of psychological or neurological biases cause people to make choices that seem contrary to their best interests. The idea of nudging is based on research that shows it is possible to steer people towards better decisions by presenting choices in different ways.
The Conservative Government in the UK formed what was referred to as "The Nudge Unit" on the back of the Sunstein and Thaler book .
It ran dozens of experiments and the early results were promising. In one trial, a letter sent to non-payers of vehicle excise taxes was changed to use plainer English, along the line of “pay your tax or lose your car”. This tweak in the amended letter doubled the number of people paying the tax. In some cases the letter was further personalised by including a photo of the car in question. If the response to the first approach had been good then the photo proved fantastically effective and payments tripled.
Reminders, usually a bit overbearing and bordering on the threatening, sent out by the Inland Revenue to try to recoup the billions in unpaid income tax were persistently unsuccessful until the application of "nudge theory". An extra sentence indicating that by not paying your dues you could lose out on the NHS and other great British Institutions or alternatively a mention that your neighbours were already fully paid up really made a difference and the tax flow into the Treasury increased significantly.
Subtle changes in the use of words have had amazing effects elsewhere, too. A study into the teaching of technical drawing in schools found that if the subject was called “geometry” boys did better, but if it was called “drawing” girls did equally well or better.
Another set of trials in Britain focused on energy efficiency. Research into why people did not take up financial incentives to reduce energy consumption by insulating their homes found one possibility was the hassle of clearing out the personal belongings, stored items and junk from the attic. A nudge was designed whereby insulation firms would offer to clear the loft, dispose of unwanted items and return the rest after insulating it. This example of what behavioural economists call “goal substitution”—replacing lower energy use with cleaning out the attic—led to a threefold increase in take-up of an insulation grant.
There is no sure fire way to determine whether a nudge will work.
In one trial, green arrows pointing to stairs were put next to railway-station escalators, in the hope of encouraging people to take the healthier option. This had almost no effect. Another experiment had a series of green footprints leading to rubbish bins. These signs reduced littering by 46% during a controlled experiment in which wrapped sweets were handed out.
Differences in culture can have a big impact, too.
“Nudge” described an example in America, where telling high users of energy how their consumption compared with that of their neighbours prompted them to use less.
Bigger tests of nudge theory are being devised regularly. Organ donation is one area. One initiative required members of the public to make a decision on whether to donate at the time of applying for a driving licence. This provided motivation to overcome an inclination to put off making unpleasant choices.
Nudges can however backfire tremendously.
A very early nudge policy in the United States saw teenagers, displaying early but not drastic delinquency, being made to visit hardened inmates in tough prisons who told it straight about their crimes and punishment, often in a very scary and intimidating way. In a follow up to the programme some years later , those who it had been hoped would turn away from a criminal path were actually more likely to be involved in such an anti-social lifestyle.
Similarly, with the anti-smoking warnings on cigarette packets. After research it was found that those who said they were most shocked by the more graphic images of carcinogenic organs were also those who most craved a smoke after seeing them.
To some extent nudges are a bit like a Jiminy Cricket character, that inner voice of conscience that tells us what we should do as the right thing.
It is however an aspect of human nature to just try and get away with not doing something we don't want to do for as long as we possibly can.
(Source; The Economist 2012)
A book, clumsily entitled "Nudge: Improving Decisions About Health, Wealth and Happiness" by joint authors Cass R Sunstein and Richard H Thaler", first published in 2008, hit the ground running soon being referred to by economists and even a Prime Minister as an influential work .
It was on the subject of behavioural psychology and specifically in relation to the nuts and bolts of what the policy makers are always striving to achieve- to make people pay their taxes, look after their health, keep safe and all manner of things contributing to a smoothly run and equitable nation.
A newspaper article on this trend-setting book summed it up nicely.
Behavioural economists have found that all sorts of psychological or neurological biases cause people to make choices that seem contrary to their best interests. The idea of nudging is based on research that shows it is possible to steer people towards better decisions by presenting choices in different ways.
The Conservative Government in the UK formed what was referred to as "The Nudge Unit" on the back of the Sunstein and Thaler book .
It ran dozens of experiments and the early results were promising. In one trial, a letter sent to non-payers of vehicle excise taxes was changed to use plainer English, along the line of “pay your tax or lose your car”. This tweak in the amended letter doubled the number of people paying the tax. In some cases the letter was further personalised by including a photo of the car in question. If the response to the first approach had been good then the photo proved fantastically effective and payments tripled.
Reminders, usually a bit overbearing and bordering on the threatening, sent out by the Inland Revenue to try to recoup the billions in unpaid income tax were persistently unsuccessful until the application of "nudge theory". An extra sentence indicating that by not paying your dues you could lose out on the NHS and other great British Institutions or alternatively a mention that your neighbours were already fully paid up really made a difference and the tax flow into the Treasury increased significantly.
Subtle changes in the use of words have had amazing effects elsewhere, too. A study into the teaching of technical drawing in schools found that if the subject was called “geometry” boys did better, but if it was called “drawing” girls did equally well or better.
Another set of trials in Britain focused on energy efficiency. Research into why people did not take up financial incentives to reduce energy consumption by insulating their homes found one possibility was the hassle of clearing out the personal belongings, stored items and junk from the attic. A nudge was designed whereby insulation firms would offer to clear the loft, dispose of unwanted items and return the rest after insulating it. This example of what behavioural economists call “goal substitution”—replacing lower energy use with cleaning out the attic—led to a threefold increase in take-up of an insulation grant.
There is no sure fire way to determine whether a nudge will work.
In one trial, green arrows pointing to stairs were put next to railway-station escalators, in the hope of encouraging people to take the healthier option. This had almost no effect. Another experiment had a series of green footprints leading to rubbish bins. These signs reduced littering by 46% during a controlled experiment in which wrapped sweets were handed out.
Differences in culture can have a big impact, too.
“Nudge” described an example in America, where telling high users of energy how their consumption compared with that of their neighbours prompted them to use less.
Bigger tests of nudge theory are being devised regularly. Organ donation is one area. One initiative required members of the public to make a decision on whether to donate at the time of applying for a driving licence. This provided motivation to overcome an inclination to put off making unpleasant choices.
Nudges can however backfire tremendously.
A very early nudge policy in the United States saw teenagers, displaying early but not drastic delinquency, being made to visit hardened inmates in tough prisons who told it straight about their crimes and punishment, often in a very scary and intimidating way. In a follow up to the programme some years later , those who it had been hoped would turn away from a criminal path were actually more likely to be involved in such an anti-social lifestyle.
Similarly, with the anti-smoking warnings on cigarette packets. After research it was found that those who said they were most shocked by the more graphic images of carcinogenic organs were also those who most craved a smoke after seeing them.
To some extent nudges are a bit like a Jiminy Cricket character, that inner voice of conscience that tells us what we should do as the right thing.
It is however an aspect of human nature to just try and get away with not doing something we don't want to do for as long as we possibly can.
(Source; The Economist 2012)
Tuesday 15 November 2016
Word Up
In one of those wet saturday tidy up and move-around sessions in the house I came across, after some absence, my Webster's Dictionary, published in 1866 and acquired by accident at an auction sale a couple of decades ago.
By accident I do not mean that I put my hand up when I should not have but that the box of miscellaneous items that I was after, intentionally, had the weighty, dusty and bedraggled edition stowed away at the bottom underneath some comics, trinkets and, frankly, a lot of junk, but what do you expect for £1.50.
I rippled the familiar, brown, musty and faded pages, picking out a few at random and poring over the tightly packed type set words and their definitions.
This simple act made me realise that a good proportion of the words from that era have just disappeared from the English language and also from that deep brain consciousness that brings them hurtling back to the surface at such times as doing a crossword, taking part in a quiz or watching University Challenge and trying to answer at least one question.
The beauty of language is that it is a dynamic and inventive thing and those olde worlde words and phrases that drop off the radar are quickly replaced with new ones, first heard on the street or cobbled together from popular culture and influences.
Two Institutions, trusted with the stewardship of the English Language, the Oxford English Dictionary and Collins regularly review potential entries for their illustrious publications with the former finding this necessary every quarter and Collins annually.
So what is the content and tone of the most recent additions to the language?
The fact that Brexit is the most commonly used is a reflection of the impact that the Referendum on EU Membership had on the nation. It has also spawned many other uses of "Bre" as a prefix, including for those who voted to remain- Bregret.
Over about the same period of time the word, Trumpism has emerged to mean, in my interpretation, making statements off the top of your head for maximum controversy but with little thought as to what you are actually saying. That particular word, I predict, will dominate the linguistic stage for years to come.
As one President prepares for Office, the current incumbent is saying his farewells and no one more than Obama has perfected the "Mic-Drop" or theatrical gesture to signify the end of something.
Internet Trolls have been prominent for all of the worst reasons but the contribution of social media to creating new words and phrases cannot be overlooked. Take "Throw Shade" which alludes to a subtle or non-verbal put down or insult to someone. "Non-apology" is something we are all familiar with from politicians,celebrities and captains of industry, It sounds like an apology but with no acceptance of responsibility or regret for upset, incompetence or offence.
Other on-line acknowledgements go to "Sharenting" where parents use Facebook, Instagram and other social media to display what their children are doing and "Clicktivism" where support is shown for a political or social cause by a person only through the internet, shunning the picket line or populist march.
There are a few cobbled and crudely welded together examples, Freemium being where a company offers a business plan, gratis and for nothing but then tries to upscale services on a fee charging basis.
Text originating abbreviations also figure with the most popular including YOLO (You only live once)and JOMO (joy of missing out).
Slang was once excluded from authoritative dictionaries and reference works but is a valuable source of new words. Moobs or man boobs has emerged as a front runner in this category ,Squee which apparently is a high pitched noise emanating from a musical instrument or an animal and 'merica which refers to stereotypes of the United States.
Those amongst the population who have officially recorded their belief as Jedi will be thrilled to see that Yoda, the little green figure in Star Wars, is now a proper descriptive term for a wise and perceptive person.
The reported, growing tension between my age group, the Baby Boomers and the Millenials on such issues as the housing ladder, pensions, global warming and many other socio-political and environmental issues is being defused a bit by the emergence of the phrase "Snowflake Generation" referring to those following on from the Millenials and seen to be less resilient and easy to take offence at things said.
Back to the Brexit and Trump results there seems to be a reaction to the liberal elite in respective British and American society. The phrase "Westminster Bubble" is an illustration of this.
Two of my favourites from the new additions are Uberisation which requires no explanation in a globalised world and Hygge (pronounced Hoo-Gah). This now very trendy word is attributed to the Danish but is in fact an old Norse word to describe a cosy and convivial atmosphere.
In this pressurised world everyone is looking for Hygge.
To me, it has the exact pronunciation of someone being violently sick.
By accident I do not mean that I put my hand up when I should not have but that the box of miscellaneous items that I was after, intentionally, had the weighty, dusty and bedraggled edition stowed away at the bottom underneath some comics, trinkets and, frankly, a lot of junk, but what do you expect for £1.50.
I rippled the familiar, brown, musty and faded pages, picking out a few at random and poring over the tightly packed type set words and their definitions.
This simple act made me realise that a good proportion of the words from that era have just disappeared from the English language and also from that deep brain consciousness that brings them hurtling back to the surface at such times as doing a crossword, taking part in a quiz or watching University Challenge and trying to answer at least one question.
The beauty of language is that it is a dynamic and inventive thing and those olde worlde words and phrases that drop off the radar are quickly replaced with new ones, first heard on the street or cobbled together from popular culture and influences.
Two Institutions, trusted with the stewardship of the English Language, the Oxford English Dictionary and Collins regularly review potential entries for their illustrious publications with the former finding this necessary every quarter and Collins annually.
So what is the content and tone of the most recent additions to the language?
The fact that Brexit is the most commonly used is a reflection of the impact that the Referendum on EU Membership had on the nation. It has also spawned many other uses of "Bre" as a prefix, including for those who voted to remain- Bregret.
Over about the same period of time the word, Trumpism has emerged to mean, in my interpretation, making statements off the top of your head for maximum controversy but with little thought as to what you are actually saying. That particular word, I predict, will dominate the linguistic stage for years to come.
As one President prepares for Office, the current incumbent is saying his farewells and no one more than Obama has perfected the "Mic-Drop" or theatrical gesture to signify the end of something.
Internet Trolls have been prominent for all of the worst reasons but the contribution of social media to creating new words and phrases cannot be overlooked. Take "Throw Shade" which alludes to a subtle or non-verbal put down or insult to someone. "Non-apology" is something we are all familiar with from politicians,celebrities and captains of industry, It sounds like an apology but with no acceptance of responsibility or regret for upset, incompetence or offence.
Other on-line acknowledgements go to "Sharenting" where parents use Facebook, Instagram and other social media to display what their children are doing and "Clicktivism" where support is shown for a political or social cause by a person only through the internet, shunning the picket line or populist march.
There are a few cobbled and crudely welded together examples, Freemium being where a company offers a business plan, gratis and for nothing but then tries to upscale services on a fee charging basis.
Text originating abbreviations also figure with the most popular including YOLO (You only live once)and JOMO (joy of missing out).
Slang was once excluded from authoritative dictionaries and reference works but is a valuable source of new words. Moobs or man boobs has emerged as a front runner in this category ,Squee which apparently is a high pitched noise emanating from a musical instrument or an animal and 'merica which refers to stereotypes of the United States.
Those amongst the population who have officially recorded their belief as Jedi will be thrilled to see that Yoda, the little green figure in Star Wars, is now a proper descriptive term for a wise and perceptive person.
The reported, growing tension between my age group, the Baby Boomers and the Millenials on such issues as the housing ladder, pensions, global warming and many other socio-political and environmental issues is being defused a bit by the emergence of the phrase "Snowflake Generation" referring to those following on from the Millenials and seen to be less resilient and easy to take offence at things said.
Back to the Brexit and Trump results there seems to be a reaction to the liberal elite in respective British and American society. The phrase "Westminster Bubble" is an illustration of this.
Two of my favourites from the new additions are Uberisation which requires no explanation in a globalised world and Hygge (pronounced Hoo-Gah). This now very trendy word is attributed to the Danish but is in fact an old Norse word to describe a cosy and convivial atmosphere.
In this pressurised world everyone is looking for Hygge.
To me, it has the exact pronunciation of someone being violently sick.
Monday 14 November 2016
Die Cast 2
I wanted for nothing in my childhood.
I realise that now in my 6th decade on this planet but at the time I would often find myself day dreaming about all sorts of toys, games and material goods.
I was too young and stupid at that tender age to realise that such things were not at all important compared to a stable, loving home with all of the security and affirmation that went with it.
It was that solid foundation in my formative years that empowered me to concentrate on my education and general development into the well rounded ( or is it chubby?)character that I am today.
Of course, I could still let my mind wander through the pages of childhood comics, catalogues and, as I wrote about yesterday, those wonderful brochures produced by the big four toy car makers, Corgi, Dinky, Matchbox and Hot Wheels.
I would find myself pausing over the colourful illustrations of that year's new models and in particular the themed boxed sets of Corgi, Tour de France vehicles.
They were such iconic features of that elite cycling event although, in reality, I had not really seen or followed it much as there was hardly any TV coverage on the three UK channels and given the limited involvement of British sportsmen in the races of the late 1960's and early to mid 1970's hardly any column space in the newspapers. In fact, it was just the clever depiction of the vehicles that caught my interest.
Here are a few of them.
Peugeot Team Car and riders, about 1972
The next two are from an American manufacturer
1946 Press Car
Promotional caravan for Perrier
I realise that now in my 6th decade on this planet but at the time I would often find myself day dreaming about all sorts of toys, games and material goods.
I was too young and stupid at that tender age to realise that such things were not at all important compared to a stable, loving home with all of the security and affirmation that went with it.
It was that solid foundation in my formative years that empowered me to concentrate on my education and general development into the well rounded ( or is it chubby?)character that I am today.
Of course, I could still let my mind wander through the pages of childhood comics, catalogues and, as I wrote about yesterday, those wonderful brochures produced by the big four toy car makers, Corgi, Dinky, Matchbox and Hot Wheels.
I would find myself pausing over the colourful illustrations of that year's new models and in particular the themed boxed sets of Corgi, Tour de France vehicles.
They were such iconic features of that elite cycling event although, in reality, I had not really seen or followed it much as there was hardly any TV coverage on the three UK channels and given the limited involvement of British sportsmen in the races of the late 1960's and early to mid 1970's hardly any column space in the newspapers. In fact, it was just the clever depiction of the vehicles that caught my interest.
Here are a few of them.
This was the packaging for the Camera Car about 1967
Renault R16 with cameraman and moveable parts
and below the team or managers car
The next two are from an American manufacturer
1946 Press Car
Promotional caravan for Perrier
Sunday 13 November 2016
Die Cast
Out from the back of the cupboard on the top landing at my Mother's house came the plastic box containing the toy cars and vehicles that I and my two brothers had accumulated since feeling flush with our first pocket monies in the late 1960's and mid to late 1970's.
Not that any excuse is ever required to take a trip down memory lane with the collection of die cast models by Matchbox, Corgi, Dinky and Hot Wheels, but on this occasion it was to entertain the young children of a friend who were showing initial signs of being bored in the company of adults.
Us Thomson boys, ranging in age over 12 years from 1963 to 1975, were regular purchasers of toy cars but ours was not a sterile childhood with one eye on collectable values in the future but a full-on riot of imagination and creativity in which the small models were put to good use in fulfilling role playing, mostly involving a mass vehicle pile up, apocalyptic scenario or an earthquake type natural disaster- this latter event usually involving burying said toys in the flower beds in the garden.
There was no thought of preserving the pristine original quality of the cars, lorries, buses, vans and specialist vehicles and certainly not in their original boxes or packaging. There was just no way that such considerations would be allowed to get in the way of wholehearted and rambunctious childhood activities.
In some way that unfettered upbringing, don't get me wrong- we were well mannered and respected our elders, led each of us brothers to our adult professions in the creative sector (Chris and Mark) and me to being a Chartered Surveyor- well, two out of three ain't bad.
Almost as exciting as coming away from the local toy shop with a new model by the big four UK manufacturers was to have a copy of their latest brochure which could be had for just a few old pennies and later, some low denomination decimal new pence coins.
I have just found an image of an actual issue from around 1970 that I spent hours browsing through and dreaming about, one day, having not one of the real full size sports or saloon cars but just the miniature scale model as show in those well thumbed and not a little jam-sticky pages.
There are some, by modern car design standards, quite plain and boringly designed models shown but remember that this was still quite a primitive era of motor manufacturing in terms of materials and methods and on British roads it was a thrill to see even European made vehicle.
To me, as a small boy of 7 years old the likes of Peugeot, Simca, VW and Mercedes Benz were wonderfully exotic and stylish compared to the dour offerings of home grown manufacturers. Japanese models were not yet featured but it would not be too long before Nissan, Datsun and Toyota were available.
The E Type Jaguar gets a place in this page of another brochure from the early 1970's although it already looks dated against the Ford GT and even the oversized gas guzzlers from the United States.
The young visitors greeted the box of toy cars with amazement. Perhaps when children ourselves growing up in this country we had been spoilt by these being widely available and affordable. I had never really though about that before.
There has certainly been a decline in this once valuable industry over the last 30 years, sadly, following the demise to but a few niche manufacturers of the full sized car market in this country.
Successive generations following that of the Thomson brothers have had many other pastimes and pursuits to follow and playing with cars is just not enough to keep them occupied.
I had not actually seen the box of toy cars for some time as the accumulated offspring of the Thomson's are now across the age ranges of 16 to 26. The newest arrival, Syd, at just one year old is a bit too young at the moment but happy hours of die cast play await him.
As our visitors lifted out and closely examined each of the box's contents in turn before placing them in a neat car-park configuration on the carpet I tried to catch a glimpse of what had played a large part in my formative years.
In my minds eye I seem to have held a notion, in spite of many years of rough and tough handling, that the toy cars were still in pretty good shape.
I could not have been more wrong.
To be honest, I was shocked at the damage to the bodywork, squashed and mis-shapen roofs, shattered plastic windscreens and wonky or missing wheels. These were abused and neglected toys and I was largely responsible.
My worst realisation was however still to come when I saw the paintwork on the majority of the cars that I had personally owned.
It was not the original but a complete mess of Airfix paints and with a bit of a military camouflage theme going on, even on vehicles that had no association whatsoever with the armed forces, such as an ice cream van, cattle truck and a Baja Dune Buggy.
I was embarrassed and ashamed in equal proportions but still with enough wounded pride to appear to carefully study and make nostalgic and appreciative noises before returning the objects, apologetically to their toy box grave.
Not that any excuse is ever required to take a trip down memory lane with the collection of die cast models by Matchbox, Corgi, Dinky and Hot Wheels, but on this occasion it was to entertain the young children of a friend who were showing initial signs of being bored in the company of adults.
Us Thomson boys, ranging in age over 12 years from 1963 to 1975, were regular purchasers of toy cars but ours was not a sterile childhood with one eye on collectable values in the future but a full-on riot of imagination and creativity in which the small models were put to good use in fulfilling role playing, mostly involving a mass vehicle pile up, apocalyptic scenario or an earthquake type natural disaster- this latter event usually involving burying said toys in the flower beds in the garden.
There was no thought of preserving the pristine original quality of the cars, lorries, buses, vans and specialist vehicles and certainly not in their original boxes or packaging. There was just no way that such considerations would be allowed to get in the way of wholehearted and rambunctious childhood activities.
In some way that unfettered upbringing, don't get me wrong- we were well mannered and respected our elders, led each of us brothers to our adult professions in the creative sector (Chris and Mark) and me to being a Chartered Surveyor- well, two out of three ain't bad.
Almost as exciting as coming away from the local toy shop with a new model by the big four UK manufacturers was to have a copy of their latest brochure which could be had for just a few old pennies and later, some low denomination decimal new pence coins.
I have just found an image of an actual issue from around 1970 that I spent hours browsing through and dreaming about, one day, having not one of the real full size sports or saloon cars but just the miniature scale model as show in those well thumbed and not a little jam-sticky pages.
There are some, by modern car design standards, quite plain and boringly designed models shown but remember that this was still quite a primitive era of motor manufacturing in terms of materials and methods and on British roads it was a thrill to see even European made vehicle.
To me, as a small boy of 7 years old the likes of Peugeot, Simca, VW and Mercedes Benz were wonderfully exotic and stylish compared to the dour offerings of home grown manufacturers. Japanese models were not yet featured but it would not be too long before Nissan, Datsun and Toyota were available.
The E Type Jaguar gets a place in this page of another brochure from the early 1970's although it already looks dated against the Ford GT and even the oversized gas guzzlers from the United States.
The young visitors greeted the box of toy cars with amazement. Perhaps when children ourselves growing up in this country we had been spoilt by these being widely available and affordable. I had never really though about that before.
There has certainly been a decline in this once valuable industry over the last 30 years, sadly, following the demise to but a few niche manufacturers of the full sized car market in this country.
Successive generations following that of the Thomson brothers have had many other pastimes and pursuits to follow and playing with cars is just not enough to keep them occupied.
I had not actually seen the box of toy cars for some time as the accumulated offspring of the Thomson's are now across the age ranges of 16 to 26. The newest arrival, Syd, at just one year old is a bit too young at the moment but happy hours of die cast play await him.
As our visitors lifted out and closely examined each of the box's contents in turn before placing them in a neat car-park configuration on the carpet I tried to catch a glimpse of what had played a large part in my formative years.
In my minds eye I seem to have held a notion, in spite of many years of rough and tough handling, that the toy cars were still in pretty good shape.
I could not have been more wrong.
To be honest, I was shocked at the damage to the bodywork, squashed and mis-shapen roofs, shattered plastic windscreens and wonky or missing wheels. These were abused and neglected toys and I was largely responsible.
My worst realisation was however still to come when I saw the paintwork on the majority of the cars that I had personally owned.
It was not the original but a complete mess of Airfix paints and with a bit of a military camouflage theme going on, even on vehicles that had no association whatsoever with the armed forces, such as an ice cream van, cattle truck and a Baja Dune Buggy.
I was embarrassed and ashamed in equal proportions but still with enough wounded pride to appear to carefully study and make nostalgic and appreciative noises before returning the objects, apologetically to their toy box grave.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)