Sole Mate

I apologise to those concerned about the recent lack of bulletins about my recuperation after falling into that hole. 

I have actually been far too busy to wallow in self pity and to trade in medical terminology having become fully engaged in a busy day to day routine that, to be honest, gives me little opportunity for waxing lyrical about such things. 

I continue to start my day early at 6am although with the summer mornings and being unable to sleep anyway I make my way to my day room by 5am. 

My days have been more than filled with paperwork forwarded from my office. This involves paper base files being exchanged in a Sainsbury carrier bag in an almost clandestine operation with my wife acting as go-between in addition to e mail correspondence. 

My resolve not to watch any daytime TV before Pointless at 5pm remains sound and true although I do admit to browsing Netflix for anything of interest. It is a most disappointing form of media with not much of appeal to me amongst the huge catalogue of programmes. 

I read books with a vengeance and have finished off works of fiction- including Irving and Childers as well as non fiction from Heligoland to Herodotus. This renewed passion has opened up many different lines of enquiry and interest which can be more than satisfied by internet search engines and radio podcasts. 

I find it hard to believe that it is, today, 8 weeks since the earth opened up and ruptured my quad tendon as the time has flown by. That is of course my perspective and my family will have their own.

Yesterday, being my 6 weeks post operative Fracture Clinic appointment , saw the first material change in my leg brace and mobility. 

I can report that I have 30 degrees of permitted, regulated movement in my right leg and my foot is now allowed to touch the ground and bear weight. This major development has made me a bit reckless and ambitious although the sensation of the tender sole on any sort of surface is quite unsettling and I err on the side of caution which has been my overriding policy to date to keep recovery time to as normal as possible. 

The Flexion brace is still on for another 6 weeks but I have been trusted in 14 days time to adjust the dial on the side from what is an imperceptible 30 to a more visible, steady on there, 60 degrees. 

That will not be enough to sit in a car or comfortably on a chair, play the piano, pump up a lilo, go to a concert, perch on a stool in the coffee shop, climb onto a bus, mount stairs, balance sufficiently to shave off my beard ,kick a football or walk easily for any distance but I am not too bothered as it is still good progress. 

Porky Pies

For many years my younger brother believed that the huge grey mass of buildings that operated as one of the largest Steel Works in Europe at that time, with its multi storey edifice, architectural functionality, huge elevated shute, frequent emissions of industrial scale steam and, at night, the glow of a dying celestial star was in fact where they made Shredded Wheat breakfast cereal.

The things that young children believe, really?

I was a few years older and was amazed at how this tall tale had been accepted without question. After all, why would the makers of the best breakfast cereal ever choose to be based in Scunthorpe when there were plenty of other and arguably better locations. I think this myth may have come from my parents.

I later, when a parent myself, continued the tradition including the following;

My youngest daughter was heart-broken when her favourite toy, a small ,pink fur covered pig became, in her eyes irreparably damaged by a tragic accident involving a staircase. (Fall or deliberate push is still debatable)

There was no consoling the small child until, as parents only can do, a massive lie and drama was acted out.

I was charged with contacting the nearest A&E at the D&T (Dolly and Toy Hospital) by accessing a special Directory of Services for Good and Beautiful Children.(DSGBC).

I am not sure, by definition if there is a complimentary volume for bad and ugly offspring.

My mock conversation with the fictitious Dolly and Toy Hospital Receptionist was, according to my wife, quite a performance involving a bit of small talk even a little bit (she said later) on the flirtatious side , some general comments on the weather, a mutual dislike of lawyers and, this I dispute, involving an exchange of telephone details.

Anyway, to the anxious eavesdroppers in the family.I managed to charm my way into getting an appointment with the equally elusive Chief Physician for that very afternoon. My daughter and I sat on her bed with, and briefed, the listless pink pig on the pre-operation procedure but tried to keep up beat about what could be a tricky procedure.

Neither of us were  sure if the little animal was even tolerant of pigicillin.

Foolishly, and in retrospect downright asking for a legal action, as we knew not what we were doing, we bound up the middle of the pig with a crepe bandage finished with a neatly tied bow. There were tears as I drove away but after wiping my eyes I could see the road a lot better.

My daughter waved me off, her face trusting and expectant.

A few minutes later, as I left the austere Municipal Waste Facility minus a pink pig, I had already planned the next stage of the deception.

The toy was a couple of years old but due to a massive overstocking following wildly optimistic estimates of potential sales the large catalogue store in town had plenty of surplus stock, still.

I was pleased and relieved initially but then a bit annoyed. The economic laws of over supply and minimal demand  meant that the price had now fallen by a massive 60% from the panic fuelled original circumstances of the purchase. We had fallen for the massive hype and very persuasive advertising campaign for the pink pig. We had been suckered into believing that if we had failed to purchase that product that year, our child would be forever scarred with emotional stress through the lack toy based affirmation of parental love.

We vowed never to fall into that parental trap again. In successive years however, we were tricked into purchasing the so-called "must have" toys every time. In testament to our role as doting parents we gradually accumulated at the back of the garage a pile of micro-scooters, Toy Story action figures, Talking Elmo's and other discarded scrap heap playthings.

Upon my return home, less the pig, my daughter demanded regular updates on the progress of the patient. She was understandably upset that she could not visit in person but as I further explained, the location had to be kept ultra-secret. I forget now why that was.

The receptionist at the Dolly and Toy Hospital was most helpful although was becoming a bit too familiar and I had to get my wife to make the calls subsequently.

Sooner than expected we got the great news that the patient was being released. I speculated to my daughter that there must have been a  shortage of hospital beds on account of a massive upsurge in brittle plastic problems with early Barbie Dolls and Action Men.

I set off to collect the patient. As soon as I was out of sight of the house I took advantage of the "order by phone and collect in store" function which worked perfectly.

Following completion of the purchase I discarded the packaging for the replacement pig in the bins at the multi storey car park in town. The crepe bandage, removed at the rubbish skip at the internment of the old pig was carefully re-attached.

They could have been identical twins. As a nice touch, I attached a small, unused corn plaster to its left foot.

The homecoming was marvellous to behold. Child and pink pig reunited and ecstatic. There was calm again in the cosmos.

Some years later we, as parents, did admit to our deviousness but our daughter was quite nonchalant about the whole thing. I think she had suspected this ruse all along but was appreciative of the effort we had put in on her behalf.

As for that replacement pink pig; it resides in the attic with successive 'Toys of the Year' and dines out regularly on the story of its miraculous recovery and the unconditional love of a small girl.

Re:cycle

Every so often the green painted floor of our house garage disappears from view under the relentless spread of boxes, bags, belongings and bicycles. It is as though a tide has washed through depositing flotsam and jetsam from its previous and reasonably ordered stacking position against the inner walls. 

The first three of the four categories are items we can do little about. 

The boxes are of the stout transparent plastic storage type and with one or more allocated to each of our trio of children. These contain some of their treasured possessions or at least those that have not stayed close to them in that separate part of their lives that goes with independence in adulthood. 

The term bags, is a bit vague I admit and may conjur up images of poor durable polythene or slightly better but in fact refers to those strengthened ones that can equally be used for garden waste or come with materials from a builder’s merchants. These contain surplus clothes or larger household items such as pots, plans and crockery, eventually intended for home-making when our siblings set up a permanent residence, whenever and wherever that time comes. 

The description of belongings I use to mop up on everything else not otherwise falling into the previous categories but nevertheless to be carefully preserved ….just in case. 

So, in reality the only moveable objects in our garage are the bicycles. 

We have a mixed approach to them. The master plan is to progressively upgrade, over time, our collection of bikes but the enabling factors of time and money rarely coincide. Consequently, the age range of our current stable is 35 years, that is if you exclude the bits of a 1950’s bike frame which I have seen as a restoration project for quite a few years now. 

The actual space in the garage to cater for bikes is restricted and so we have adopted a policy of thinning out. 

So what fate awaits a bike that is surplus to our plans? 

First priority is to find a home for them amongst family and friends. In the past we tended to hang onto starter bikes and childrens’ bikes for just that reason but trends and fashions change rapidly in the cycling world and what were top of the range for our own children when young look distinctly dated within only a few years. There is nothing more precious and exciting to parents and children than that process of buying and learning to ride that first bike and so second hand offerings tend to be relegated, even if offered on a traditional hand me down basis by kith and kin. 

An increasingly available option to pass on a bike is charitable donation. This can take the form of a home grown organisation looking for bikes to teach repair and maintenance skills to , for example, vulnerable young adults or where the initiative is an overseas project. 

Our latest donation is to be sent to Africa. 

A local scheme to us, The Avenues Bicycle Project, was established in 2010 to recycle complete bicycles, spare parts and tools for sending by shipping container to Sierra Leone and Ghana. 

There is no greater contrast to the role and purpose of a bike in England than in Africa. I have been guilty in agonising over the superficial aspects of components, brand name and type for a bike in the same way I would approach an item of clothing. It is a lifestyle decision. Compare this to the life enhancing effect of a bike as personal transport in parts of Africa. 

After contacting the local project I started to experience significant doubts as to the suitability of the donor bike for its intended destination. It was a purchase for our son when he was about 12 years old, a Mongoose Fireball which was described as a dirt bike but was more of an entry level mountain bike. 

Certainly sturdy it had the innovation for that time of disc brakes of which I had no knowledge or experience. This was no more evident when after replacing the front wheel following a puncture repair I found a strangely shaped metal casting on the floor where I had been working. I could not, at first reconcile this discovery and the fact that the brake did not work. More by trial and error than any logical reasoning I eventually deduced that they were linked and mechanical operation was restored after a bit of a fiddly task. 

The volunteers who came to collect the Mongoose appeared very pleased with it and felt that it would be well suited to the terrain and knocks of West Africa. That was a good thing to hear. 

The flop-flop of the flat back tyre as the bike was wheeled to the waiting van was a bit of an embarrassing epilogue but I was certain in my mind that our cast-off would become a much loved and appreciated asset in a faraway place.

Post Apocalyptic Survival in Pictures

           
                           Post Apocalyptic Practicalities. 
                                 A brief guide in pictures

We, as a family, have been catching up on the latest season of "The Walking Dead". Apart from the entertainment value there are a number of lessons to be learned from the main characters who, frankly, are a bit dim. Let's face it; they always go into a dark, abandoned building with their heads down or dealing with their inter-group tensions with no apparent thought for the presence of "walkers" or post traumatic stress affected survivors, some of whom have some weird and warped agendas. 

I have therefore thought long and hard about how I would provide for my family and friends in a post-apocalyptic scenario. Here it is is a pictorial presentation;

                             

               Establish a mountain retreat. Excavate tunnels, chambers and burrows.

         Get a tight fitting cover to the entrance to exclude zombies, aliens, survivors. 

     Your supplies must be a varied range covering all nutritional needs and treats

        The absolute essentials should be suitably stored in a dry,secure atmosphere

      It is alright to stockpile a favourite tipple. Alcohol units will cease to be an issue

 Sanitary facilities should be as good as you can achieve with zero water pressure

 A luxurious retro-bathroom may distract you from the misery and horror generally

 Keep a suitable vehicle fuelled up at a separate secure location, practical, not flash

 A subtle barricade further in the valley could give precious seconds to repel raiders

            Gather your precious possessions. They could be legal tender one day

  Pass your spare time with, say, a creative art project using available resources

        It may be a good opportunity to write that novel that you always wanted to do.

 Keep treats and bonuses for special occasions-say, first 12 months underground

                     Never underestimate the value of reliable cooking equipment

   Music can be an essential form or relaxation. Avoid unhappy tunes

          Keep an ear out for any indications of salvation or return of atmosphere

                                            It does no harm to dream.

             Share it with the persons that you love the most in your brave new world

                 Above ground may have reverted to a strange hierarchy of beasts

                                       It won't hurt to just pray a bit either

Transfer Window

Nostalgia is big business for my generation, The Baby Boomers. 

The seeking out through protracted internet searches or rummaging about in charity shops and auction salerooms for the toys, games and pastimes of our childhoods does attract a considerable amount of what we feel is our rightfully disposable income. 

In reality, how many of us have tracked down that long lost and favourite item with which we wiled away many hours of an idyllic younger life only to be dismayed at the prices being demanded for what was a pocket money outlay. 

Nevertheless, our hearts win out over common sense and financial prudency and the deal is invariably done. 

In most cases, when the thing arrives, a strong emotion is one of disappointment.  

We then realise that it was not the toy or game in isolation that is so compelling but a combination of the original circumstances and emotions of the time that contributed to the fond recollections of childish play. 

There is an abundance of the high volume production items from my youth on the market such as classic boxed games, action figures, franchise type figurines, bikes, skateboards, Sony Walkmans' and early video consuls but less so more specialised toys, some of which have proven to be perishable as the years have passed. 

I was therefore very happy to come across a website run by an individual or like minded souls. The meticulous detail of information and content of the web pages can only be the work of the world’s greatest enthusiasts, collectors and authority on a particular toy from my own childhood. 

Under the acronym of SPLAT this group are The Society for the Preservation of Letraset Action Transfers. 

Those of my age will be very familiar with Letraset and in particular their extensive range of rub down transfers. 

In their better known form these comprised sheets of letters in alphabetic order covering just about every available font and size. We used them to label just about everything that needed to be personalised. I even used a larger font on the crossbar of my racing bike which, when protected with an enamel based varnish, looked just like the markings on a Pro’s bike on the Tour de France. 

The rub down letters were alright to some extent but the best Letraset products were the themed transfer books and dioramas. 

Known by a variety of different names including rub-on and rub off these dry based transfers were an original invention by Letraset in 1959 although much imitated by other companies subsequently. 

The principle is for Images printed on a carrier layer of paper to be transferred onto another chosen surface by applying pressure using, commonly, a pencil or other stylus type instrument. The image is held in place on the carrier layer by a wax based adhesive that is freed by the rubbing motion and a further adhesive film on the image grips the recipient surface to complete the operation. 

Care was essential so as not to rub down multiple images in one go and spoil the whole point of forming your own picture. 

Letraset brought out, in my era of the 1960’s and 1970’s, editions of transfers on historical, cultural and popular subjects and I regularly bought these on my weekly visits to the local toy shop or stationers. 

Booklets with a narrative and detailed backgrounds were a great source of entertainment and even for some educational value. Larger fold out scenes depicting a famous battle or event could be populated with the emphasis on authenticity or in a completely random manner. Using and mixing up different themed sheets of transfers could  see a Spitfire swooping low over the gates of Troy which had just been opened to allow Henry the Eighth to drag in an American Civil War cannon. 

Unfortunately the transfers were prone to damage during the rub down process, often splitting or only partially adhering or would rapidly dry out and become useless. 

I can still recall many of the images depicted using Letraset and thanks to the bods at SPLAT there is a chance that successive generations will also be able to experience the joy of rub down transfers, that is unless my peer group snap them all up first in the spirit of shameless nostalgia.

35 Year Shopping Trip

It is a phrase deserving of contempt and scorn but how many times do we use “First World Problem” to describe something that takes up a lot of our time, can be frustrating but is at face value utterly trivial and pointless. 

At the time of encountering such a thing it may assume a significance and importance beyond which we cannot see or get on with our lives. We may feel hopeless, alone and abandoned by those whom we expect to be able to solve our problem. 

I felt these emotions just the other day when I made, for me, the momentous decision to purchase a new bicycle. 

I have managed perfectly well with the same racing bike for 32 years although I should say that back in 1982 it did cost £1000 for which I have to thank my Grandfather who bequeathed this sum to me. 

Mine was not a frivolous act or one of youthful impulse but a very well considered and researched acquisition on the criteria of hand built customisation, ie made to measure, the best quality components and in a beautiful bright red enamelled finish. 

I raced competitively on that bike for some years and with a periodic changing of components it was in weekly use from the Spring to mid autumn as recently as this year as my sole road bike. 

Any thoughts whatsoever on gracefully retiring what was the perfect two wheeled machine for me was not easy. I suppose it was a combination of a few, yet unfounded concerns over reliability of the key structural parts of the bike but mostly, I admit from my own lack of fitness, typically age related for my 53 years which meant that I could not pedal it as ferociously as I had been used to or at least it felt that way.

The frame geometry and materials were faultless for the 1980’s with lightweight tubing and above all its putting together by a master craftsman bike builder. I could sit on it comfortably for hours out on some of those carefree rides which saw me disappear from family and commitments for the duration. I hesitate to estimate the accumulated mileage covered over the last three and a half decades but it would be a very large number indeed. 

I did not feel it necessary to look into getting another or a replacement bike nor covet the latest models that increasingly passed and left me behind on the local roads. The use of the word "increasingly" can be interpreted in two ways, the first being the massive upsurge in the numbers of cyclists generally and the other my declining average speed. 

I felt mean and disloyal to my trusted racer on the rare occasions that I found myself browsing the glossy product sections of a bicycle magazines or on line reviews. 

As with all consumer products .where there is a proven demand, there is an enhanced price structure and taking the decision, reluctantly to do the same sort of market research as I had in 1982 I was amazed and dumbfounded at the asking prices for what seemed like fairly ordinary, off the shelf road bikes.  Cycling is now quite a hipster pastime and evidently there is a lot of disposable income available to indulge in it. 

Schemes to encourage cycling, in particular “ride to work “ and similar have allowed participants to stretch their original, unsubsidised budgets and I have often chatted to other riders sporting some very expensive bikes who themselves have admitted that owning such a pedigree was never in their expectations. 

There was only one decision to be made after my reccy of the product ranges and that was to stick to my late 20th century £1000 price range. 

This is where, I am embarrassed to say, that I encountered those despicable and trivial first world problems. Part carbon versus aluminium or steel for the frame. Shimano or Campagnolo components. Lightweight or more sensible wheels for demanding local road surfaces. Mounted or concealed cables. Two or three water bottle cage mounts. Single colour or multiple enamelled finish. Classic brand or new kid on the block. Conventional or disc brakes. I was spared any agonising over electronic gear changers and full carbon frames by my pre-set budget restriction. 

It was a case of whittling down the different elements in a too-ing and fro-ing from magazine page to computer screen and even a quick sneak visit to a local bike stockist in case I had overlooked anything. 

Fashion and style play an important role in all things cycling and last years bike models are quickly confined to the clearance stock sales which is where I found myself looking in what I could sense was the final decision making stage. At last I was closing in on the bike that fitted all of my discerning criteria. I pressed buy and filled in the payment details.

I could really have saved myself time and angst over the whole thing as my choice, well it was the same make as would have been my alternative purchase back in my impressionable youth. A First World Problem in its most obscene definition. 

Globetrotting Amy

Amy Johnson was a feminist icon of her time, a celebrity in her own era. Today, the 24th May 2017 marks an anniversary of her solo flight from England to Australia in 1930. It was a pioneering achievement. very much in the character of this great aviator. Tragically she died only 11 years after her epic journey but her story is legendary........

However, mystery has surrounded her plight in the early years of the second world war.

The common perception of longstanding circulation was that Britain's most famous female pilot either ran out of fuel, was blighted by bad weather, or struck barrage balloons as she flew a wartime aircraft for delivery to  RAF Kidlington above the Thames Estuary on January 5, 1941.

She is thought to have been forced to bale out, but her body was never found.

It has only been in very recent years that an alternative explanation of some credibility has been offered for the loss of the pioneer and wartime heroine after an old soldier claimed he shot down her aircraft because she failed correctly to signal she was flying a British plane.

Tom Mitchell, in peacetime a retired gardener but aged 25 at the time of the incident, said he was one of four soldiers stationed at Iwade, Kent on the Thames Estuary, who were ordered to fire when an unidentified plane flew towards the English Channel.

It was only when he read of her death the next day, that he realised his guilt. "We felt absolutely terrible," the father of two, from Crowborough, East Sussex, said yesterday. "We all thought it was an enemy plane until we saw the newspapers the next day and realised it was Amy Johnson.

"Of course, we were upset, but it was wartime, we were doing our jobs and we got on with it. But it's not something I've wanted to talk about."

Mr Mitchell, a former gunner who served with the 58th Heavy Anti Aircraft Battery, Kent Regiment, said that when Johnson's plane was sighted, communication was made over the radio and a request given that she cite the colour of the day - a signal to identify planes known by all British forces.

Tragically and without the luxury of an explanation possible, the 37-year-old pilot gave the wrong colour - and repeated her mistake when the same officer asked a second time.

"The reason Amy was shot down was because she gave the wrong colour of the day over the radio. She got it wrong twice, and that's why we were ordered to shoot," said Mr Mitchell.

"Sixteen rounds of shells were fired into the sky and the plane dived into the Thames Estuary - but on the ground, we couldn't see that at the time."

Mr Mitchell added: "The next day, when we read about it in the papers, the officers told us to keep quiet and never tell anyone what happened."

He kept his secret for more than 50 years, labouring under the misapprehension that the Official Secrets Act meant he could not divulge it during this period.

When his sister Rosemary died in 1994, he re-read letters he had written to her at the time in which he detailed the story, and became convinced he could not die without offering his version for historical reasons. "All the events of that night came back to me and a friend at my social club said I ought to tell people."

He then spoke to his local newspaper.

Claims that Johnson was shot down, and did not run out of fuel, as the official line has always stipulated, have already been put forward by David Luff, an aviation historian who believed she was fired at by a naval convoy and the tragedy hushed up by a government anxious to avoid damaging morale.

There are however some inconsistencies in the claim by Gunner Mitchell.

Amy Johnson was on a delivery flight in an Airspeed Oxford aircraft and may not have had a radio on which to receive and return the information for safe passage in home airspace. The weather conditions were reported to consist of heavy cloud and so observation of the plane , targeting with accurate anti-aircraft fire and confirming damage will have been difficult. The actual crash site was some 18 miles from the anti-aircraft position introducing some doubts as to whether the plane was that piloted by Amy Johnson. Her baling out was reputed to be at 3.30pm but records much later released into the public domain put the gunnery forces challenge and offensive action much later in the afternoon.

According to the version of events by the Air Transport Auxiliary, which employed her as a professional pilot from 1939, Johnson ran out of fuel after overshooting her destination by 100 miles. But this explanation - which would see her dramatically misjudging the distance from Blackpool to Oxford - seems implausible, given that she had successfully flown to Australia in 1930, to Japan in 1931, and to Cape Town in 1932.

Whether by their own interpretation or not wanting to contradict the official position on the wartime incident the Royal Air Force Museum in Hendon, north London, stood by the explanation that Johnson became lost above clouds, ran out of fuel, and, seeing barrage balloons, bailed out, believing she was over land.

The museum's archivist, Peter Elliott, stated that "Unfortunately, the barrage balloons were being flown by a convoy in the Thames. A parachutist was seen in the clouds and landed down in the water followed by a second object now thought to have been a pigskin overnight case that Amy Johnson is known to have regularly taken on her aircraft. An attempt to rescue the assumed famous aviator by surface vessels in the vicinity was unsuccessful and if still alive after a few minutes in the cold wintry water she may even have been fatally injured by the propellor of one of the search ships.

There is no way of knowing if Mr Mitchell's account is true because it might have been so secret, that it was not recorded in the Battery Logs.

A Ministry of Defence spokesman said: "We have no way of confirming this story at present."

(acknowledged source document. Sarah Hall, The Guardian 6.2.99)

Wall to Wall

I filled in an on-line survey back in 2015 which told me that my current form of employment carried with it a 63% possibility of being done in the future by a robot. 

That prospect arouses in me two distinct emotions, the first being an impending feeling of uselessness and the other a simmering rage against artificial intelligence, machine learning and algorithms which could in the next 50 years see me seriously consider taking up arms in any ensuing struggle. 

My own apparently predestined future led me to think about what sorts of jobs would still, in the same time frame, be predominantly undertaken by humans. 

Take the construction sector and the roles and functions that go with that. 

It is an industry that requires a certain amount of youthful physicality in excavations, fabrication, allied trades and skills and yet looking through the list of jobs in getting, for example, a typical house out of the ground and up to habitable stage there appears to be a high level of vulnerability to a robot takeover. 

To me the most surprising skill to be under such a threat was bricklaying at 82%. 

I have marvelled at the agility and dexterity of a bricklaying gang on a residential building site from the labourers mixing the mortar and handling the bricks to the skilled tradesmen up on the scaffolding laying the uniform courses hour upon hour. 

It appears however that brickies are becoming scarce through natural wastage and as a consequence of economic downturn on a cyclical basis which detracts from what was generally regarded as a job that would always be in demand and a good source of income. 

In Australia these factors have led to one company, Fast Brick, developing and bringing into commission a mechanised brick laying machine. 

Under the iconic name of Hadrian this large but manoeuvrable bit of mobile equipment can construct all of the masonry components of a traditional clay brick house in 15 hours which when compared to a human team’s 15 to 18 days for the same is astounding. 

The company defend their creation as being complimentary to a conventional brick laying gang and that it does not constitute a threat to employment. They have simply identified shortcomings and trends in construction and addressed them with a machine. 

Most technical revolutions are in response to inefficiencies or skill voids and that applies to just about every sector of manufacturing and commercial operation. 

Masons and bricklayers in Australia now have an average age of 47 years and because of the level of physical attrition in the job rarely work beyond 55 years old. 

This is a worry to those responsible for the profitability of companies in the sector and also where there is social pressure to provide housing in sufficient volume and quality to meet an increasing population and their needs. 

Fast Brick have identified the UK economy as an area for their machine to thrive in as there is a persistent shortfall in cost effective housing and in terms of numbers. We, in this country, similar to the Aussies just love bricks and mortar construction for our homes and so there appears to be a perfect fit for Southern Hemisphere ingenuity and entrepreneurial flare.

Just such a machine as Hadrian may be squeezing into a street near you and quite soon.

Plans and Egos

I came across a copy of the Abercrombie and Lutyens Plan for my home city Hull, East Yorkshire quite some years ago now. 

It was a radical proposal for one of the UK’s least self promoting  places even though it had borne the brunt of wartime bombing which was only surpassed in ferocity by the blitz on London. 

The Plan was not a knee jerk reaction or a gesture of patronising concern offered as a consolation for the devastation to the population and its buildings but a well considered and quite revolutionary set of ideas which had been set in play as early as 1941. 

That year was the focus of much enemy attention with large-scale airborne attacks on several nights in March 1941, resulting in some 200 deaths. The most concentrated attacks were in the month of May resulting in 400 deaths, and another large-scale bombing took place in July 1941 with around 140 fatalities. The city spent more than 1,000 hours under alert during raids from June 1940 to 1945, with around 1,200 people in the city killed as a result of the bombing. Only a handful of the densely packed housing stock escaped any form of damage. 

The two heavyweights of architecture and urban planning worked on the project through the war years before presenting their report in 1945/1946. 

Edwin Landseer Lutyens, held by some to be the greatest British Architect of the 20^th Century was responsible for private and public commissions in the UK covering country houses, war memorials and government buildings and also his major contribution to the design and construction of New Delhi, India over a twenty year period to 1930. 

Sir Patrick Abercrombie gave his name to the post war reconstruction of London and from this came the New Towns Movement which saw satellite towns being established to ease pressure on many declining and overstressed cities. 

Unfortunately, Lutyens died in 1944 before final publication but he was acknowledged for his contribution by his co-author. 

Whether down to the collaboration with the genius of Lutyens or the blank canvas opportunity offered by the great city of Hull it was reported that Abercrombie regarded this piece of work as the best he had ever been associated with.

It was certainly a very comprehensive approach. 

The city centre prior to the wartime bombing had featured a host of notable commercial and civic structures as befitting a wealthy maritime economy derived from a global shipping trade, whaling fleet and deep sea trawling as well as home grown industries by entrepreneurs such as James Reckitt and Smith and Nephew amongst many others. 

This bomb devastated district was to be given the requisite treatment to create "a fairer (as in beautiful) and nobler" city image which was nothing less than spectacular.  

The traditional industrial areas of mills, warehouses and refineries were to be found deep inside the inner city and along the River Hull corridor and amongst them were the densely populated housing areas of typical slum dwellings regularly affected by unchecked tidal flooding. 

It was part of the proposals that 54,000 of the population, representing at that time around a sixth of the total, were to be moved from the insanitary and substandard housing stock to a suburban idyll comprising modern estates and greenspace. 

The hamlet of Burton Constable to the north east of Hull was identified as the location for a satellite town on the Garden City theme. 

A neighbourhood model would establish 17 self centred districts of up to 10,000 people again in a low density of housing and broad avenues. 

The plan must have received regular updates on the bombing as these devastated swaths through the city were added to the available land bank. 

It was not a slash and burn approach however with the historic Old Town excluded from the main Plan and with Abercrombie obviously keen to unnecessarily demolish those few buildings which escaped damage and had a role in and value to the scheme by being retained. 

It appears that the vision of the plan was just too much for those who held civic office and positions of influence in Hull and it was rejected.

In hindsight it was a fantastic opportunity missed to achieve a phoenix like resurgence for a demoralised population. It was not until 1949 that an alternative plan was unveiled as a compromise albeit still of similar ambition. 

The austerity of post war Britain will have contributed to the inaction of local government in Hull in respect of ideas which had the future development and prosperity of the city at its heart. How could a society enduring rationing and shortages in raw materials contemplate what must have seemed like a pretention to grandeur and with a price tag to match?

The lack of commitment was perhaps to be expected in a provincial city which was and still is perceived as being at the end of the line in relation to the rest of the country and for hand outs by central and regional government. A fiercely independent business community will have thrown up local criticism and suspicion of State interference. The practicalities of property and land ownership should also not be ignored although these would have been sidestepped by Compulsory Purchase and other Statutory Powers for the greater good. 

There was a certain strength of local chamber of trade opposition and a reluctance to accumulate a financial civic deficit. The shortage of building materials after the war should not be disregarded as a valid reason for lack of any progress similarly the absence of suitably competent and skilled personnel through secondment to the war effort in a deserted planning department who would be responsible for overseeing and implementing the Plan.

The businessmen, owners and investors of the city centre under the prevailing circumstances won the day against the Abercrombie Plan in the 1950s by rebuilding and expanding the shopping district in its previous location and extending it northwards. That impacted on other aspects of the plan including for example the catalyst of a well designed ring road. It may have been in the perceived best interests of this select group of citizens for Hull but it was not until the last twenty five years that such schemes as Princes Quay and more recently St Stephens shopping centres and the adjacent transport interchange represented a long awaited catch up with regional and wider national competitor cities.

A new development plan approved in 1954 did show that some of the ideas and ideals of the Abercrombie Plan had been taken on board. The neighbourhoods approach was developed in the form of a number of large peripheral social housing estates which were laid out from the mid 50’s until the 1970’s with schools through to senior level, recreational playing fields and community amenities. 

Hull has the highest number of Council Houses for any UK city dominating its eastern and northern districts. It was not until beyond the 1970’s and to the present day that stubborn areas of traditional straight to street or off road terraced houses were eventually demolished to make way for good quality modern housing.

There has, in the last decade, been a resurgence in Hull with increased inward investment and a new sense of confidence culminating in its status as UK City of Culture for 2017. 

Lutyens and Abercrombie should however be credited with having the original vision for and optimism in the city and its people although it was clearly well ahead of its time. 

Top Trumps

To most visitors to the old Humber Ferry Pier on Hull’s waterfront there are other more pressing priorities than noticing the white gothic revival style statue of the city’s first Lord Mayor. 

The figure of Sir William de la Pole, rather heroically jaunty in his pose, the work by a Hull sculptor as a 19^th century commission now tends to be eclipsed by the attention demanding, striking structure of The Deep, the swirling muddy brown water of the broad river and above all the prospect of a nice coffee or ice cream at a small café at the entrance to the wooden planked promenade. This, until the opening of the Humber Bridge, was the bustling arrivals and departures point of the old paddle steamers. 

Born at the long lost (by coastal erosion) Ravenser, on an earlier version of the shifting Spurn Point in the last decade of the 13^th Century William de la Pole became a successful merchant and trader and established himself in the newly Royal Chartered town of Kingston upon Hull from where he rose to the position of not only Mayor of Hull but through using his wealth to lend to successive royals, Edward the Second and Third he is considered to have at least once saved the English Crown from ruin. 

In 1339 his reward was his appointment as Baron of the Exchequer, the senior judicial and financial position in the kingdom. Those were however turbulent times and de la Pole was not immune to failed businesses which saw him imprisoned and his assets confiscated before some haggling with the King resulted in a Pardon in return for cancelling the debts owed to him by the Crown. 

His contribution to Hull before his death in 1366 included hospital and charitable buildings and even today his name is known in association with a residential street and in memories of a former mental asylum. 

One of his four sons, Michael, became the 1^st Earl of Suffolk and in that personage and his history is recent speculation of a means of toppling, by legal impeachment, the current President of the United States, Donald Trump. 

Continuing in the status and power of Hull’s first Lord Mayor, the de la Pole family courted high office and in 1386 as Chancellor for Richard the Second Michael had the dubious honour of being the first official to be impeached and thrown out for the citation of “high crimes and misdemeanours”. 

The reason was his failure to pay a ransom for the town of Ghent which had been taken by the French. 

Michael de la Pole was not a criminal, fraudster or necessarily a bad man. 

The term of “high crimes and misdemeanours” is pretty vague now and even more so in the 14^th Century but by being so is able to encompass a broad range of actual and perceived issues such as negligence, breach of promise, not taking well intentioned advice, bribery, misappropriation of state funds, cronynism, nepotism, common decency, obstruction of justice, perjury, dereliction of duty, defiance of legislation and damage to the status and standing of the nation from the abuse or violation of an oath of office and public trust by its leader and head of state. 

Impeachment was in its origins a tool for the Monarch and State to expel those who politically, financially or in their influence became just too much of a threat. 

It was a lower level of sanction to accusations of Treason, punishable by death but equally significant in that the alleged perpetrator would suffer a fate considered equivalent to execution, that being dishonour and ruin through forfeit of the sources and trappings of personal wealth and status. 

The respect for English Law even amongst the fledgling rebel colonial America in the 18^th Century saw many of its principles and statutes adopted in what became the U.S. Constitution as a safeguard against misconduct by all of those in high office including, what would in other regimes be an untouchable position , the President. 

The use of Impeachment is very much determined by specific and prevailing circumstances. Offences attracting this legal action are usually those considered valid at a given moment in history. In the current world order therefore where former and aspiring Super Powers are vying for influence a greater emphasis is likely to be placed on perceived misdemeanours of suppression of truth, conveying confidential information to others and over bearing use of Presidential authority. 

In the case of Michael de la Pole, way back in 1386, he may just have been regarded by his peers as a bit obnoxious, unpopular, outspoken, over confident in his own abilities, a self made man attracting envy, impatient of others, frustrated by fools and poor at seeking and benefiting from the wisdom and council of those he should make a point of getting on with for an easier life.

Who says that history simply repeats itself?

This Day in May

May 20th is Fathers birthday.

A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and Skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.

This represented a great dilemma . In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarrassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his own large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.

His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years we would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's. I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal stock of Homebase DIY and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive garden patio which every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets. One year my offering to him was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the spoiled stock that you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.

Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of a mege- store. Some 18 inches high it had an authentic stone finish over a not so authentic plastic mould. I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved sheepishly from the neighbours.

The garden theme was a very  productive one and this was followed in successive years with  yet more hanging baskets, garden seating, solar powered lanterns and the desperate last minute choice of a sheer silver mirrored ball sculpture thing that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as being a potential hazard to high flying aircraft from unsolicited dazzle.

The best celebrations were those when all of us plus wives , husbands and our own children would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but always a momentous and joyful time.

These would be idyllic afternoons in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation with Father to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters. Things that seemed insurmountable obstacles to us were shown to be easily manageable after such a session.

For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.

2011 was a different birthday in that my own family attended a quieter celebration over a Chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added into the now well established tradition of providing a written record of past shared meals. The phone kept ringing with the singing of "Happy Birthday to Donald" from siblings spread over the UK and the US.

We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.

Today will be a strange day. It is another May 20th without Father. Each anniversary is a poignant reminder of how much we miss him.

Scouting for All

I was an enthusiastic member of the Scouting Movement throughout the 1970’s working my way up from the Cubs to Scouts and with my involvement culminating in the Chief Scouts Award. 

It was a momentous journey in good local groups and thanks to the dedication and sacrifice of our volunteer leaders and helpers I did some great things. There were night hikes, wide ranging challenge games, sailing, the building and use of canoes, week long summer camps in the beautiful scenery of the English Lakes, Derbyshire Peak District and North Wales and regular weekends under canvas or in scavenged and self-assembled bivouacs around our local area. 

Such things as making fires, outdoor cooking, camp craft and survival tactics became second nature. 

Now in my 50’s I look back at those Scouting years with great satisfaction and pride. 

I also encountered the strange and unpredictable things known as Girl Guides. 

Living in a small town it was inevitable that our troop and the local Girl Guide group would cross paths. This was usually in a fully supervised and organised manner coinciding with such events as the annual St Georges Day Parade and Remembrance Day March, in charitable endeavours of sponsored walks and jumble sales and at regional or national annual camps or Jamborees. 

The thing that struck me most about the Guides, apart from the rather RAF blue of their tunics was the fact that all, bar none, had armfuls of merit badges. 

This suggested to us adventurous and outdoorsy types in the Scouts that the Guides were a bit boring and more concerned about staying in their meeting hut and striving towards ever more material affirmation of abilities and skills. 

The list of badges was extensive with, in alphabetical order, a sample including: Animal Active, chocolate, circus skills, confectioner, cook, craft, culture, faith awareness, film lover, healthy lifestyle, hobbies, independent living, music zone, party planner, team player, traditions and world issues. 

Although the titles sounded fairly superficial the actual attainment of each did obviously involve a structured approach and test of competence. In fact they did seem to be a bit of dumming down of Guiding given that in the not too distant past such disciplines as “air mechanic” (1910s), “electrician” (1930s), “telegraphist” (1930s) and “radio communicator” (1980s) had been available.

In comparison us Scouts did such things, either officially sanctioned or not, as cooking with alcohol, smoking home made cigarettes, setting fire to stuff, swapping specific types of magazines, playing rock music loud in the forest, not washing much in a week, poor food hygiene and some isolated incidences of anti-social behaviour. 

We did not knowingly cause any harm or significant damage to people, property or assets nor, importantly, get caught so as to bring our beloved Scouts into disrepute. 

After the age of 17 and being presented with my Chief Scouts Award I moved on to other things. 

In retrospect I would have been more than happy to be a volunteer and give back to the organisation a bit of what I had benefited from over my decade of membership. However, a house move to another part of the country meant that I did not get around to fulfilling this good intention. 

I subsequently lost touch with the Scouting Movement but feared for its relevance in a modern higher pressure socio-economic world and where an increasing number of youngsters favoured video games and TV to anything outdoors. 

The compliance with safeguarding of potentially vulnerable persons and problems with insurance seemed to have been a major disincentive to individuals to come forward and help out as leaders and helpers. 

I have therefore been thrilled to see a healthy resurgence of the Scouting Movement in recent years and with now, it is reported, a waiting list for joining local groups nationwide. 

Even the Girl Guides have acknowledged the need to be progressive, up to date and on message with latest trends and practices. 

This has been shown in the past few days with the launch of an initiative to propose a new range of skills and  merit badges for the 21^st Century.  So far around 15,000 girls have taken part in testing ideas for the new badge system, which will be set around six positive-message themes – “skills for my future”, “have adventures”, “be well”, “know myself”, “express myself” and “take action”. 

Awards for app design,blogging, vlogging and human rights activism are, amongst many others, set to complement traditional badge prizes. The modernisation programme will be launching in the summer of 2018 with new activities and badges introduced at different stages. 

The future for the movement looks good and I am very happy to hear it.