Bloomers and Tats

I am getting a bit bored now with it all, not so much being injured and hobbling about, but having to explain to the curious the reason behind it. 

Regular readers will have a detailed knowledge of how I fell into that hole and tore my right leg quad muscle all of, yes, four months ago. 

I have written a few words on a regular basis covering my pre- and post-operative experiences ranging from the first six weeks of non-weight bearing existence (sounds a bit like being in zero gravity but far from it) to the saga of my epic beard growth and tentative movement on crutches to the gradual allowance on clinical advice of progressive degrees of flex on the leg brace that has been a constant hanger-on for 90 percent of the time. 

As of last week I have been allowed to take off the brace. 

In more than just a physical way I had become attached to it as an essential support, a companion and a very good conversation opener with the aforementioned curious section of the general public. 

It is now dumped in a hospital laundry bag, so much for my emotional connection with it for I am unfettered in the right leg department and have, as they say, the scar to prove it. 

The procedure to re-attach my tendon to the knee cap was of a type quite popular for short films on You Tube although I am not really sure for whom such graphic detail is posted for, whether trainee surgeons or amateur enthusiasts. The latter description sends a chill down my spine but then again it would explain how a lot of those who remarked on my leg brace and latterly my scar seemed to have a good knowledge of what will have been necessary in the operating theatre to assist me back to mobility. 

The scar, from just above and to the mid point of my knee, has been spotted by a lot of senior ladies. 

It is the same profile as a scar for a knee replacement and you would be surprised how the perceived shared experience releases the inhibitions of older women so as to lead them to hitch up their skirts or legs of their slacks and proudly show off their own war wounds. 

I have found this a bit unsettling particularly as I thought I had long escaped the social situation where “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” was a good chat up line behind the bike sheds or under the stage at the school disco. 

Some of the old dears are shameless as the lifting of the hem of a summer skirt also displays that bloomers are back in fashion. I hear half of you say “bloomers- what are they” and the rest assuring me that in fact they never went out of fashion. 

Living in a maritime port town I am well used to seeing tattoos on exposed flesh but there is something quite startling about an over 70 year old lady having an ankle and leg up to the thigh adorned with a traditional blue ink image of a bluebird or garland of red roses. 

Then again, they were young and impulsive once weren’t they. 

So, what stage of recuperation am I at currently? 

The knee joint remains stubbornly resistant to anything more than a 75 degree bend even with four daily sessions of exercises given to me by the physiotherapist. It is strange sensation as though pushing against an immoveable object. I am trying hard to push the angle a bit further each time but progress will certainly be on a millimetre by millimetre basis. 

My hospital issue crutches are close to hand for those unsteady moments but I am determined to get down to just a walking stick soon. 

As for motoring, well, I can just about manoeuvre myself into the driving seat of my car but cannot move my foot easily between accelerator and brake. It will be a bit longer until I am independently mobile. 

I do have a sense of my prolonged recovery period coming to an end. 

As I said, I am ready to get back to work and perhaps enjoy some summer weather beyond the confines of a borrowed wheelchair in the back yard of home.

Parenting

We consider ourselves to be normal working parents, a familiar euphemism in the UK to mean flogging your guts out to make ends meet.

It is always a difficult balancing act,  this life/work one, especially with dependants to think of.

We shared the responsibilities of child rearing ( an unfortunate clinical and rather agricultural term) based on respective skills whether they were as a good listener ( my wife), sound common sense advocate ( my wife), peacemaker (ditto), medic ( ditto again) , educator (same) or childish idiot (yay, me).

Collectively the combination seems, with hindsight, to have been effective in bringing into adulthood three well balanced human beings with a morality based conscience, a sense of outrage at injustice and empathy with everyone.

Above all our three offspring possess a certain but not imposing self confidence and great individuality.

Take as an illustration of this the most recent acquisitions by them.

These were in no way eccentric or impulse purchases but in the pragmatic minds of these twenty somethings of fundamental use to where they each are now in their lives.

That characteristic of single mindedness definitely comes from their mother.

Eldest daughter bought or as she says "invested" in a petrol powered chain saw. The Husqvarna 372XP is, to the heavy duty woodsman/joiner, the flagship of its type and widely thought to be the best ever produced by the Swedish brand.She has taken an interesting career path from an architectural degree to climbing instructor to builder and with "Husky" in hand now builds log homes and buildings for a company based in the Scottish Borders. Her own design and build commissions include a tree house holiday let in the foothills of the French Alps. She has embraced a minimalist lifestyle with only a handful of possessions and has converted a transit van as her primary residence.

Younger daughter, we refuse to use the term middle child because of the apparent stigma of that position, has recently bought a virtually infinite supply, or at least 100 metres of bubble wrap for her newly opened "pop up" shop. In the heart of the old market district it is amongst galleries, restaurants, niche craft and retail outlets. She has ,even from the age of 4, wanted to have a shop with her first pre-school enterprise comprising a Fisher Price cash register and plastic fruit and veg. Not only has her dream come to be but she has designed her own range of cards to sell alongside other local artists. The shop has a creative uniqueness and ambience that after just three trading weekends has attracted good custom and an enthusiastic following.

Our son is channelling his energies into a different course being a racing cyclist in between his academic studies. In fact when not studying he has a similar routine to a Professional cyclist of sleep/eat/ride and the balance is one that I ,as a former amateur racer ( a very poor one), envy. It is a serious business requiring a strenuous regime of indoor and outdoor training, dietary discipline and dedication to well being, both physical and cerebral. He keeps his bike components and equipment up to date hence the recent arrival of new lycra skin shorts. These are in stark contrast to the wool based shorts that I had at his age, susceptible to sagging below the knees if wet from rain or sweat. The modern equivalent is of high performance fabric, breathable and with combined elasticity and grip for comfort and aerodynamics. No wonder then that when I go out training with him I am always left behind in his slipstream.

In those reflective moments, that parents sometimes allow themselves as their children grow into adulthood, there is a mixture of emotions. Of course we reminisce about their early years when they were totally reliant on us but this soon changes to feelings of awe and admiration as they forge their own paths in this world with creativity, flair and determination. 

Cheap and Cheerful

Do not underestimate the value of something if it is free.

That was my philosophy in the early years of my children and seeing the fully rounded and informed adults that they now are I am happy that the experiment worked. It was an experiment, the whole thing of bringing up kids is so, and do not be persuaded otherwise by the weighty volumes of authoritative works and self help manuals produced to the ultimate bank balance benefit of doctors, psychologists and celebrity parents.

That is not to say that we, setting out on the very responsible path of parenthood did not go with the trend and indeed Dr Miriam Stoppard in particular appeared to have moved in to our house like a friendly apparition to be summoned and consulted at the first sign of fevers, cholics or fractious behaviour.

The children, bright and inquisitive, demanded  to be entertained and educated and although tired and worn out from work and daily chores we, as doting parents, feel that we did our best.

Even when themselves worn out and sleepy there was an unquenchable thirst for information and mental stimulation from the offspring but it was a perfect end to the day to see them nod off whilst being read a fairy tale, a fantastical fable or just, from memory, the plot of a Disney production.

The sight of double buggy, two dogs in harness and a full family contingent did cause pedestrians to hurry out of our way as we headed out of our street towards some of our favourite local walks. The river foreshore was a regular destination and we could spend hours exploring the old chalk quarry or the equivalent to beachcombing but on a very muddy and smelly estuary bank. A few interesting artefacts were found by keen eyed children and I still keep in the car boot, even today, a twisted metal rod which must have been used by employees of the London and North East Railway in the late 19th Century to lift up slotted drain covers and it is very useful as such a tool.

Water streaked and smoothed sticks, up to small log size and numerous stones and pebbles were dragged or ferried back attached to or under the buggy for a future playtime. These things, I occasionally dig up in the garden some 16 years later.

We thoroughly exploited the neighbourhood on a seasonal basis from late summer conker hunts to pulling up early Spring daffodils from neglected borders to be repatriated by the children and duly proudly presented to their mother.

Ranging further afield there was, with a bit of forward planning a lot of non-cost element activities to keep the children interested.

We went to a sideways ship launch with George, their late Grandfather, and he kept them enthralled by the story of when he got his head stuck in the riverside railings and had to be cut free by the fire brigade.

Art Gallery visits were free and frequent. The main city centre collection was arranged in a series of interlinking rooms which really gave a sense of covering a great distance. We always made a point of standing and staring at the huge Peter Howson oil painting of the crouched, pockmarked faced fighter which had pride of place near the entrance. The children enyoyed the art and there would be no comments or tantrums if we left out the Gift Shop even after passing it, tantalisingly, many times in our circumnavigation.

Living in a Maritime Port meant a good range of museums and other related attractions and thanks to a social minded Local Authority these were nil-cost.

The Transport Museum was packed with exhibits for climbing on. We could also sit in the seating on a tram and listen to the soundtrack of a bustling load of passengers from the halcyon days of urban commuting by electric overhead power. The greatest interest was from clambering up into a horse drawn Hansom Cab complete with authentic rocking movement and strong odours of manure and a city pre-smoke free legislation.

We would skirt quickly through the Archaeological Museum which was adjacent as the static displays of mannequins in various period settings were really quite scary, even to me as the responsible adult.

The signs of having a good day out were clear. The children would be happily weary but still bright eyed and excited with tales to tell of what they had seen and done. They would be holding tightly the spoils of the outing, a handful of informative leaflets on all manner of subjects, perhaps a sticker worn on their coats indicating they had indeed visited a museum and even a few more pebbles and pieces of debris collected from municipal verges and open space.

It is ironic, but infinitely pleasing to me that even after extending the experience of the children when older to trips abroad, as far as Singapore and Australia and through the Mediterranean they still seem to have the fondest recollections of days out with their parents when we spent nothing.

Moativation

Renewable energy sources are the way forward either on a national grid scale or on a single property basis. In the former we have certainly seen a dramatic change in our landscapes, both inland and offshore with wind turbines and increasingly with the vast arrays of ground mounted solar panels. 

Both of these main sources are rather quaintly called farms, whether to reflect the harvesting of energy or because of the areas of land that they take from conventional agriculture.

It is the homes of joe public, whether a new build or renovation, that I have come across eco-energy systems in particular. Developers like such features as unique selling points in order to compete for the monies of the public and some idealistic individuals see it as a crusade to do their bit for the planet and eventually, because of the long pay back periods for expensive installations, make something for their own pockets. 

I have not actually met anyone, yet, who brags about the cheap cost of their home generated electricity or at least with the same enthusiasm that people make it clear to you by how much their property value has appreciated on a week by week basis. 

The most popular innovations in a domestic property have been solar panels, ground source and air source heat pumps linked to the must have specifications of underfloor heating and heat recovery. 

I was therefore pleased and fascinated to see an archived Planning Application in my local area from a homeowner for something a bit retro indeed- that being an energy generating water wheel. 

Of course, you have to have the fundamental elements to bring such a dream of renewable self sufficiency to actual existence. 

These are a watercourse, preferably with some movement although not essential, sufficient space so as not to interfere with the environment or neighbours and with no risk to water flow, use or quality. 

This specific scheme is in a perfect setting in the expansive grounds of an old Grade 2 Listed Manor House and with the watercourse being not a river or stream but a man made 18^th Century moat. 

The house was bought in a run down condition some years ago and sympathetically renovated. This was certainly a labour of love as adjoining buildings were at that time trading as a public house and childrens play-barn which detracted from what will have been tranquil surroundings. This use as more recently curtailed and buildings converted into houses. 

The project was undertaken by someone with an engineering background and aspirations as an eco-warrior. 

Perhaps with hindsight the process was carried out in the wrong order and possibly in ignorance of planning requirements in that a water wheel was acquired from architectural salvage and with works commenced to house it in a brick pillar surround and tiled roof on a platform in the middle of the moat. As the structure was in the grounds of a Listed Building it was a requirement for Planning Permission to be granted before works could begin and so the formal procedure had to be followed involving production of a document entitled " A Heritage and Planning Statement". 

The principle of utilising water for energy generation is thought to be one of the earliest technologies but if you want one in your garden in the 21st Century you still have to jump through a few hoops.

There are a number of Core Strategies within British Town Planning which can be cited in order to support the siting of a water wheel. 

PPS22 is for Renewable Energy and is where central government seeks to encourage decentralised or small scale schemes. 

Policy HQE8 seeks to reduce carbon emissions and make prudent use of natural resources, particularly water. 

The Regional Spatial Strategy also advocates that at least 10% of potential energy consumption should come from renewable or low carbon sources. 

The nuts and bolts of the water wheel project did have some complexities. 

The moat itself was largely static in nature and susceptible to stagnation and algae growth. This entailed the use of a small motor to provide the power to a water pump to extract water to start the wheel. It was anticipated that when fully operational the water wheel would generate enough electricity to power the Manor House and outbuildings. 

Presumably the cost of the motor would be more than offset by the savings from the power produced as the key determinant of viability and economic sense.

As an unexpected benefit the water wheel was expected to significantly improve the water quality of the green primordial soup of the moat by stirring it up a bit. 

The Planning Application was submitted in 2011 and met the Approval of the Local Authority. 

I must make a point of going to have a look one day, if I can be moativated.

Summertime 2012

This was written five years ago to the day on the Opening of London 2012 
........................................................................................................................
The Olympic Games take some organising.

Almost as much, in fact, to the logistical operation to get three fifths of our family to see the road cycling events in lush Surrey which start tomorrow with the Elite Men's Event and through into Sunday afternoon when we have tickets for the Women's two laps of the picturesque Box Hill.

My wife spent the equivalent of a day, some months ago now, logged on to the on-line ticketing system for London 2012. A bit of a marathon in itself with a few false starts through the obstacle course and on more than one occasion the final hurdle was reached only for the system to refer her back to the start before any prize could be had.

She was succesful in getting the sunday race tickets and these formed the main part of my July birthday presents .

It is now friday lunchtime and we have all been up since 5am getting everything ready for the 4 hour, optimistic, drive down to the accommodation. It will be late and dark when we turn off the M25 into deepest, darkest, decadent Surrey and so I have familiarised myself with the cross-country route using mapping and satellite systems-yes, I am that only person in the UK without a Sat-Nav sucker-stuck onto the windscreen.

I will undoubtedly misidentify the junction to the minor road which forms a short cut to the hotel as an aerial view on a lap-top often bears no resemblance whatsoever to the three dimensional, real time and horizontally propelled world of the car actually on the road.

I have a poor record of this type of preparation and application in a journey. A few years ago this resulted in my driving almost into the abandoned but rather militarised Turkish Zone of Cyprus whilst trying to find a large resort town on Cyprus for my brother in laws wedding and more recently getting hopelessly lost near Stansted Airport in a search for our booked rooms which were occupied for only 5 hours before my daughter caught a flight to New York. She did notice me squinting a bit at motorway signs which I put down to my age and crusty contact lenses. Still, as a bonus we did get to see the twinkling lights of Canary Wharf and a nice KFC on some High Street, probably Ealing. I can imagine you making a mental note to look up the proximity of the airport to London Docklands and having a giggle at the expense of my poor sense of direction.

We may not actually need to take much with us but in order to be fully prepared for the uncertainties of the British weather in July we have to make preparations for a mini-expedition. I managed to save a compact emergency poncho from being sold at last weekends car boot sale and this may become a key part of our equipment. As my youngest daughter says, there is no such thing as bad weather just a poor choice of clothes. I tend to agree with this.

Our trip is, with travelling, about 48 hours. The travelling part will take up, say, 16 hours by car, train and on foot. Sleeping and eating, hopefully another 24 hours, miscellaneous activities such as queuing at an Official Olympic Souvenir Kiosk and other forms of shopping, around 4 hours. I have allowed 3 hours for human error-mine which leaves the anticipated time to enjoy the cycling events of about 1 hour. This sounds about right as we hope to see the Mens Race flash past on the Dorking Road and the two circumnavigations of Box Hill by the womens event.

I am really excited and looking forward to our experience of the Games.

Footnote; We made it and thanks to my wife's attention to detail everything went to plan, torrential rain excepted. Perhaps the best souvenir was only discovered on catching up on the TV coverage of the Men's Race a few days later when back at home. See below the great Vincenzo Nibali in the foreground and with my wife, son and myself as enthusiastic blurry figures looking on. I still have the T-Shirt.

Minor Matters

We tend to associate the label of classic car with the more exotic and expensive marques, supercars, rarities and those models once owned by celebrities and movie stars. Classic refers to the post war era of motoring rather than what would be categorised as veteran and vintage.

Spotty Youth (me) at Donington in 1980 looking at Series MM

The affectionately named "Moggy" ,the Morris Minor is one of that select minority of mass produced vehicles that has endured in terms of character and charm to become a true classic.

There is a unique distinctiveness about the bulbous, curvy body style that places it in the same league as the VW Beetle but more than that is the practicality and relative ease of repair and maintenance that really makes it accessible to everyone as not just a collectible vehicle but also an everyday one.

Between 1948, when the first version of the Minor rolled off the production line, and 1961 there were one million on the roads across the globe and at a price putting it within the budget of the common man and woman.

A not untypical Morris Minor owner 

The Minor was associated with the local midwife, the police force and the vicar and its variants included the shooting brake type Traveller which was a forerunner of the estate car.

My parents purchased a 6 year old olive green soft top/convertible Minor, registration 798 CPP just before I was born in 1963. In its lifetime it survived a small dashboard fire when a garage owner leaned in with his tobacco pipe as well as the normal ravages of corrosion from the regular use of road gritting salt in the inclement UK climate.

My father had a keen mechanical understanding and skill and would often be found under the bonnet or with his feet sticking out from the jacked up chassis when things needed doing.

As first born son I was given regular training on basic procedures such as spark plug change, oil and tyre pressure checks in an attempt to develop in me an instinct and aptitude for car maintenance. I am ashamed to say that I was not really that interested. Perhaps I knew, deep down, that I was destined to be a company car driver with responsibility only for re-fuelling and wash wipe top-up.

I, along with my two sisters, did learn to drive in the Minor although my Father spent the many hours of lessons with a firm grip on the handbrake, just in case when it was my turn behind the large oversized steering wheel.

The family moved regularly and the car followed us typically loaded up to the soft roof with boxes and loose garden furniture and toys. It was also a great vehicle to shift hordes of children and in the days before compulsory seat belts it would regularly take about twelve under 10's arranged top to toe on the back seat and in the boot.

With five children of their own by 1975 my parents had to opt for a large estate car and so the Minor was to some extent garaged apart from a few runs out every year to keep things from seizing up.

Through the Morris Minor Owners Club (MMOC) my Father kept touch with other enthusiasts and began to stockpile a range of spare parts including a set of front wings. He was aware that the demands of modern motorists and rapidly developing technology would someday sound the death knell for the Minor in the UK.

It was produced until 1970 from Cowley in Oxfordshire reaching a run of about 1.6 million vehicles and its place in the classic car world was already assured.

In 1980 I went with my father in the Minor to Donington Park Race Circuit for a rally held by the MMOC. A total of 240 other Morris Minors made their own way to the venue including from Europe to be judged in different classes for originality or customisation. One exhibitor had built a Minor entirely from parts bought from the factory and some of the smaller engine components still had manufacturers stickers on them.

Always a bit of a purist my where the car was concerned my Father did surprise us all by splashing out on a set of Wolfrace Alloys which did look great.

The Minor was soon part of a small collection of my Father's cars stored in lock up garages around the town including a 1966 Mini and a 1971 VW Variant Squareback. Sadly, Father passed away in 2011 and the older cars were sold but only to strictly vetted enthusiasts. My youngest brother still runs the Variant.

798 CPP went to a lovely family, already owners of a hard top Minor and is a regular sight on local roads and on the concourse of motor shows.

I always look out for the instantly recognisable shape of a Morris Minor or rather listen for that distinctive 1000CC engine sound when travelling around as part of my work. There is a nucleus of these much loved vehicles that make all too rare appearances and I am proud to have spent 48 years of my life in the company of such a car.

I do admit that it may not have got this far at all given that in one of my Father's Master Classes on Morris Minor maintenance I forgot to tighten up the bolts after a wheel change which became very evident some miles down the road..............................................................................................

You have not been watching.......

Elizabeth Mainwaring (pronounced Mannering) was the wife of George, the Captain of the fictional Home Guard of Walmington on Sea as depicted in the comedy classic- Dad’s Army. 

For all of the long running and still repeated episodes Elizabeth remained as an unseen character at the end of a phone conversation, heard moving about upstairs at her home, at best as a vague shadow or in the bulging shape of someone on the top bunk in the bomb shelter. 

Her influence over her husband and as a consequence his subsequent moods, attitudes and behaviour in relation to the members of the Platoon was nevertheless tangible and an important undercurrent to the adventures and antics of the principle characters. 

The writers, Perry and Croft did invent a back story for Elizabeth to give her depth and as an explanation for some of her later unconventional or illogical outbursts and acts. 

These regularly ran within the main scripted dialogues. For example, Captain Mainwaring surprised everyone in his ability to play the bagpipes which he attributed to spending his honeymoon on a remote Scottish Island where there was nothing else to do. 

In conversation with the haughty Sergeant Wilson Mainwaring tells him about his wife’s fondness for silent movies but only because she was so shocked to hear a character on a film speak a line that she refused to return to any cinema. 

Her regular criticism of George is attributed to a privileged fictional upbringing as the daughter of a Suffragan Bishop and that she and her family believe that she married below her own social standing.

George is very hard done by as he has attained the heady heights for a provincial town of Bank Manager through working hard at his education and banking exams. He does have her best interests at heart however and strives to provide goods and services even though these sometimes go against his own morals and sense of citizenship, especially in wartime. 

This is particularly evident in his turning a blind eye to contraband from the black marketeer spiv Private Walker or gifts such as an extra portion of sausages or offal from the good natured Corporal Jones, the town butcher. 

He is also protective of Elizabeth in saying that she had led a sheltered life in not even trying tomato sauce before she met him and a fondness shows through in his referring to her as the little woman and alluding to a blissful married life. 

His selflessness is to be admired as Elizabeth’s reclusive nature will have impeded any upward mobility that George may have hoped for within the hierarchy of the Bank at a time when socialising and hospitality were an essential part of getting ahead in commerce. The actuality of his domestic situation will have been behind his complete lack of hesitation in putting himself forward, uncharacteristically pushily, as leader of the Local Defence Volunteers, or as they became known, the Home Guard. 

Mrs Mainwaring’s persona is achieved, in her very obvious absence, by clever writing by which we assume that she is a larger than life woman ( described as being a bit bigger in physical dimensions that the effervescent Mrs Fox- a friend of Jonesy), a bit handy with her fists with George suffering a black eye in a hushed up domestic incident and always making an excuse on the grounds of health or fear of being bombed so as not to participate in the social functions of the platoon family. One visualisation, conjured up in my mind, of the mysterious Elizabeth is of her in a siren suit, a sort of one piece flight or boiler suit so much trademark attire of Winston Churchill when out and about visiting his blitz affected countrymen and women. Unfortunately this produces the startling image of a character part Michelin Man and part Gas Engineer so hardly flattering.

Jokes at her expense are regularly inserted into the dialogue such as her not having left the house “since Munich” or when George, excited at having obtained some scarce cheese rang Elizabeth to say that he might have a surprise for her that evening. This double entendre meant that he ended up eating the delicacy with Sergeant Wilson in the Vicar’s Office. 

Gradually we come to the realisation that she is always to be an elusive figure but then are shocked, as is George,  by revelations such as her playing the role of Lady Godiva on horseback riding through Walmington to raise funds for a Spitfire fighter plane. 

It is not all one way traffic in terms of who obviously wears the trousers in the Mainwaring household as in one series episode George has a platonic tea room and station platform liaison with one of the new female recruits to the platoon but is mindful of his married status and upholding his position of responsibility in the bank and town. 

There is an underlying melancholy to the relationship between George and Elizabeth but it works so very well in the cleverly woven story lines and characterisations that have made Dad’s Army such a loved bit of British television. 

Shep Shifters

I have, to paraphrase the epic Kevin Costner film, "Danced with domestic dogs" in that over 18 years our family included two very much loved hounds- the wonderful Elsie and the madcap Toffy. 

They came from the RSPCA and a neighbour respectively being a mixture of cross breeds but in the best ever combination for temperament, loyalty and energy. They will have succeeded in all categories if we had entered them for Scruffs or similar celebrations of great dogs. In naming them we just went for the obvious. 

Elsie was a rescue animal and we gave a tenner donation to the charity- hence Elsie Tenner (apologies to purist Coronation Street fans). Toffy, of German Pointer mother and bum biting Black Lab father was white with a Caramac coloured splash of fur- again a bit tenuous but totally in character. To do right for the lifestyle and well being of our two dogs we bought a house that we didn't actually like but it had a nice little sun room for them to live in and also had a succession of estate cars for the purpose of taking them everywhere we went. Coming to think of it, we lived with the dogs rather than the other way around. 

Our co-existence with our two hounds was also the years of raising our three children. We would often find all of them curled up together and cosily snoozing after a long walk. It was quite a sight to see the steam rise off dogs and offspring after a rain storm or fog up all of the windows on the car. One cost saving advantage was that we could treat them all for worms at the same time as inevitably this was a consequence of close living. 

We have had a break from dogs for some time now but still help out at the local refuge if the inmates need exercising or dog-sit for family and friends. I may consider getting one in retirement but it is quite a commitment. For the time being I enjoy the occasional fetch and run session with Hugo, the Border Terrier- a rising star in the very competitive world of that pedigree breed. 

Here are some of the wonderful names of the doggy-friends he currently hangs out with.

Pepsannar Pacific, 

Beinhard Tertia

Polly Dolly Doodle

Donehogawa Incantations of the Heart

Foxfold Shadow Dancer

Jackanory What a Story

The Quarrieman at Denlea

Tughallellie Flier

Rhumsaa rockin Robryn

Gladstone's Golden Prince

Cookvale Flash Dancer

Red Amour Kenny

Kentredecim the game plan

Moonbell Bizzy Lizzie

Lexi Flicker of Firelight

Pepperbox Evening Storm

Icabod Glory

Ra Ra Ruby Tuesday

Indy Go of Delphinia

Velvet Breeze Pearl

The Sorcerers Secret

Austin Chummy

Chewbacca Wookie van amber

Stillmoor on Rocky Edge

Hollowgate Glow Red Forever

Kallow Point Jack

Nanhoran Elsie Peabody

Nuggett Naf

Wandering Coast to Coast

Lilys little miss Jessie

Flambards Sakorra at Tanje

Aqua Boy Neo

Jorgealin Mystic Prince

Asterel Dan de Lion for Milagre

Nirroc Bobby Dazzler

Harlequin Jambo

Meisterwerk Bruiser

Teranos Never Ending Story

In a Minute Jess

Camusmor Shooting Star over Ruddyduck

Mannanans Pure Genius

Perrytree Forest Blue

Nimble Little Star

Foxbarton Bees Knees

Bozeta Magnum Force

Staubach Mjosa Von der wald of Delphinia

Haggis of Glendale

Domburg Sugar in love at Tanje

Okai the Noo

Ailort just the ticket

In short format, I like to think all of the above are just called Spot.

A Tale of Suspense

It was, back in the early 1980’s, just a bit of harmless fun. 

If we attempted the same today we would, for certain,be shot on sight. 

Giggling a bit, as excitable 17 year olds are prone to do, a group of us made our way up a steep grassy bank and there in front of us was the splendour of the Humber Suspension Bridge. 

It was a mass of activity on the eve of the formal opening ceremony by Queen Elizabeth II which was to take place on 17^th July 1981. A grand civic event it was to be. 

After all, the structure was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world , a major feat of technical and civil engineering and deserving of accolade and acclaim. 

Work had begun way back in 1972 with the North Tower completed some two years later on the hard chalk bed rock of the Humber Bank. The need to establish the South Tower in a caisson to counter the shifting mud of the river meant it was a further couple of years before the task of spinning the cables to support the box road sections could begin. 

The sections, prefabricated on shore and then floated into position took from the autumn of 1979 until the following summer to be lifted and fixed to allow the road surface to be laid. 

Although the visit of HM The Queen was to be the highlight of the £90 million project the bridge was actually useable by traffic in June 1981 as a test period. The infrastructure features of the visitor car park and Toll Booths were well established and from the former we had started our stunt. 

Only one of us, all still at school, had a driving licence and use of a car at that time and so Dave, his real name, being that person was the natural choice to take centre stage in what we had planned. 

It should also be said that Dave was the only person with access to a formal dinner suit or tuxedo and although this was his fathers it was a reasonable fit. 

In a bid to tidy up for the ceremony the concourse in front of the north tower booths was littered with building materials and stray vehicles of contractors and the Bridge Board but this provided good cover for us. We were also out of the line of vision from the futuristic Control Room Building which was an advantage against detection. 

Like a well oiled machine we all knew our roles. Two of us attached the stringy ends of multi coloured cotton bunting to respective sides of one of the booth lanes and Dave, with his Mother’s best dress making scissors, made a ceremonial incision accompanied by a short speech along the lines of “God Bless the Bridge and all who cross over her”. I was not sure then as now whether a bridge is of the feminine gender. 

The fourth member of our clique took a few photographs as a permanent record of the event. 

Dave does the deed

We must have looked very dodgy and furtive but at no time were we approached or challenged by anyone of authority. This accentuated our feeling of elation and success although in truth we may just have been one of a succession of students with the same prank idea and that the Bridge Staff,  tired of being distracted ahead of the Royal Visit,  just turned a blind eye to our adolescent behaviour. 

The whole thing took just a few minutes but (sadly) forms one of the most satisfying moments of my otherwise very conventional and boring teenage years. 

As far as I know the official ceremony went off well but then again not surprising as our dress rehearsal will have ironed out any potential difficulties that the Queen may have experienced on her and the Bridge’s big day.

EPO and Cycling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arch-itecture

I often joke to friends and acquaintances that we are passing through the gates of my house when we turn towards and drive through the striking archway that is to be found just over half the way down Pearson Avenue in Hull. 

My first comment is quickly followed by my verbal chastising of my son, in his absence, for leaving the gate open in the first place. 

I am of course misrepresenting my ownership of the archway and doing a disservice to my son who is the most diligent of persons when it comes to home security. 

The archway is one of a now very rare type:  a celebratory structure which was erected in 1860 to mark the dedication and opening of Pearson Park for the use and pleasure of the citizens of Hull, East Yorkshire. 

It has seen better days with some corrosion visible through faded paintwork and the original ornamental gates are no longer attached to either the main span opening or the flanking pedestrian ways. The style, a Classical Revivalist, is based on many Greek and Roman structures from the ancient world but with the main archway designed to take 19^th century horse carriages rather than Cohorts, chariots and parades of prisoners. The Central span has square piers with scrolled openwork panels, pedestal bases and Corinthian capitals. 

Pilasters on the inner side of the piers carry moulded round arches with keystone and decorated spandrels. There is enriched entablature with a cornice broken forward over piers. Pilasters on the outer sides of the piers have cartouches of the city arms above. 

On either side, 2 panelled square piers to the pedestrian entrances have corner pilasters, plinths and cornices. 

Each has a dolphin foliate finial, formerly topped with a lamp. 

That description is taken from the Grade 2 Statutory Listing from the 1970’s but the erosion and general damage has taken its toll. 

This is to be addressed soon as part of a major funding grant for the green space of Pearson Park and I look forward to seeing the notable building restored to all of its original glory. 

If the gates are refitted I am assured of a regular source of a joke every time that I pass through in the company of others. 

To update this post the side sections have just been removed this week for off-site work and the main arch has been wrapped up in readiness for its share of a £3 million grant for the wider Park area. 

I am not sure, what with climate change, if we will have an opportunity to see the archway in this type of wonderful Seasonal setting.

Space Race

Today is the 48th anniversary of the Apollo 11 Moon landing. 

I remember it well even though I was only 6 years old at the time. Even at such a young age the Space Race had really caught my imagination as it would to many of my generation born into the rapidly developing technologies of the late 1960's. 

I have a strong visual image of the televised coverage of the moment that Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon even though on my parent's grainy black and white valve operated TV set it was very difficult to make out what was actually going on. 

That memory after all of these years is in fact a false one because it turns out that the actual event took place at 03.56 am British Time making it impossible for me to have seen it first hand and as a live broadcast. Although I usually had to be in bed by 6pm on a weekday the 20th July fell on a Sunday but even so that very early hour would have made me unbearably grumpy and irritable for the whole day if I had been conscious. 

There had been a big build up to the small but momentous step with all three of the only British channels of that time providing regular bulletins and features for 8 days starting from 16th July 1969. The Radio Times magazine for that period had a striking graphic to interest and excite the viewing public. 

A big effort was made with a combination of studio based programmes from the BBC and ITV, the latter commercial station producing the longest hours and with updates from Mission Control at Cape Canaveral in the United States. 

Even though there was, until the time of the landing, no footage of space or from the surface of the moon the programmers across the UK networks were able to fill up many hours of broadcast time with a mixture of expert commentary and a lot of mainstream entertainment from established stars, celebrities and personalities. 

I do not recall seeing any of the features which on the BBC included a specially commissioned instrumental piece by Pink Floyd, moon related poetry and quotes by Ian McKellen, Judi Dench and Michael Hordern and what must have been the first associated use of Bowie's Space Oddity which had only been released as a 7 inch single in the fortnight before. 

ITV summoned all of their own talent to the coverage including Peter Cook, Cilla Black, Cliff Richard, Lulu and Eric Sykes. 

In all it was an historic milestone for UK television with the first ever all night airing, the first time that the National Anthem was not played at the usual close to midnight shut down. 

The landing could not be guaranteed to run to an exact timing schedule because of the complexities of the mission and the technology including beaming of images back to earth. 

The presenter James Burke proved invaluable in being able to provide informed comment to fill in potential embarrassing silent sections when nothing was seen to be happening. The on screen graphics and models would seem a bit basic to the computer generated CGi that we are used to today but were nevertheless regarded as cutting edge in their day.

One technicality that had to be addressed was that the first images from the moon were upside down, so engineers on Earth operated an electronic switch on receiving the signal to correct the picture. Sadly, hardly any of the footage of the TV space marathon has survived as it was normal practice for tapes to be wiped for subsequent use. 

For several hours after the landing the pictures were shown as edited highlights and these are likely to be the ones that I remember so well, aged 6.

Because of all of the fascination and excitement that the 1969 moonwalk created for me I did not hesitate about 2 years ago to pledge support for the restoration of Neil Armstrong's Space Suit. 

My £30 towards a target total of $500000 was just one amongst nearly 9500 other supporters and with that piece of history expected to be ready for a major exhibition to mark the 50th anniversary in 2019.

By my rough and ready reckoning that makes me the proud sponsor of a rivet.

Going Green

 What would you say is your favourite colour?

It was the sort of question asked of mullet haired footballers in the pages of "Shoot" in the 1970’s and a mainstay of personal character questionnaires in the pig tailed Bunty, pop inspired Jackie and adolescent Blue Jeans, those popular teen comics for young girls and secretly read by sibling brothers when no one was in the house. 

The answers are likely to have varied even for the same respondent because of the close association that colours have with mood, season, relationships, fashion and trends. 

Primary colours are of course the most commonly cited usually with the image of a rainbow conjured up in the minds eye. 

Gender is also a strong determining factor with deeply rooted traditions from our earliest years along the lines of blue for boys and pink for girls. 

Of course, times have changed blurring the former boundaries of sex and gender and amazingly we now also have a colour range extending into the millions of tones and shades.

That question of favourite colour is no longer capable of a quick, reflex answer. 

The Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire based but global paper manufacturing company of G F Smith have just revealed, as part of the year long City of Culture celebrations on their home patch, the results of an extensive customer poll to find the world’s favourite colour. 

Over their 132 years of business in paper G F Smith do have the clout and coverage to at least give some credibility to seek out such a big answer. 

Their own range of products is a riot of colour and so the winner of the survey may come as a bit of a surprise or disappointment although there can be no denying the outcome determined by thousands of people spanning 100 countries worldwide. 

It is a rather understated teal-ish shade called Marrs Green. 

As part of a Pop-Up installation by G F Smith on Humber Street in the heart of the Culture Zone for Hull’s momentous status the winning colour was displayed to great prominence but personally I was a bit underwhelmed and indeed found it hard to believe that a greenish shade held so much affection across the globe.

However, there was something very familiar and warming about a green shade and then I realised why. The iconic colour of the Italian bike maker, Edoardo Bianchi.

The origins of the 129-year-old Italian company's distinctive celeste colour are a bit of a mystery. 

Pantone PMS 332 C

Over the decades the stories behind it get more glorified and less truthful but then again such is the way of legends and fables.  

One theory is that as part of a commission to make a bike for the Italian Queen the master builder chose the colour to match her eyes.

 Another is that a job lot of surplus military paint after the first world war was acquired and what is likely to have been a predominant camouflage spectrum toned down to something brighter. 

This latter idea has been questioned in that advertising material for Bianchi from before 1914 already referred to celeste as a favoured colour. 

In its earliest years celeste was more of a sky blue than its current minty green and some have attributed this to the colour of the sky above the Via Nirone workshops of the company in Milan, Italy. 

I can ,from my love affair with the images of Bianchi bikes in films and photos from classic cycle races such as the Tours of Italy, France and Spain, appreciate how a single and at face value inanimate colour can evoke deep feelings. 

That Marrs Green, after all, is not too bad.

The Two Towers

It has just been announced that the Humber Bridge has attained Listed or Protected Status as a building of significant national or local interest. Opened by HM Queen Elizabeth 2 in 1981 the bridge has been an iconic feature of the landscape. I wrote the following in 1981, aged 17, for a school magazine.

Recent archaeological excavations in the region known in the latter part of the 20^th Century as Nhumberside have uncovered what is thought to have been the site of ancient bridge crossing the Humber some time in that era, nearly three hundred years ago in AD 1981.

This fantastic discovery was the first concrete evidence of the existence of this structure but now we believe that we have solved the riddle of the Humber Bridge.

Years of careful research and scrutiny of contemporary documents now places us in the position to recount the saga of the bridge and put forward theories as to its use in the past.

The first ever documentary evidence of the existence of a bridge was found in an ancient manuscript entitled “The Labour Manifesto” of 1967 in which a warrior figure called Barbara Castle promised the people of the region that later became Nhumberside that she would erect a monument to the gods of Investment and Election pledges. However, a later document , thought to have been a news journal , the ‘Ull Delly Mell uncovered that Barbara Castle did in fact not build a bridge but in its place a white elephant that was no use to anybody.

Pictorial evidence was found on the cover of what is presumed to have been a very large accounts ledger. This weighty volume was apparently distributed amongst the householders of the city of ‘Ull and contained, it is thought, details of how much was owed. For example, the Police, Fire and Ambulance services were owing 999. This book is thought to be modelled on a national ledger distributed by an organisation of that era under the name GPO.

However, we are now in a position to print, for the first time since the 1980’s a genuine proof of the existence of the Humber Bridge.

This photograph shows a later stage in the erection of the bridge. 

The structures on top of the south towers are thought to have some significance, possibly to ward off evil spirits such as Over Budget and Unforeseen Delay that could plaque the construction process.

Other problems that befell the project were documented as labour problems and the dreaded inflation.

The style of the bridge is known to the period as suspension and involved the stringing of a roadway from two thick cables running between the two towers. Similar structures have been discovered in parts of Africa but were of an earlier format with rope and wood instead of concrete and steel.

Over the three hundred years since its construction and later destruction (the actual cause not ever having been ascertained) there has been a lot of speculation as to the significance of the suspended roadway.

One school of historical thought believes that it was linked to religion with one set of lanes reserved for sinners and the other for those who were chosen for forgiveness. This theory holds some water in that the excavations at the end of the bridge in Nhumberside has shown traces of small huts or booths which are believed to have been for the purposes of prayer to give users safe passage. Narrower tracks set down just below the roadway  are just wide enough to have been used for use by the privileged and clergy.

Another theory is that the bridge was used as a ceremonial gateway for the pilgrimage of two tribes who resided in the city of ‘Ull distinguishable by their respective coloured liveries of black and white and red and white. These tribes intended to invade, but rarely managed to, areas to the south of the country during the first weeks of May blazing a trail of mayhem and destruction in the name of rugby league.

Of these two theories the first seems the most viable as the bridge did separate two distinctive regions, Nhumberside and Shumberside which seem to have held the auras of Paradise and Armageddon respectively.

A contemporary, grainy Kodak print reveals a religious type ceremony by an important local figure. Notice the small glass booths, barriers and in the distance the north tower. The figure is dressed indicating some authority.

Whatever the actual purpose of the Humber Bridge, whether a political blunder or folly it was still held to be a pinnacle achievement of an otherwise fairly primitive culture. At one time it was the longest single span bridge of its type in the world. 

How times and opinions change over the centuries.