What to do between Christmas and New Year?
It is a strange period of days.
A bit of a lost opportunity when there may be some free time from work and routines for most of us but little motivation, inclination or justification to make anything of it.
It is a time for those with families to be together which may not be possible during the rest of a hectic year. Relatives can be visited or hosted which keeps the communication, reminiscence and inheritance channels well and truly open, particularly where there is no regular connection through Skype and other third party portals.
It can be a sad period of reflection for the loved ones of those who have departed during the year or just with remembrances of past Christmasses. It can be a time of getting away from it all, an escape to a rented cottage or ski chalet. For those left at home long walks are planned but a combination of the invariably damp and dreary, rather than bright and crisp seasonal weather and jam packed semi-interesting TV schedules makes for easy persuasion to stay indoors.
A trip out to the Boxing Day and New Year Sales sounds an option but then you recall the misery of the previous 3 month cynically Full Price run-up , being herded through the shopping centre, jostled in the checkouts and with a feeling of being ill at ease at an involuntary participation in a kettling manoeuvre in the multi storey car park.
It is quite normal therefore to find yourself in this seasonal doldrum sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by ravaged boxes of assorted chocolates , indicipherable instruction booklets for electronic toys, half opened and sniffed toiletries, a stack of weighty but trivial books, amongst a crime-scene type body outline consisting of puff pastry flakes and feeling that irresistible compulsion to go and have another root around in the fridge. There is still the soft underbelly of the roast bird to have a go at.
I have seen a Poll Result for this year where only 59% of the UK population expressed an intention to participate in any celebratory plans to see in 2013. It can, truth be told, be a bit of a drag watching the clock from, say, 10pm to Midnight, and relying on a loose arrangement of musical guests on the TV to evoke what should be a more magical moment. Even the prospect of an early night to bed is less of an attraction in anticipation of the outbreak of the end of year barrage as Big Ben strikes its last of 2012.
Religious significance and the relentless passing of time apart you would expect there to be a commercial and political campaign to separate these two key dates in the calendar. Imagine, keeping the Birth of Jesus where it is but moving the celebration of New Year to the middle of the year. They are already two separate events in our perception and understanding and indeed in our ever increasing consumerism at this time of year many may regard it more of a case of "buy one get one free", which can only cheapen, one or the other depending on your conscience and persuasions.
The motor industry successfully implemented a similar strategy by creating two new car registration periods per year rather than just the longstanding mass release of brand, spanking new vehicles every 1st August.
In moving New Year to the summer months there are many, many advantages that I can see. It may not guarantee good weather, in fact it may be more likely to be bright and crisp than damp and dreary, but an outdoor celebration, wearing shorts and a 'T' shirt, barbecue smoking and with Chinese Lanterns drifting up into a warm, dusk sky sounds idyllic compared to the archetypal Northern European event we are acclimatised and resigned to.
I can see tremendous benefits to the economy in a July New Years with spiked sales figures for the food industry, a surge in numbers of packs of beer (if indeed at all possible), small chiller fridges, outdoor gazebo's and lighting, deckchairs and patio sets, children's paddling pools and trampolines, gardening implements and plants, conservatories and portable coconut matting covered cocktail bars.
Where before, as a nation we have envied the Southern Europeans and Australians and their natural assimilation with the great outdoors we can now fully participate, perhaps hesitantly and reserved at first but then claiming it as our own lifestyle invention. We did it with Pizza and Tikka Masalla didn't we.
Of course, the powerful lobbying interests for Travel Companies and Airlines will object strongly on the grounds of loss of revenue to the Government as a New Year in July reinforces the attraction of a staycation rather than an overseas vacation. Turkey farmers will have to completely rethink their strategy to ensure the availability of birds in the summer or alternatively produce barbecue friendly turkey meat products. Do sprouts readily switch from a winter crop to a summer harvest? If not, this would not in my opinion constitute a great loss. There may, on the downside, be an increase in civil unrest and anti-social behaviour from over-indulgence in a warmer average temperature and an additional strain placed on neighbourly relations as a consequence of the British character flaw of one-upmanship in all things in plain sight in gardens and on driveways.
Having considered all aspects I can see the beginnings of a populist movement towards a summer New Year. It will take better minds and intellects to weigh up all of the pro's and con's of such a radical proposition and of course, to consider the viewpoints of minority groups such as Scottish revellers, Jules Holland, Gymnasiums, Personal Fitness Trainers and Druids.
This line of thought could be a Resolution to take forward on this, the last day of 2012 . Let's get busy in the planning of this revolutionary idea, no time like the present to lay down the foundation for a new order new year. Now, where did I leave that gift of a year planner complete with detachable ball point pen? I'll just see if it is under this pile of magazines . Ooh, wait a minute, The Radio Times promises a great day of continuous justifiable viewing and when it gets dark at 3.30pm I am perfectly entitled to put on my Christmas pyjamas and pull up the drawbridge. Perhaps, next New Year would be better to ponder such things after all.
Sunday, 31 December 2017
Saturday, 30 December 2017
Posh Gumshoe
There has been much discussion in the local council ward meetings in Hull, Yorkshire about the placing of a blue plaque on the wall of a house in the city in recognition of it being the birthplace in 1912 of the writer, Francis Durbridge.
St Hilda Street, just out of the city centre now just comprises one side, the north, of Victorian terraced houses but at the time of the young Durbridge was a densely populated cul de sac interspersed with Public Buildings including a Library, the Sculcoates Union Workhouse and the General Infirmary.
It appears that he spent his formative years in these surroundings before going on to attend the well regarded Bradford Grammar School.
Success in play writing came early and he sold his first to the BBC when only 21 years old in 1933.
A prolific output followed with 43 novels, 7 plays and a number of TV series and films.
One of his main characters first emerged in 1938 as a well spoken, intelligent and high-living author of crime fiction and also a private detective whose services were regularly called upon by New Scotland Yard when their own crime fighters were struggling to solve mysteries and conundrums.
That character was Paul Temple, ably assisted by his wife, Steve, herself cast as an author.
The radio broadcasts of Paul Temple and his many cases were a popular distraction for the UK population on the BBC Light Programme through the late 1930's, the wartime and post war years.
The theme music, Coronation Scot by Vivian Ellis became the most requested piece by listeners from 1949 to 1951. It is an instantly recognisable tune even if you are unfamiliar with its Paul Temple link.
Paul Temple Theme Music
The crime genre was already well established when Durbridge introduced Paul Temple although many of the best known characters of the halcyon inter war years hailed from the United States.
Temple was in contrast a home grown protagonist and fitted well into the portrayal of the criminal scene. In those days the goodies were well spoken and the villains either of regional accent or dodgy foreign ones. He was certainly no seedy gumshoe or opportunist.
It really was that clear cut and the crimes that came across the writing desk of Temple were typically murders, crimes of passion, theft , espionage and intrigue.
Durbridge skillfully put his hero into the situation apparently seamlessly through either a call from the frustrated Sir Graham Forbes, an anxious victim or an innocent dragged into a difficult situation.
In between periods of dire peril to both Paul and his wife Steve the couple enjoyed a very luvvy-duvvy existence enjoying good living in London and Home Counties restaurants and nightclubs.
The fictional Temple was regularly recognised and asked about his latest writing project by those were otherwise peripheral to the main story line.
Unfortunately the majority of the early radio broadcasts have been lost but in 2006 it was decided to reproduce the original scripts using authentic mono recording, vintage microphones and sound effects. These when released re-awakened many of the memories of the original fan base and introduced the characters to a new generation.
The language, dramatic ploys and often an over involved plot line and eventual reveal may be rather staid and dated but the quality of the stories holds well in the very overcrowded crime genre that we have in the present day.
The Paul Temple phenomena also found a large fan base in Europe. In 1960's Germany the regular broadcast slots for Temple episodes earned a special name to the effect that they cleared the streets, such was the level of public interest in the different serials.
My own experience has only been relatively recently with BBC 4 Extra re-runs of the duo of Paul Coke and Marjorie Westbury in the main roles. Westbury had played the sidekick, Steve since 1945 but remained in the role with the arrival of Coke (pronounced Cook) in 1954 and through to 1968.
The more recent reproductions saw Crawford Logan and Gerda Stevenson in action.
As at the time of writing the Blue Plaque Committee in Hull is still in debate over one for Francis Durbridge on the house on St Hilda Street. Sounds like a perfect scenario to call upon the services of a crime figthing husband and wife team.......................................
St Hilda Street, just out of the city centre now just comprises one side, the north, of Victorian terraced houses but at the time of the young Durbridge was a densely populated cul de sac interspersed with Public Buildings including a Library, the Sculcoates Union Workhouse and the General Infirmary.
It appears that he spent his formative years in these surroundings before going on to attend the well regarded Bradford Grammar School.
Success in play writing came early and he sold his first to the BBC when only 21 years old in 1933.
A prolific output followed with 43 novels, 7 plays and a number of TV series and films.
One of his main characters first emerged in 1938 as a well spoken, intelligent and high-living author of crime fiction and also a private detective whose services were regularly called upon by New Scotland Yard when their own crime fighters were struggling to solve mysteries and conundrums.
That character was Paul Temple, ably assisted by his wife, Steve, herself cast as an author.
The radio broadcasts of Paul Temple and his many cases were a popular distraction for the UK population on the BBC Light Programme through the late 1930's, the wartime and post war years.
The theme music, Coronation Scot by Vivian Ellis became the most requested piece by listeners from 1949 to 1951. It is an instantly recognisable tune even if you are unfamiliar with its Paul Temple link.
Paul Temple Theme Music
The crime genre was already well established when Durbridge introduced Paul Temple although many of the best known characters of the halcyon inter war years hailed from the United States.
Temple was in contrast a home grown protagonist and fitted well into the portrayal of the criminal scene. In those days the goodies were well spoken and the villains either of regional accent or dodgy foreign ones. He was certainly no seedy gumshoe or opportunist.
It really was that clear cut and the crimes that came across the writing desk of Temple were typically murders, crimes of passion, theft , espionage and intrigue.
Durbridge skillfully put his hero into the situation apparently seamlessly through either a call from the frustrated Sir Graham Forbes, an anxious victim or an innocent dragged into a difficult situation.
In between periods of dire peril to both Paul and his wife Steve the couple enjoyed a very luvvy-duvvy existence enjoying good living in London and Home Counties restaurants and nightclubs.
The fictional Temple was regularly recognised and asked about his latest writing project by those were otherwise peripheral to the main story line.
Unfortunately the majority of the early radio broadcasts have been lost but in 2006 it was decided to reproduce the original scripts using authentic mono recording, vintage microphones and sound effects. These when released re-awakened many of the memories of the original fan base and introduced the characters to a new generation.
The language, dramatic ploys and often an over involved plot line and eventual reveal may be rather staid and dated but the quality of the stories holds well in the very overcrowded crime genre that we have in the present day.
The Paul Temple phenomena also found a large fan base in Europe. In 1960's Germany the regular broadcast slots for Temple episodes earned a special name to the effect that they cleared the streets, such was the level of public interest in the different serials.
My own experience has only been relatively recently with BBC 4 Extra re-runs of the duo of Paul Coke and Marjorie Westbury in the main roles. Westbury had played the sidekick, Steve since 1945 but remained in the role with the arrival of Coke (pronounced Cook) in 1954 and through to 1968.
The more recent reproductions saw Crawford Logan and Gerda Stevenson in action.
As at the time of writing the Blue Plaque Committee in Hull is still in debate over one for Francis Durbridge on the house on St Hilda Street. Sounds like a perfect scenario to call upon the services of a crime figthing husband and wife team.......................................
Thursday, 28 December 2017
Paws for Thought
I admit that I had never heard this particular phrase before.
It was drawn to my attention in the dialogue of a radio dramatisation of PG Wodehouse's "Ring for Jeeves" which was first published in 1953.
The principal character feels that he has been duped into an action by another and describes his role as being "a cats paw".
As they say curiosity killed the cat or in my case the feline reference caught my attention and imagination and I just had to find out where it came from.
Its most well known origins are generally attributable to a famous French fable of the late 17th Century by Jean de La Fontaine although there is some debate about it being even earlier than that. There are 15th Century tales along the same theme and later in the sixteenth century where the protagonists are a monkey and a puppy.
The sight of a monkey will have been very rare to the majority of the population throughout Europe in those periods excepting of course a seaport or other trading centre where the creatures will have been introduced as pets or for entertainment and commercial gain. This gave them a sort of demonic association helped by their colouration and humanesque character traits with any sinister or corrupt doings not therefore being a surprise. Legend has it that the townspeople of Hartlepool on the North East coast of England found a monkey, dressed in military clothes as the mascot of a French ship which had washed up on the shore. It was a time of heightened tension between the two nations with Napoleon threatening invasion. Unsure of what they had captured , a Frenchman or a monkey they held a trial and executed the poor animal by hanging.
Wherever a fable features a challenge or conflict involving animals then it can have even more potentially ancient sources as in Greek or Egyptian literature. The fable may even have been by the slave and master of storytelling, Aesop who was around between 620 and 564 BC.
The Fontaine tale has a monkey, Bertrand, who fancies a snack of delicious chestnuts which are enticing him as they cook slowly in the embers of a fire. Not wanting to risk being scorched or burnt the monkey looks around for a way to get the feast.
Here the storyline varies a bit depending upon the date of the version.
In one Bertrand promises the cat, Raton, a share of the spoils if he pulls the chestnuts out of the radiant heat of the hearth with his paws. The other more horrifying one is where Bertrand manipulates the paw of the cat whilst it sleeps to the same end.
In both scenarios there is a clear winner and an unfortunate and no doubt smouldering victim.
Over the ages this dramatic scene has led to the popular French idiom of "Tirrer les marrons du feu" translated very crudely as grasping the chestnuts from the fire and meaning to benefit from the dirty work of others.
Once embedded in popular culture the basic scenario can be adapted for many purposes, one of these in the 18th century being political in nature.
In England satirists and pamphleteers used illustrations in cartoon form to show the cats paw influence of, for example. the Lord Chancellor, Henry Brougham in his manipulation of the monarch of the time, William the 4th to pass the 1832 Reform Act inspite of opposition by heavyweights such as the then Prime Minister and national hero, Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington.
The same characterisation was cited in the political turmoil of Napoleonic France and in Holland.
As for that loveable but feckless Bertie Wooster, the "Cats Paw" label suits him superbly.
It was drawn to my attention in the dialogue of a radio dramatisation of PG Wodehouse's "Ring for Jeeves" which was first published in 1953.
The principal character feels that he has been duped into an action by another and describes his role as being "a cats paw".
As they say curiosity killed the cat or in my case the feline reference caught my attention and imagination and I just had to find out where it came from.
Its most well known origins are generally attributable to a famous French fable of the late 17th Century by Jean de La Fontaine although there is some debate about it being even earlier than that. There are 15th Century tales along the same theme and later in the sixteenth century where the protagonists are a monkey and a puppy.
The sight of a monkey will have been very rare to the majority of the population throughout Europe in those periods excepting of course a seaport or other trading centre where the creatures will have been introduced as pets or for entertainment and commercial gain. This gave them a sort of demonic association helped by their colouration and humanesque character traits with any sinister or corrupt doings not therefore being a surprise. Legend has it that the townspeople of Hartlepool on the North East coast of England found a monkey, dressed in military clothes as the mascot of a French ship which had washed up on the shore. It was a time of heightened tension between the two nations with Napoleon threatening invasion. Unsure of what they had captured , a Frenchman or a monkey they held a trial and executed the poor animal by hanging.
Wherever a fable features a challenge or conflict involving animals then it can have even more potentially ancient sources as in Greek or Egyptian literature. The fable may even have been by the slave and master of storytelling, Aesop who was around between 620 and 564 BC.
The Fontaine tale has a monkey, Bertrand, who fancies a snack of delicious chestnuts which are enticing him as they cook slowly in the embers of a fire. Not wanting to risk being scorched or burnt the monkey looks around for a way to get the feast.
Here the storyline varies a bit depending upon the date of the version.
In one Bertrand promises the cat, Raton, a share of the spoils if he pulls the chestnuts out of the radiant heat of the hearth with his paws. The other more horrifying one is where Bertrand manipulates the paw of the cat whilst it sleeps to the same end.
In both scenarios there is a clear winner and an unfortunate and no doubt smouldering victim.
Over the ages this dramatic scene has led to the popular French idiom of "Tirrer les marrons du feu" translated very crudely as grasping the chestnuts from the fire and meaning to benefit from the dirty work of others.
Once embedded in popular culture the basic scenario can be adapted for many purposes, one of these in the 18th century being political in nature.
In England satirists and pamphleteers used illustrations in cartoon form to show the cats paw influence of, for example. the Lord Chancellor, Henry Brougham in his manipulation of the monarch of the time, William the 4th to pass the 1832 Reform Act inspite of opposition by heavyweights such as the then Prime Minister and national hero, Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington.
The same characterisation was cited in the political turmoil of Napoleonic France and in Holland.
As for that loveable but feckless Bertie Wooster, the "Cats Paw" label suits him superbly.
Wednesday, 27 December 2017
In the Mix
Who launched the genre in pop music of the Girl Group?
A few names do come to mind but the true origins are reputed to be with the fourpiece, "The Shirelles" whose career lasted from the late 1950's until the late 1960's.
At a time in the United States of racial segregation and prejudice their distinctive style, termed naive schoolgirl was accepted by white and black audiences although if you source, on You Tube, their live performance of the Carole King classic, "Will you still love me tomorrow" you would be hard pressed to find any racial mix in the studio audience sat passively behind the stage.
The Shirelles - live
The group, consisting of Shirley Owens, Doris Cole, Addie Harris and Beverly Lee all knew each other at High School in New Jersey and formed to take part in a talent contest in 1957, with their average age being just 16.
Their rendition of their own song "I met him on a Sunday" under their group name of The Poquellos brought them to the attention of a small record label, Tiara, who restyled them in their new guise as The Shirelles.
It took a move to the huge Decca Record Label to become established but, disappointed, they soon left for Scepter with who they had seven top 20 US hits.
I came across them only recently when featuring in the Carole King musical "Beautiful".
King placed perhaps the best known of her creations with The Shirelles although this required a speedy adaptation with string section to propel the band and song to the number one position in the US Charts in 1960 and a best of fourth in the UK.
Along with their 1960 hit "Tonights the Night", part written by Owens these two releases earned the group a 76th place in the Rolling Stone Magazine 100 best hits list of 2004.
A combination of the British Invasion of the US in the 1960's and the ascendancy of the girl groups such as The Chiffons, The Supremes, The Ronettes, Martha and the Vandellas and The Crystals saw a decline in the popularity of the pioneering group.
Dionne Warwick filled in for band members in the first half of the sixties before going on to her own great solo career.
Those grainy early films of The Shirelles are an important legacy of the pop music world and we should not be allowed to forget their contribution to the girl band genre or music in general.
A few names do come to mind but the true origins are reputed to be with the fourpiece, "The Shirelles" whose career lasted from the late 1950's until the late 1960's.
At a time in the United States of racial segregation and prejudice their distinctive style, termed naive schoolgirl was accepted by white and black audiences although if you source, on You Tube, their live performance of the Carole King classic, "Will you still love me tomorrow" you would be hard pressed to find any racial mix in the studio audience sat passively behind the stage.
The Shirelles - live
The group, consisting of Shirley Owens, Doris Cole, Addie Harris and Beverly Lee all knew each other at High School in New Jersey and formed to take part in a talent contest in 1957, with their average age being just 16.
Their rendition of their own song "I met him on a Sunday" under their group name of The Poquellos brought them to the attention of a small record label, Tiara, who restyled them in their new guise as The Shirelles.
It took a move to the huge Decca Record Label to become established but, disappointed, they soon left for Scepter with who they had seven top 20 US hits.
I came across them only recently when featuring in the Carole King musical "Beautiful".
King placed perhaps the best known of her creations with The Shirelles although this required a speedy adaptation with string section to propel the band and song to the number one position in the US Charts in 1960 and a best of fourth in the UK.
Along with their 1960 hit "Tonights the Night", part written by Owens these two releases earned the group a 76th place in the Rolling Stone Magazine 100 best hits list of 2004.
A combination of the British Invasion of the US in the 1960's and the ascendancy of the girl groups such as The Chiffons, The Supremes, The Ronettes, Martha and the Vandellas and The Crystals saw a decline in the popularity of the pioneering group.
Dionne Warwick filled in for band members in the first half of the sixties before going on to her own great solo career.
Those grainy early films of The Shirelles are an important legacy of the pop music world and we should not be allowed to forget their contribution to the girl band genre or music in general.
Tuesday, 26 December 2017
Potted Plants
It may have once been a grand building but number 101 in a certain road is now far from its best.
It stands at the western end of a terraced block just on the fringes of the city centre. It has not always been an end property. A stray bomb or an enthusiastic town planner dictated that the rest of the row was toppled and in order to support what was once a party wall a climbing frame of substantial steel girders was erected.
Someone had a sense of humour or none at all to paint the buttress a gawdy purple. In itself a bit of an eyesore but even more so against a lilac coloured rendered finish behind from ground level over the full height of three storeys plus an undercroft.
I must have driven past 101 at least once if not more every day when my office was in the central city area but I cannot recall what form of business last occupied the expansive floor area. I have vague recollections of signage for a record shop, vinyl albums and singles, but cannot be sure.
The combination of a building that resembled a vivid blob of lurid colours and the economic recession did not assist in securing any new occupants until, out of the blue, a tenant expressed an interest to take up residency for an initial six months and paid the full amount of rent up front.
The owner could not believe his good fortune and felt optimistic that a corner had been turned for the good in the viability of the premises.
The deal sounded too good to be true and in my experience that is usually the case.
Some four months into the letting the building was raided by the police who discovered a very large and evidently clinically operated drugs factory. To the passer by in the street there was nothing to suspect any illegal activity behind the vertical blinds of the frontage windows. To the helicopter of the constabulary and its heat detecting camera the building had produced a classic profile and cluster of temperatures used in the hydroponic growth of cannabis plants.
This was in spite of the best efforts of the cultivators to screen and lag the exterior of the building in tin foil to prevent detection from the air.
There may also have been a tip off about what those in the know described as a very distinctive odour from the crop, somewhere between a sweet almost sickly smell to one of fish.
The growing process also relied on a good nutrient base and plenty of water. The upper floors were laden with a thick bed of soil directly on the old floorboards and with a sprinkler system beneath an array of heat lamps. Water, not absorbed by the fast growing foliage percolated through the structure saturating everything in its relentless gravity influenced journey to the ground.
The undercroft took on the form of a glassy surfaced lake of slightly peaty coloured liquid. The water had no escape from this point and just stagnated and spawned fungul growths , mould and spores which started to eat the building from the inside out.
It was a complete mess, an organic petrie dish on a massive scale.
When the owner was eventually allowed to return and start to tackle the dilapidations and dereliction the scale of the task became evident.
As a conservative estimate, based on the number of waste skips which shuttled back and forth, some 14 tons of the guts of the building had to be removed. This included a mulch of sodden plasterboard, mushroom covered pitch pine boards, old service installations and the remnants of the internal fittings, so distorted and decomposed that their actual form and function could only be guessed at.
Much of the debris was recovered from the undercroft where, like the water, it had made its own way with the implosion of the structural framework.
Prior to the arrival of the skips the owner had shovelled up and bagged the soil and growing medium from the former operation. A few dessicated cannabis plants also made their way into the mix. The contents of the hundred or so green polythene garden bags resembled the best quality composts, packed with vermiculite, light and full of goodness.
The temptation was too great for the owner and he recouped a good proportion of his enforced costs for remediation of the property through the sale of the bagged up material. It went like stink to local gardening enthusiasts, allotment holders, those with window boxes on the seventh floor of an inner city tower block, into planters in town gardens and the sensory gardens of local charitable concerns. Over the ensuing months the police received information from a variety of anonymous sources about the large scale cultivation of strange, almost fern-like plants in the most unlikely places around the city centre. 101 had wreaked its revenge.
It stands at the western end of a terraced block just on the fringes of the city centre. It has not always been an end property. A stray bomb or an enthusiastic town planner dictated that the rest of the row was toppled and in order to support what was once a party wall a climbing frame of substantial steel girders was erected.
Someone had a sense of humour or none at all to paint the buttress a gawdy purple. In itself a bit of an eyesore but even more so against a lilac coloured rendered finish behind from ground level over the full height of three storeys plus an undercroft.
I must have driven past 101 at least once if not more every day when my office was in the central city area but I cannot recall what form of business last occupied the expansive floor area. I have vague recollections of signage for a record shop, vinyl albums and singles, but cannot be sure.
The combination of a building that resembled a vivid blob of lurid colours and the economic recession did not assist in securing any new occupants until, out of the blue, a tenant expressed an interest to take up residency for an initial six months and paid the full amount of rent up front.
The owner could not believe his good fortune and felt optimistic that a corner had been turned for the good in the viability of the premises.
The deal sounded too good to be true and in my experience that is usually the case.
Some four months into the letting the building was raided by the police who discovered a very large and evidently clinically operated drugs factory. To the passer by in the street there was nothing to suspect any illegal activity behind the vertical blinds of the frontage windows. To the helicopter of the constabulary and its heat detecting camera the building had produced a classic profile and cluster of temperatures used in the hydroponic growth of cannabis plants.
This was in spite of the best efforts of the cultivators to screen and lag the exterior of the building in tin foil to prevent detection from the air.
There may also have been a tip off about what those in the know described as a very distinctive odour from the crop, somewhere between a sweet almost sickly smell to one of fish.
The growing process also relied on a good nutrient base and plenty of water. The upper floors were laden with a thick bed of soil directly on the old floorboards and with a sprinkler system beneath an array of heat lamps. Water, not absorbed by the fast growing foliage percolated through the structure saturating everything in its relentless gravity influenced journey to the ground.
The undercroft took on the form of a glassy surfaced lake of slightly peaty coloured liquid. The water had no escape from this point and just stagnated and spawned fungul growths , mould and spores which started to eat the building from the inside out.
It was a complete mess, an organic petrie dish on a massive scale.
When the owner was eventually allowed to return and start to tackle the dilapidations and dereliction the scale of the task became evident.
As a conservative estimate, based on the number of waste skips which shuttled back and forth, some 14 tons of the guts of the building had to be removed. This included a mulch of sodden plasterboard, mushroom covered pitch pine boards, old service installations and the remnants of the internal fittings, so distorted and decomposed that their actual form and function could only be guessed at.
Much of the debris was recovered from the undercroft where, like the water, it had made its own way with the implosion of the structural framework.
Prior to the arrival of the skips the owner had shovelled up and bagged the soil and growing medium from the former operation. A few dessicated cannabis plants also made their way into the mix. The contents of the hundred or so green polythene garden bags resembled the best quality composts, packed with vermiculite, light and full of goodness.
The temptation was too great for the owner and he recouped a good proportion of his enforced costs for remediation of the property through the sale of the bagged up material. It went like stink to local gardening enthusiasts, allotment holders, those with window boxes on the seventh floor of an inner city tower block, into planters in town gardens and the sensory gardens of local charitable concerns. Over the ensuing months the police received information from a variety of anonymous sources about the large scale cultivation of strange, almost fern-like plants in the most unlikely places around the city centre. 101 had wreaked its revenge.
Sunday, 24 December 2017
King's Speech revisited
A shameless and bordering on treasonous edit and re-write in 21st Century language of the inspiring speech to the nation by King George VI at news of the outbreak of war in 1939. I have taken the subject matter and changed it to "Shopping at Christmas"
"In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God.
If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all"
Notes on the actual original, inspiring speech
"In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God.
If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all"
Notes on the actual original, inspiring speech
Friday, 22 December 2017
Rooted and Booted
(Reproduction of a bit of writing first done in November 2011)
It has done very well to survive.
I am thrilled to report that I will go down the garden in the next couple of days to check on the health, welfare and beauty of the only Christmas Tree that I have managed to keep alive for more than the festive period.
This will be the third year that the tree will stand on the shallow balcony at the front of the house.
Unprecedented. I have however had many concerns over the period from when we first purchased the small Fir for £29.99 from the local garden centre.
The purchase and display of a real and live Christmas Tree is not itself an issue. What does tend to throw my whole budget out on the approach to Christmas is the extortionate price charged for a tree. It is a captive market.
Any deemed failure on the acquisition of a decent tree is a failure in manhood, fatherhood and husbandry.
We do have an indoor real tree and my son has developed an expert eye to pick out a perfectly formed and symmetrical example of the exact height and girth for its traditional position in the lounge bay.
The smaller balcony tree is another issue but just as vitally important.
In the past we went for just a straightforward un-rooted one. This just about lasted until the Twelfth Day before being cast down onto the front path to be set aside for shredding and stripping.
My wife was both shocked and amused at my collection of many years worth of skeletal and almost petrified former balcony trees which emerged from under the mass of the compost heap and from behind the garage during a recent blitz to tidy up the back garden.
Perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment and kept the remnants out of shame for their eventual undignified fate.
The small tree bought in 2009 was as they say 'rooted and booted.'. It was wrapped in a string bag which was ceremoniously cut away as soon as the tree and root ball were packed tight and watered in the old fire bucket up on the balcony. Being considerate for the diminuitive stature of the tree it was stood on a low table. From the street the tree now appeared to be a towering 5 feet tall. The balcony rail concealed the support structure very nicely. Remarkably, and without any additional watering the tree looked good and healthy throughout the period.
The micro-climate on the balcony will, on reflection, have been ideal. Sheltered from direct cold and frost, dry but airy. The boughs and needles were still beautifully green and supple. I whisked the tree down to the bottom of the garden and purely as a biological and horticultural experiment re-planted it in the soil.
Out of sight I did forget about it for some weeks. On a rare visit to the far reaches of the garden I noticed fresh bright green accelerated growths. It was thriving. I moved it a couple of times in the first 12 months after it looked a bit sun scorched or swamped by the native vegetation. The soil in the garden is a heavy clay not really of the free draining and light characteristics that the genetics of the tree are geared up for.
The tree took up residency back on the balcony for Christmas 2010. From November to well into January the average daily temperature did not get much above minus 2 to 4 degrees. Exposed trees and the garden hedge suffered very badly from the sheer weight of snow and ice and the upper parts became blackened in the foliage equivalent of frost bite.
Many of the plants out in the open perished. The small tree will have witnessed all this from the recess of the balcony but remained snug and healthy. I replanted it again. The mild spring weather was good for recuperation but in the summer months it looked to be wilting. The buddleia tree behind which I had planted the fir had swamped and stifled it more than I had anticipated. It was touch and go for a while but the patient responded to emergency watering and some kind words of inspiration.
So, it is now the tail end of November 2011. The anticipated return of the tree to contribute to the celebration of Christmas is very satisfying and poignant. We as a family have been through some difficult times in the three years since we adopted the tree but it has been a constant ,whether bedecked in lights, tinsel and atopped with a star or just blending in , with ultimate camouflage , at the bottom of the garden.
Our house is currently up for sale but when we move on I will find the discarded fire bucket and the tree will accompany us to wherever we next put down our own roots.
(nb. we did eventually move house. The tree we left behind)
It has done very well to survive.
I am thrilled to report that I will go down the garden in the next couple of days to check on the health, welfare and beauty of the only Christmas Tree that I have managed to keep alive for more than the festive period.
This will be the third year that the tree will stand on the shallow balcony at the front of the house.
Unprecedented. I have however had many concerns over the period from when we first purchased the small Fir for £29.99 from the local garden centre.
The purchase and display of a real and live Christmas Tree is not itself an issue. What does tend to throw my whole budget out on the approach to Christmas is the extortionate price charged for a tree. It is a captive market.
Any deemed failure on the acquisition of a decent tree is a failure in manhood, fatherhood and husbandry.
We do have an indoor real tree and my son has developed an expert eye to pick out a perfectly formed and symmetrical example of the exact height and girth for its traditional position in the lounge bay.
The smaller balcony tree is another issue but just as vitally important.
In the past we went for just a straightforward un-rooted one. This just about lasted until the Twelfth Day before being cast down onto the front path to be set aside for shredding and stripping.
My wife was both shocked and amused at my collection of many years worth of skeletal and almost petrified former balcony trees which emerged from under the mass of the compost heap and from behind the garage during a recent blitz to tidy up the back garden.
Perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment and kept the remnants out of shame for their eventual undignified fate.
The small tree bought in 2009 was as they say 'rooted and booted.'. It was wrapped in a string bag which was ceremoniously cut away as soon as the tree and root ball were packed tight and watered in the old fire bucket up on the balcony. Being considerate for the diminuitive stature of the tree it was stood on a low table. From the street the tree now appeared to be a towering 5 feet tall. The balcony rail concealed the support structure very nicely. Remarkably, and without any additional watering the tree looked good and healthy throughout the period.
The micro-climate on the balcony will, on reflection, have been ideal. Sheltered from direct cold and frost, dry but airy. The boughs and needles were still beautifully green and supple. I whisked the tree down to the bottom of the garden and purely as a biological and horticultural experiment re-planted it in the soil.
Out of sight I did forget about it for some weeks. On a rare visit to the far reaches of the garden I noticed fresh bright green accelerated growths. It was thriving. I moved it a couple of times in the first 12 months after it looked a bit sun scorched or swamped by the native vegetation. The soil in the garden is a heavy clay not really of the free draining and light characteristics that the genetics of the tree are geared up for.
The tree took up residency back on the balcony for Christmas 2010. From November to well into January the average daily temperature did not get much above minus 2 to 4 degrees. Exposed trees and the garden hedge suffered very badly from the sheer weight of snow and ice and the upper parts became blackened in the foliage equivalent of frost bite.
Many of the plants out in the open perished. The small tree will have witnessed all this from the recess of the balcony but remained snug and healthy. I replanted it again. The mild spring weather was good for recuperation but in the summer months it looked to be wilting. The buddleia tree behind which I had planted the fir had swamped and stifled it more than I had anticipated. It was touch and go for a while but the patient responded to emergency watering and some kind words of inspiration.
So, it is now the tail end of November 2011. The anticipated return of the tree to contribute to the celebration of Christmas is very satisfying and poignant. We as a family have been through some difficult times in the three years since we adopted the tree but it has been a constant ,whether bedecked in lights, tinsel and atopped with a star or just blending in , with ultimate camouflage , at the bottom of the garden.
Our house is currently up for sale but when we move on I will find the discarded fire bucket and the tree will accompany us to wherever we next put down our own roots.
(nb. we did eventually move house. The tree we left behind)
Thursday, 21 December 2017
Getting in the Spirit
It has happened. It was snowing hard in Bedford Falls. Mary Bailey had rallied round the good townsfolk and they came up with the required funds to make up the unfortunate deficit at the Savings and Loans. George Bailey looked at his small ginger hair daughter and thanked Clarence, his guardian angel to the sound of a bell tinkling on the tree.
I cried. I always cry.
The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. Only two more sleeps to go, as they say. It takes something special to break throught the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of biscuits, bombay mix, twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.
The unseasonably warm autumn weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weeekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.
There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage, down to the Civic Amenity site where a lot of men dressed as Santa seem to work.
There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church but as yet I have not sung any Carols which is a bit disappointing. Apparently I am a bit of an Anglo Catholic and we adhere strictly to the Advent hymns until Christmas Eve. We will be going down the road from the new house to the Christmas morning service if the building survives the onslaught of revellers the night before. The church is slap bang in the middle of the party circuit and does get a bit of a hammering from the hammered.
Our tree, carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile is starting to exude the natural pine smell when prompted.. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. It is surprising how much room a turkey in a carrier bag takes up,.
The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off. We are just about prepared.
Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.
I cried. I always cry.
The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. Only two more sleeps to go, as they say. It takes something special to break throught the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of biscuits, bombay mix, twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.
The unseasonably warm autumn weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weeekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.
There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage, down to the Civic Amenity site where a lot of men dressed as Santa seem to work.
There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church but as yet I have not sung any Carols which is a bit disappointing. Apparently I am a bit of an Anglo Catholic and we adhere strictly to the Advent hymns until Christmas Eve. We will be going down the road from the new house to the Christmas morning service if the building survives the onslaught of revellers the night before. The church is slap bang in the middle of the party circuit and does get a bit of a hammering from the hammered.
Our tree, carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile is starting to exude the natural pine smell when prompted.. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. It is surprising how much room a turkey in a carrier bag takes up,.
The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off. We are just about prepared.
Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Lettuce Play
When coming across a problem in the built environment it is sometimes possible to
overthink an issue.
This is not surprising as when a property professional is confronted with any problem
the old grey matter amassed from years of training and experience kicks in. If
our brain activity could be visualised digitally when the thought process is
under way I am sure it would be something spectacular and quite beautiful to
behold.
There is some comfort and reassurance to be found in coming across
familiar or similar observations, patterns and trends as a basis on which to
start that rational and diagnostic approach towards a resolution to keep
clients happy.
Or so I thought.
My particular quandary was about strange
discolouration to the internal walls of a modern cavity built house.
The
occupants had observed a sort of downward creeping shadow to an upstairs outer
corner.
The usual tackling of it with detergent and anti-mould wipes appeared
to have been successful in the short term but the problem returned quickly.
I was called in to
provide the answers.
It was a rented house but the tenants were conscientious
in heating and ventilation and condensation could be ruled as the cause.
The
surface was dry when tested.
The external shell of the house, corresponding
roof area, barge-boarding and external brick skin were, visually as good as new
with no cracked, damaged or missing elements.
The orientation of the affected wall was north
westerly and so had reasonable exposure to warming sunlight to dry any
persistent rainfall driven by a prevailing westerly..
The discolouration, according to the residents, did
not take place immediately after wet weather. That was in my mind a good candidate for the issue.
This
initial diagnosis exhausted my first line of equipment . Moisture and
humidity testers went back in their cases along with binoculars, compass and mobile
phone Met Office records.
I now had to call upon technology.
My rather plasticky
but nevertheless effective boroscopic camera was put on charge but I would need
a scaffolding rig to reach the area of investigation. That and someone to drill
a probing hole would be chargeable services that may not be acceptable to the client.
We were already in the realms of a mountaineering type expedition for a
relatively mole-hill situation.
I thought laterally which took me into the
really fantastic options.
The environmental company that I knew had a thermal imaging camera
did not come back to my reasonable enquiry about using it to check for any
thermal cold spots from slipped or absent insulation.
The drone operator, regularly lobbying for an opportunity to show off his aircraft felt
that the locality was a bit tight to take off and fly about in.
These further
thoughts took a bit of time and although grateful and gracious about my efforts the client was still a bit anxious.
I had to apply myself with even more
latitude and ever more thought whilst keeping everything in context.
Yes, it
was an inconvenience but no, it was not a major defect, health hazard or lifestyle
issue.
The actual cause was something that I could not have anticipated or
expected.
This came to light a few weeks after I and the client had reached the
stage of mutually accepted defeat.
In the course of a bit of adjustment to
plumbing in another part of the roofspace, away from the observed
discolouration the actions or rather inactions of a common or garden slug in an overflow
pipe had been the problem.
Who would have thunk that?
Tuesday, 19 December 2017
Christmas delights
First thing on the list to prepare for Christmas is to take the children to see Santa's grave.
It doesn't go down that well but I expect that there is a genuine sympathy in their tear streaked cheeks for his untimely death so close to what would be the busiest part of his year.
I am not a complete ogre in this regard. I do not of course know where the grave is actually located but merely point vaguely out of the car window at an ominous clump of trees just off the ring road of our town. I imply that it was a terrible and unnecessary accident involving the contravention by the Elves in charge of reindeer transport of a number of fundamental safety rules and good practice. Santa did not stand a chance. Heigh-ho. Life goes on.
Funnily enough that ritual starts my own enthusiasm for the Festive Season. It is my trigger for all things merry and bright at what is otherwise a pretty dismal time of the year what with limited natural daylight hours, cold and harsh weather and the prospect of shelling out a few quid on gifts and gaieties.
I have previously reported the first trimmed up house for this year way back in the early part of November.
This was an exception as most other households have been quite restrained in their decorative and lighting up efforts until at least December the 1st.
The Municipal displays have been officially switched on by some celebrity or dignitary although Local Authority budgetary constraints have, this year, restricted the extravagance to 60 Watt electric light bulb dressed with red and silver tinsel in the main city square.
The shops operated by the large Nationals which dominate the surviving parts of the High Street remain non descript in their efforts.
In my childhood the same streetscape in which local and sole traders operated was a riot of coloured lights and displays. This was down to the community spirit of the local Chamber of Commerce and a commitment by the shop keepers to contribute funds and resources to putting on a great show. This was as much to promote the wares of the shops as a thank you to the townspeople for their custom and patronage over the year.
The conglomerates, chains and franchises have no seasonal budget with any festive spirit of any merit. Any bonhomie is largely down to the staff in their sporting of reindeer antlers, elvish hats, flashing brooches and strands of tinsel about their persons. This they do out of the kindness of their own hearts and sparse personal finances even if it is frowned upon or actually prohibited by distant management.
I recall a story about a parcel delivery depot whose hardworking staff were given a Christmas bonus in the form of a handful, each, of assorted Cadbury's chocolates from a battered tin, itself probably salvaged from an aborted consignment of packages. It may as well have been a kick in the teeth for all of the loyalty and appreciation it conveyed to the workforce.
Those in the retail sector are particularly hard done by. I have just heard that following damage by tidal surge, within three weeks before Christmas, to the retail park premises of a large Care for Mother organisation (who will remain nameless) the staff of around 30 have had their contracts terminated and are out of work with no supplementary pay until the superstore is restored to operational use.
It is the Mother of all decisions. They just do not care after all.
The main driver of Christmas Spirit falls to the private individuals who bedeck their homes with ambitious, and not so, exhibitions of cheer and enthusiasm. I find that the shock expressed by my children of learning of the death of Santa can be alleviated somewhat by a drive around the neighbourhood to see the best and worst of the light and inflatable or neon outlined figure shows.
Neighbours compete ruthlessly in excesses of one-upmanship. Dads and Uncles court injury in ascending ladders, mounting roofs or leaning out of windows to affix the long trails of ice -blue, ice-white or multi-coloured twinklers to bargeboards, soffits and fascias. It can be quite an effort on the basis that some remain in position all year or just hang down forlornly if becoming detached or damaged.
A few philanthropic homeowners invite charitable donations to a gatepost mounted bucket for distribution to a local charity for those passing by and enjoying their efforts. This only really works in a cul de sac where the guilt and shame of voyeurs attempting a three point turn in the hammerhead can produce results in the chink, chink of hard cash in the collection receptacle.
This year has been a bit slower than normal to get going in terms of domestic decorations.
Factors such as recession, high energy costs and bad weather including typhoon and tsunami have been major hindrances.
Sat in my car amongst sobbing, distraught children I have noticed that there has been a definite increase in the practice of the draping of net lights in the trees, shrubs and bushes of front gardens. This is generally confined to the posher areas who have a front garden. This has produced some tasteful natural profiles in upper boughs of mature trees or a dense splurge of colour in smaller concentrations of leylandii or laurel.
If however the net is cast with low levels of care and attention to shape and form there can be some shockingly distracting flashing images and strange configurations. When squinted at through the windscreen these can resemble a large naked female form climbing out of a bath tub, or at least they do to me. It is still the same no matter how many times you drive past slowly and gawp.
It doesn't go down that well but I expect that there is a genuine sympathy in their tear streaked cheeks for his untimely death so close to what would be the busiest part of his year.
I am not a complete ogre in this regard. I do not of course know where the grave is actually located but merely point vaguely out of the car window at an ominous clump of trees just off the ring road of our town. I imply that it was a terrible and unnecessary accident involving the contravention by the Elves in charge of reindeer transport of a number of fundamental safety rules and good practice. Santa did not stand a chance. Heigh-ho. Life goes on.
Funnily enough that ritual starts my own enthusiasm for the Festive Season. It is my trigger for all things merry and bright at what is otherwise a pretty dismal time of the year what with limited natural daylight hours, cold and harsh weather and the prospect of shelling out a few quid on gifts and gaieties.
I have previously reported the first trimmed up house for this year way back in the early part of November.
This was an exception as most other households have been quite restrained in their decorative and lighting up efforts until at least December the 1st.
The Municipal displays have been officially switched on by some celebrity or dignitary although Local Authority budgetary constraints have, this year, restricted the extravagance to 60 Watt electric light bulb dressed with red and silver tinsel in the main city square.
The shops operated by the large Nationals which dominate the surviving parts of the High Street remain non descript in their efforts.
In my childhood the same streetscape in which local and sole traders operated was a riot of coloured lights and displays. This was down to the community spirit of the local Chamber of Commerce and a commitment by the shop keepers to contribute funds and resources to putting on a great show. This was as much to promote the wares of the shops as a thank you to the townspeople for their custom and patronage over the year.
The conglomerates, chains and franchises have no seasonal budget with any festive spirit of any merit. Any bonhomie is largely down to the staff in their sporting of reindeer antlers, elvish hats, flashing brooches and strands of tinsel about their persons. This they do out of the kindness of their own hearts and sparse personal finances even if it is frowned upon or actually prohibited by distant management.
I recall a story about a parcel delivery depot whose hardworking staff were given a Christmas bonus in the form of a handful, each, of assorted Cadbury's chocolates from a battered tin, itself probably salvaged from an aborted consignment of packages. It may as well have been a kick in the teeth for all of the loyalty and appreciation it conveyed to the workforce.
Those in the retail sector are particularly hard done by. I have just heard that following damage by tidal surge, within three weeks before Christmas, to the retail park premises of a large Care for Mother organisation (who will remain nameless) the staff of around 30 have had their contracts terminated and are out of work with no supplementary pay until the superstore is restored to operational use.
It is the Mother of all decisions. They just do not care after all.
The main driver of Christmas Spirit falls to the private individuals who bedeck their homes with ambitious, and not so, exhibitions of cheer and enthusiasm. I find that the shock expressed by my children of learning of the death of Santa can be alleviated somewhat by a drive around the neighbourhood to see the best and worst of the light and inflatable or neon outlined figure shows.
Neighbours compete ruthlessly in excesses of one-upmanship. Dads and Uncles court injury in ascending ladders, mounting roofs or leaning out of windows to affix the long trails of ice -blue, ice-white or multi-coloured twinklers to bargeboards, soffits and fascias. It can be quite an effort on the basis that some remain in position all year or just hang down forlornly if becoming detached or damaged.
A few philanthropic homeowners invite charitable donations to a gatepost mounted bucket for distribution to a local charity for those passing by and enjoying their efforts. This only really works in a cul de sac where the guilt and shame of voyeurs attempting a three point turn in the hammerhead can produce results in the chink, chink of hard cash in the collection receptacle.
This year has been a bit slower than normal to get going in terms of domestic decorations.
Factors such as recession, high energy costs and bad weather including typhoon and tsunami have been major hindrances.
Sat in my car amongst sobbing, distraught children I have noticed that there has been a definite increase in the practice of the draping of net lights in the trees, shrubs and bushes of front gardens. This is generally confined to the posher areas who have a front garden. This has produced some tasteful natural profiles in upper boughs of mature trees or a dense splurge of colour in smaller concentrations of leylandii or laurel.
If however the net is cast with low levels of care and attention to shape and form there can be some shockingly distracting flashing images and strange configurations. When squinted at through the windscreen these can resemble a large naked female form climbing out of a bath tub, or at least they do to me. It is still the same no matter how many times you drive past slowly and gawp.
Monday, 18 December 2017
Bedford Falls Revisited
One of my seasonal favourites. Thought I would show it again just to get in the Festive mood.....
It's a wonderful film and yet, as with most works of genius it was not recognised in its own time. Perhaps its sentiment in 1946 was too nice for a world emerging from war and austerity. It has at it's root laudable themes of brooding unhappiness , selfless service to the community, heartless business and contemplation of suicide and not that many pitch battles, bombing missions, beach assaults and no notable explosions which were otherwise popular movie features of the period. It represented a return of humanity and values that had been sacrificed or as the lead character, George Bailey, played by James Stewart remarks 'all is fair in love and war'.
I am of course referring to the Frank Capra movie of "It's a Wonderful Life"
It's a regular event in our family to watch the DVD in the run-up to Christmas. It does rank and climbs the poll every year as the best Christmas film of all time although my son still contends that Die Hard (1) would be hard to be pushed off top spot. Recently , a re-digitised and colour version was released but to really appreciate the heart warming emotions it has to be seen in original black and white. The movie does impact in all its glory on a small domestic TV screen, especially when cocooned in a duvet on the sofa and surrounded by loved ones. In the privacy of my own home I will be a bit misty eyed by about 30 minutes into the running time and completely useless and blubbering for the duration. I issue a spoiler alert at this stage but you must, if not familiar with the film, just watch it, wrapped up, with family or close friends and keep some tissues up your sleeves.
It's a rare privilege therefore, some 66 years after the release of the film, to get an opportunity to see it on the big screen in a cinema. It is something altogether different to contemplate being seen crying in a public auditorium. In my favour the screening was in a town some distance away from my home and so there was a low to acceptable risk of bumping into a friend or acquaintance. I had mentioned to colleagues and just passers by in the street, in the preceding weeks, that this was on the cards but was very careful not to divulge the location, day, date and time. I was astounded by the number of blank expressions from those with no knowledge of the film although the enthusiastic reminiscences from the majority did outweigh those poor unfortunate and unfulfilled souls.
It's a small cinema, one of the very few still surviving in a market place setting in a commuter town. The nearest multiplex would be around 20 miles away in the nearest cities which will have helped it to persist. I would willingly have paid more than the £4 admission charge which did include a glass of sherry and a micro-mince pie. Forget your deep and plushly upholstered back massaging, centrally heated and wired for sound luxury seating and just get comfortable if you can in a blue cloth wrapped bucket. Not much chance of being seduced into a sleep for the duration which is all good. I have often paid £12.50 to Odeon , Vue and Cineworld Cinemas ostensibly for a film but actually for a fitfull drift in and out of consciousness in that luxuriant heavy eyed feeling. Most blockbuster films are a mystery to me in terms of the main plot as I am only awake for the very beginning and the final chaotic few frames, usually involving silhouetted figures and a sunset.
It's an exciting moment when the lights dim and the big screen lights up into action. The quality of the film was fantastic although I may have been secretly disappointed that there were no bromide-brown blobs, dancing string-like blemishes or curses from the projection room over scorched and melting celluloid. I was immediately transported back in time as though at a small town Premiere of It's a Wonderful Life. The lack of legroom to a baby boomer like myself would not have constituted a problem to a post war audience in the UK, what with emaciation from many years of rationing, staple food deficiences and premature curvature of the legs from rickets.
It's a revelation to see the drama unfold on the big screen. Although I have seen the movie at least annually for the last decade or so the super sized images added a completely fresh dimension and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. In close-up and at 4metres full on, the facial expressions of James Stewart are even more magnificent and as for the lead actress, Donna Reed, well she's got a very good complexion and skin tone which is not always apparent on my Sony TV at home. There was a warning on the advertising poster of mild violence for the more sensitive in the audience. In the context of the film and it's era it was acceptable, or so it was portrayed, to slap around shop staff, throw stones at houses, verbally abuse primary school teachers, drink drive and make mad and violent love- you know the sort, fully clothed, no actual physical contact and with both feet on the ground to get past the Film Censors.
It's a therapeutic sound to hear a large group of people laugh and weep at alternate moments but generally in unison. I had just about got acclimatised to the seat when the film finished. Where had the time gone? As the audience reluctantly got up to go and in rather harsh lighting it was normal service resumed in human interaction or the lack of it. We all, me included, kept our heads down for fear of showing a weakness in our tear streamed faces. The waste bin at the exit was nearly full of damp Kleenex when I reached it and coaxed out the soggy contents of my left sleeve. A few small family groups lingered and reassured each other in quite a public display of fondness which was both nice and a bit cringey in equal proportions.
It's a funny thing but on the pavement outside, in the minus one degree of a mid December night in a Yorkshire town it felt a bit like the Bedford Falls of the film. It was not so long ago that there had been, like in the film, a run on the bank. There will be many that we know personally who feel trapped in their current lives when in their carefree youth they had magnificent plans to travel and undertake adventures. We all will have felt a degree of despair, anxiety and depression at some time. It is ultimately important , however to remind ourselves that we all contribute in some way to the lives of those around us whether through supporting our families and friends or just through a kind word or deed to a complete stranger.
It's in our power to make it a really wonderful life. Get busy.
It's a wonderful film and yet, as with most works of genius it was not recognised in its own time. Perhaps its sentiment in 1946 was too nice for a world emerging from war and austerity. It has at it's root laudable themes of brooding unhappiness , selfless service to the community, heartless business and contemplation of suicide and not that many pitch battles, bombing missions, beach assaults and no notable explosions which were otherwise popular movie features of the period. It represented a return of humanity and values that had been sacrificed or as the lead character, George Bailey, played by James Stewart remarks 'all is fair in love and war'.
I am of course referring to the Frank Capra movie of "It's a Wonderful Life"
It's a regular event in our family to watch the DVD in the run-up to Christmas. It does rank and climbs the poll every year as the best Christmas film of all time although my son still contends that Die Hard (1) would be hard to be pushed off top spot. Recently , a re-digitised and colour version was released but to really appreciate the heart warming emotions it has to be seen in original black and white. The movie does impact in all its glory on a small domestic TV screen, especially when cocooned in a duvet on the sofa and surrounded by loved ones. In the privacy of my own home I will be a bit misty eyed by about 30 minutes into the running time and completely useless and blubbering for the duration. I issue a spoiler alert at this stage but you must, if not familiar with the film, just watch it, wrapped up, with family or close friends and keep some tissues up your sleeves.
It's a rare privilege therefore, some 66 years after the release of the film, to get an opportunity to see it on the big screen in a cinema. It is something altogether different to contemplate being seen crying in a public auditorium. In my favour the screening was in a town some distance away from my home and so there was a low to acceptable risk of bumping into a friend or acquaintance. I had mentioned to colleagues and just passers by in the street, in the preceding weeks, that this was on the cards but was very careful not to divulge the location, day, date and time. I was astounded by the number of blank expressions from those with no knowledge of the film although the enthusiastic reminiscences from the majority did outweigh those poor unfortunate and unfulfilled souls.
It's a small cinema, one of the very few still surviving in a market place setting in a commuter town. The nearest multiplex would be around 20 miles away in the nearest cities which will have helped it to persist. I would willingly have paid more than the £4 admission charge which did include a glass of sherry and a micro-mince pie. Forget your deep and plushly upholstered back massaging, centrally heated and wired for sound luxury seating and just get comfortable if you can in a blue cloth wrapped bucket. Not much chance of being seduced into a sleep for the duration which is all good. I have often paid £12.50 to Odeon , Vue and Cineworld Cinemas ostensibly for a film but actually for a fitfull drift in and out of consciousness in that luxuriant heavy eyed feeling. Most blockbuster films are a mystery to me in terms of the main plot as I am only awake for the very beginning and the final chaotic few frames, usually involving silhouetted figures and a sunset.
It's an exciting moment when the lights dim and the big screen lights up into action. The quality of the film was fantastic although I may have been secretly disappointed that there were no bromide-brown blobs, dancing string-like blemishes or curses from the projection room over scorched and melting celluloid. I was immediately transported back in time as though at a small town Premiere of It's a Wonderful Life. The lack of legroom to a baby boomer like myself would not have constituted a problem to a post war audience in the UK, what with emaciation from many years of rationing, staple food deficiences and premature curvature of the legs from rickets.
It's a revelation to see the drama unfold on the big screen. Although I have seen the movie at least annually for the last decade or so the super sized images added a completely fresh dimension and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. In close-up and at 4metres full on, the facial expressions of James Stewart are even more magnificent and as for the lead actress, Donna Reed, well she's got a very good complexion and skin tone which is not always apparent on my Sony TV at home. There was a warning on the advertising poster of mild violence for the more sensitive in the audience. In the context of the film and it's era it was acceptable, or so it was portrayed, to slap around shop staff, throw stones at houses, verbally abuse primary school teachers, drink drive and make mad and violent love- you know the sort, fully clothed, no actual physical contact and with both feet on the ground to get past the Film Censors.
It's a therapeutic sound to hear a large group of people laugh and weep at alternate moments but generally in unison. I had just about got acclimatised to the seat when the film finished. Where had the time gone? As the audience reluctantly got up to go and in rather harsh lighting it was normal service resumed in human interaction or the lack of it. We all, me included, kept our heads down for fear of showing a weakness in our tear streamed faces. The waste bin at the exit was nearly full of damp Kleenex when I reached it and coaxed out the soggy contents of my left sleeve. A few small family groups lingered and reassured each other in quite a public display of fondness which was both nice and a bit cringey in equal proportions.
It's a funny thing but on the pavement outside, in the minus one degree of a mid December night in a Yorkshire town it felt a bit like the Bedford Falls of the film. It was not so long ago that there had been, like in the film, a run on the bank. There will be many that we know personally who feel trapped in their current lives when in their carefree youth they had magnificent plans to travel and undertake adventures. We all will have felt a degree of despair, anxiety and depression at some time. It is ultimately important , however to remind ourselves that we all contribute in some way to the lives of those around us whether through supporting our families and friends or just through a kind word or deed to a complete stranger.
It's in our power to make it a really wonderful life. Get busy.
Sunday, 17 December 2017
May the Firs be with you
The approach to Christmas brings to the fore all of the customs and rituals of our family that make it such a special time.
Just today I have telephoned the butcher to order the turkey.
That sounds like quite an ordinary thing to do but the butcher is in the the town where we used to live and we moved away just over 2 years ago. In the 23 years of living there I think that the sum total of my visits to the butcher's shop was, yes 23, and specifically for the poultry order. In spite of the regular infrequency, if that is a true definition, the staff always welcomed me as though I was in and out as part of a weekly shopping routine. Today's phone call, a bit impersonal I know, was no different and it was a case of "Oh hello Mr T, what can we do for you this year?". If I dither over the weight of the bird then my near quarter of a century record of purchases seems to have been retained somewhere in the expansive archive of the shop and can be recalled to remind me seemingly at an instant.
There are many other important components of our traditional family Christmas from searching out the box of decorations from the far recesses of the roof space, unravelling the mysteriously entwined coloured lights even if carefully placed in a neat arrangement some 12 months before, buying enough cards so as not to be caught out by a surprise delivery from old friends, finding an assured supply of satsuma's and Brussel Sprouts and having a meeting to decide i)the protocol for pyjama day (a sacred occasion whereby all of us flop out for the day and refuse to answer the door and telephone) and ii) whether that day should include a showing of the authentic black and white or re-mastered colour version of Capra's "A Wonderful Life".
The foregoing are all within our control which means that we just have to delegate tasks to ensure that everything arrives on the doorstep in time.
Something is, however, radically different this year.
If I can be forgiven for borrowing a famous line from Star Wars and with not long before the release of the seventh movie in the franchise "I sense a disturbance in the firs".
I refer of course to the seeking out and purchase of the Christmas Tree.
As with our loyalty to the previously local butcher we have visited the same garden centre (now well on the other side of town) for the last 25 or so years for this critical aspect of the celebrations.
They have always had a good stock of fresh trees, unwrapped and so able to be rotated and eyed up as though in a beauty pageant.
What are we looking for in a tree?
Well, a bit of natural symmetry, depth of greenery, reasonable height, non-drop needles and the promise of a wonderful pine smell to greet us every morning on the run up to December 25th and for as long as possible until twelfth night.
In the old house, a 1920's build we could accommodate a seven foot tree plus the stand and a second tree was bought to sit on the open balcony on the front elevation. Having moved to a boxy 1970's place (where I can on tip-toes touch the ceiling) we are somewhat restricted to between five and six feet.
The custom of driving up to the garden centre on the second saturday in December was always highly anticipated. One year, on an impulse we bought a tree that would not fit inside the car and so had to strap it crudely to the roofbars and make a long roundabout route home to avoid cross winds and the attention of the police.
The cause for concern this year is that the garden centre is no more.
It was a longstanding and multi-generational family business which had developed over a series of fields on the eastern edge of a sought after commuter village. Inevitably as the demand for residence in the village grew so the land would come to the attention of a house builder and sure enough, as I speak, the first foundation slabs for oversized and overpriced executive dwellings are in place.
In the summer the stock, barrels and locks of the family operation were sold off and we have, over the ensuing 6 months, struggled with the prospect of having to go elsewhere for our Christmas Tree.
We have not as yet resolved the dilemna and it is getting increasingly closer to the weekend on which the purchase must be made.
In a perfect world we may have sought testimonials from potential suppliers and customer feedback from past shoppers but we are, we realise, completely on our own on this.
To be continued...........................................................................................
Just today I have telephoned the butcher to order the turkey.
That sounds like quite an ordinary thing to do but the butcher is in the the town where we used to live and we moved away just over 2 years ago. In the 23 years of living there I think that the sum total of my visits to the butcher's shop was, yes 23, and specifically for the poultry order. In spite of the regular infrequency, if that is a true definition, the staff always welcomed me as though I was in and out as part of a weekly shopping routine. Today's phone call, a bit impersonal I know, was no different and it was a case of "Oh hello Mr T, what can we do for you this year?". If I dither over the weight of the bird then my near quarter of a century record of purchases seems to have been retained somewhere in the expansive archive of the shop and can be recalled to remind me seemingly at an instant.
There are many other important components of our traditional family Christmas from searching out the box of decorations from the far recesses of the roof space, unravelling the mysteriously entwined coloured lights even if carefully placed in a neat arrangement some 12 months before, buying enough cards so as not to be caught out by a surprise delivery from old friends, finding an assured supply of satsuma's and Brussel Sprouts and having a meeting to decide i)the protocol for pyjama day (a sacred occasion whereby all of us flop out for the day and refuse to answer the door and telephone) and ii) whether that day should include a showing of the authentic black and white or re-mastered colour version of Capra's "A Wonderful Life".
The foregoing are all within our control which means that we just have to delegate tasks to ensure that everything arrives on the doorstep in time.
Something is, however, radically different this year.
If I can be forgiven for borrowing a famous line from Star Wars and with not long before the release of the seventh movie in the franchise "I sense a disturbance in the firs".
I refer of course to the seeking out and purchase of the Christmas Tree.
As with our loyalty to the previously local butcher we have visited the same garden centre (now well on the other side of town) for the last 25 or so years for this critical aspect of the celebrations.
They have always had a good stock of fresh trees, unwrapped and so able to be rotated and eyed up as though in a beauty pageant.
What are we looking for in a tree?
Well, a bit of natural symmetry, depth of greenery, reasonable height, non-drop needles and the promise of a wonderful pine smell to greet us every morning on the run up to December 25th and for as long as possible until twelfth night.
In the old house, a 1920's build we could accommodate a seven foot tree plus the stand and a second tree was bought to sit on the open balcony on the front elevation. Having moved to a boxy 1970's place (where I can on tip-toes touch the ceiling) we are somewhat restricted to between five and six feet.
The custom of driving up to the garden centre on the second saturday in December was always highly anticipated. One year, on an impulse we bought a tree that would not fit inside the car and so had to strap it crudely to the roofbars and make a long roundabout route home to avoid cross winds and the attention of the police.
The cause for concern this year is that the garden centre is no more.
It was a longstanding and multi-generational family business which had developed over a series of fields on the eastern edge of a sought after commuter village. Inevitably as the demand for residence in the village grew so the land would come to the attention of a house builder and sure enough, as I speak, the first foundation slabs for oversized and overpriced executive dwellings are in place.
In the summer the stock, barrels and locks of the family operation were sold off and we have, over the ensuing 6 months, struggled with the prospect of having to go elsewhere for our Christmas Tree.
We have not as yet resolved the dilemna and it is getting increasingly closer to the weekend on which the purchase must be made.
In a perfect world we may have sought testimonials from potential suppliers and customer feedback from past shoppers but we are, we realise, completely on our own on this.
To be continued...........................................................................................
Saturday, 16 December 2017
This day in 1914; Scarborough
As I stood on one of Scarborough's majestic Victorian streets last week I remarked to one of the locals in passing conversation that the place cannot have changed at all since that halcyon era in its history.
The town gives that impression of sturdiness, immoveability against the winds and tides of the North Sea coast.
The buildings are characterful, many of them four or more stories high having been purpose built in the mid to late 1800's as lodging houses, private hotels, guest houses and as homes of the well to do of Yorkshire and beyond.
The man on that street soon put me right.
He told me about how the town had suffered one of the first hostile actions of the First World War, a barbaric and unprovoked shelling from the sea by two battlecruisers of the German Navy.
The enemy had considered the seaside resort to be a strategic threat to the shipping lanes in that part of the North Sea and their intelligence had suggested that behind the genteel facade there was a sizeable garrison.
The harbour, for centuries a safe refuge, could potentially serve as a base for maritime activities but on the 16th December 2014, a very early phase in the enactment of World War One it would have been very much in its role as a fishing port.
It was early morning on a wednesday and just over a week from Christmas.
There will have been activity in the town with traders and workers preparing for a busy mid week in the run up to the Festive Season.
Two battlecruisers, the Van der Tann and Derfflinger had separated from a larger flotilla of heavyweight fighting ships and were steaming at full speed with the distinctive silhouette of the hills of the town in sight.
At 8 am the first of a total of 500 shells hit a random assortment of targets in and around the town.
A principal focus for the attack was military although in its broadest interpretation being the Medieval castle which had been laid to virtual ruin in the English Civil Wart of the 17th Century. A barrack building was hit, also parts of the ramparts and walls, a Coastguard Station, the harbour lighthouse, the landmark structure of The Grand Hotel and three churches.
The fall of the high explosive shells was indiscriminate.
Commercial and residential buildings had roofs, walls and windows blown out.
A quiet street at the foot of the hill known as Oliver's Mount suffered damage to its housing stock and at 2 Wykeham Street, nearer the town centre, there were the first of the total of 17 fatalities , comprising multiple members of just one family.
One of the 80 injured died later from injuries sustained in the attack.
The onslaught had lasted only 30 minutes.
The two perpetrators made off to join the rest of their battle group wreaking similar mayhem and havoc on the northerly towns of Whitby and Hartlepool where another 120, if not all civilians, died.
The events , exactly 103 years ago today, had a huge effect on the British public.
Those in Scarborough who witnessed the attack had run for their lives in a mad panic, fearing that this was the precursor to a German Invasion Force. A dramatic image representing the barbarism of the Kaiser's Navy was used to encourage menfolk and boys to enlist in the British armed forces and will, no doubt have been the deciding factor for many to sign up to fight for their country.
I will never look upon Scarborough again as just a timeless backwater of English seaside charm.
It has, in its time, been very much on the front line.
Historic England have a great page and short animation on this at Scarborough
The town gives that impression of sturdiness, immoveability against the winds and tides of the North Sea coast.
The buildings are characterful, many of them four or more stories high having been purpose built in the mid to late 1800's as lodging houses, private hotels, guest houses and as homes of the well to do of Yorkshire and beyond.
The man on that street soon put me right.
He told me about how the town had suffered one of the first hostile actions of the First World War, a barbaric and unprovoked shelling from the sea by two battlecruisers of the German Navy.
The enemy had considered the seaside resort to be a strategic threat to the shipping lanes in that part of the North Sea and their intelligence had suggested that behind the genteel facade there was a sizeable garrison.
The harbour, for centuries a safe refuge, could potentially serve as a base for maritime activities but on the 16th December 2014, a very early phase in the enactment of World War One it would have been very much in its role as a fishing port.
It was early morning on a wednesday and just over a week from Christmas.
There will have been activity in the town with traders and workers preparing for a busy mid week in the run up to the Festive Season.
Two battlecruisers, the Van der Tann and Derfflinger had separated from a larger flotilla of heavyweight fighting ships and were steaming at full speed with the distinctive silhouette of the hills of the town in sight.
At 8 am the first of a total of 500 shells hit a random assortment of targets in and around the town.
A principal focus for the attack was military although in its broadest interpretation being the Medieval castle which had been laid to virtual ruin in the English Civil Wart of the 17th Century. A barrack building was hit, also parts of the ramparts and walls, a Coastguard Station, the harbour lighthouse, the landmark structure of The Grand Hotel and three churches.
The fall of the high explosive shells was indiscriminate.
Commercial and residential buildings had roofs, walls and windows blown out.
A quiet street at the foot of the hill known as Oliver's Mount suffered damage to its housing stock and at 2 Wykeham Street, nearer the town centre, there were the first of the total of 17 fatalities , comprising multiple members of just one family.
One of the 80 injured died later from injuries sustained in the attack.
The onslaught had lasted only 30 minutes.
The two perpetrators made off to join the rest of their battle group wreaking similar mayhem and havoc on the northerly towns of Whitby and Hartlepool where another 120, if not all civilians, died.
The events , exactly 103 years ago today, had a huge effect on the British public.
Those in Scarborough who witnessed the attack had run for their lives in a mad panic, fearing that this was the precursor to a German Invasion Force. A dramatic image representing the barbarism of the Kaiser's Navy was used to encourage menfolk and boys to enlist in the British armed forces and will, no doubt have been the deciding factor for many to sign up to fight for their country.
I will never look upon Scarborough again as just a timeless backwater of English seaside charm.
It has, in its time, been very much on the front line.
Historic England have a great page and short animation on this at Scarborough
Friday, 15 December 2017
Pieces and Goodwill
Chances are that there will be one at or near the top of the list for Christmas- a jigsaw puzzle.
I was reminded about these perplexing things when I almost walked over one laid out on the floor of a house this week.
Imagine what will have transpired in that home later that day when the owners will have discovered that a crime had been committed. Fortunately, I just managed to sidestep and avoid a potentially major incident although it did cross my mind, only briefly, that it would be very mischievous to pocket and remove a single piece.
Don't get me wrong.A valued part of my upbringing and personal development is attributable to doing jigsaws.
For all of their frustrating traits they are actually quite therapeutic. The human brain hates chaos and anything jumbled up and so an opportunity to return something haphazard to a state of perfect order produces a sensation of genuine joy and peace.
The practice of jigsawing, if indeed that is an actual word, is often part of our upbringing.
We are taught how to pick out corners, edges, obvious colours and features at an early age.
My first childhood jigsaw was just nine large pieces but its successful assembly, eventually, was a source of regular pride and achievement.
Gradually the number of pieces and level of difficulty was increased until the prospect, in later mature life, of a 1000-piece challenge did not seem too daunting.
It is an enjoyable thing putting together a myriad of coloured bits. Time flies when you are absorbed in picking out similar shapes and shades. It is for some a pastime, others a bit more of a hobby and for a few it is an obsession.
The first examples appeared in the mid 18th Century.
They were targeted at children as an educational tool and comprised hand made maps cut up into pieces for re-assembly. The first commercial production began in the 1760's and a London based company, J Spilsbury brought out, in 1766 ,a puzzle entitled "Europe Divided". This will have helped young minds to visualise the complex geographical, physical and political situation across the continent in such volatile times. Prussia and Russia will have been shown as two distinct nations rather than being confused as one and the same which was a common misconception, even amongst those in the diplomacy and military who should have known better.
One depiction of Europe in jigsaw format is reputed to have started a war as incorrectly or not the Ottoman Empire was portrayed as having a larger landed area than it actually had which provoked a reaction from opposing governments.
Children remained as the target market for this type of puzzle as a means to develop their concentration, powers of logic and deduction and neurological development. A much more serious application of the jigsaw was introduced at Ellis Island in New York when a simple task of assembly was adopted by the Immigration Authorities to determine if new arrivals were of suitable mental competence to be given entry to the United States.
In the early years of the 20th century a hobbyist craze evolved with individuals making their own jigsaws using a fret saw but mass production put an end to the fever like activity in sheds and parlours.
The golden age of the jigsaw was during the Great Depression in the United States when an amazing 10 million puzzles were consumed by households every single week. These came out on a weekly basis through the nation's news stands at twenty five cents a piece creating mass hysteria.
Today, to some extent the pursuit of jigsawing has attained an almost secretive and guilty pleasure status. We may be a bit embarrassed about mentioning it in polite company and yet sales and development continue at a strong pace. The old sawdust speckled atmosphere of the traditional manufacturers has given way to a more clinical laser cut product. This gives more scope for trickery and foolery in the cutting of the pieces with, for example, straight edges to be found in the middle of a puzzle causing many to question those hard earned lessons from parents about finding those key pieces.
Buying a jigsaw as a shared family Christmas present has been mentioned this year. I will keep you informed about what happens in due course.
Inspired by BBC4 extra feature
I was reminded about these perplexing things when I almost walked over one laid out on the floor of a house this week.
Imagine what will have transpired in that home later that day when the owners will have discovered that a crime had been committed. Fortunately, I just managed to sidestep and avoid a potentially major incident although it did cross my mind, only briefly, that it would be very mischievous to pocket and remove a single piece.
Don't get me wrong.A valued part of my upbringing and personal development is attributable to doing jigsaws.
For all of their frustrating traits they are actually quite therapeutic. The human brain hates chaos and anything jumbled up and so an opportunity to return something haphazard to a state of perfect order produces a sensation of genuine joy and peace.
The practice of jigsawing, if indeed that is an actual word, is often part of our upbringing.
We are taught how to pick out corners, edges, obvious colours and features at an early age.
My first childhood jigsaw was just nine large pieces but its successful assembly, eventually, was a source of regular pride and achievement.
Gradually the number of pieces and level of difficulty was increased until the prospect, in later mature life, of a 1000-piece challenge did not seem too daunting.
It is an enjoyable thing putting together a myriad of coloured bits. Time flies when you are absorbed in picking out similar shapes and shades. It is for some a pastime, others a bit more of a hobby and for a few it is an obsession.
The first examples appeared in the mid 18th Century.
They were targeted at children as an educational tool and comprised hand made maps cut up into pieces for re-assembly. The first commercial production began in the 1760's and a London based company, J Spilsbury brought out, in 1766 ,a puzzle entitled "Europe Divided". This will have helped young minds to visualise the complex geographical, physical and political situation across the continent in such volatile times. Prussia and Russia will have been shown as two distinct nations rather than being confused as one and the same which was a common misconception, even amongst those in the diplomacy and military who should have known better.
One depiction of Europe in jigsaw format is reputed to have started a war as incorrectly or not the Ottoman Empire was portrayed as having a larger landed area than it actually had which provoked a reaction from opposing governments.
Children remained as the target market for this type of puzzle as a means to develop their concentration, powers of logic and deduction and neurological development. A much more serious application of the jigsaw was introduced at Ellis Island in New York when a simple task of assembly was adopted by the Immigration Authorities to determine if new arrivals were of suitable mental competence to be given entry to the United States.
In the early years of the 20th century a hobbyist craze evolved with individuals making their own jigsaws using a fret saw but mass production put an end to the fever like activity in sheds and parlours.
The golden age of the jigsaw was during the Great Depression in the United States when an amazing 10 million puzzles were consumed by households every single week. These came out on a weekly basis through the nation's news stands at twenty five cents a piece creating mass hysteria.
Today, to some extent the pursuit of jigsawing has attained an almost secretive and guilty pleasure status. We may be a bit embarrassed about mentioning it in polite company and yet sales and development continue at a strong pace. The old sawdust speckled atmosphere of the traditional manufacturers has given way to a more clinical laser cut product. This gives more scope for trickery and foolery in the cutting of the pieces with, for example, straight edges to be found in the middle of a puzzle causing many to question those hard earned lessons from parents about finding those key pieces.
Buying a jigsaw as a shared family Christmas present has been mentioned this year. I will keep you informed about what happens in due course.
Inspired by BBC4 extra feature
Thursday, 14 December 2017
Star Wars VIII
Brief synopsis;
STAR WARS VIII
THE RETURN OF THE GENIE
The
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
In a strange disturbance in The Force,
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
to rescue Princess Jasmine from the scheming
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
the followers of Mickey Mouse. In a bold takeover of Lucas
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
releases. Oh, dear. The Empress, Kathleen Kennedy is in peril from spotty faced
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
Luke, aboard the Cadillac Falcon, accompanied in song by cute furry animals and a regenerated
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Wednesday, 13 December 2017
Amazing Maisie
A sad day today with the passing of Maisie, a beloved family dog and constant companion for Donald and Margaret. She was a good age and certainly had a full and active life. Maisie was the third of the Lindisfarne hounds following on from Sheba and Josh and contributing to the daily life of the family since 1979.
Here is a tribute written a couple of years ago...................................
My name is Maisie.
I am a cute, small to medium sized dog. People like me because I have canine movie star looks, you know, Disney-esque.
Margaret is the human lady who lives with me and we get on well even though I am sometimes a bit mischievous. I get plenty of exercise with good long walks over the rabbit-rich grasslands just up the road from the house and good food. Cheesy Cheddars are a favourite.
In all, it is as they say, a dog's life.
Things have changed in recent years, The man that also lived with me went away a few years ago and everyone was very sad. I am reminded of him often especially up in the carpet of flowers through the woodland every Spring.
Margaret, you know, who lives with me is very busy most of the time when I don't need her. There is always music in the house from her playing that large piece of furniture that she keeps in my sitting room or from a box high up above the cool cupboard in the kitchen where some of my food is kept.
I have a lot of visitors (although of course they say they have come to see Margaret), and I get thoroughly spoilt with titbits and offcuts although after the treats and the usual pleasantries I leave them to it and wander off to relax on Margaret's bed or on my blanket at the top of the stairs. I can see a lot of the garden from there in case of invasion by neighbouring cats.
On occasion Margaret makes something called "arrangements" and is soon readying clothes and a bag. I know this to be the precursor to a very long "shopping trip" as it is referred to although I know it means a holiday or some such disruption to my routine.
There has been a lot of excitement in the last two weeks with news of a baby called Syd arriving and Margaret who loves children almost as much as she loves me is going to see him.
A girl arrived a few hours after Margaret clicked shut the door (dragging a suitcase with her) and took me for a walk. She stayed over for a few nights often referring to bits of paper with information on my welfare, entertainment and feeding. I gave the impression of being helpful in seeking out an internet password before the girl settled down in front of the television.
Then that man arrived. I think he is called Peter.
He knows Margaret, in fact he does look like her a bit. He is quite excitable and I have to keep him amused by doing daft dog activities like rolling over, attempting to bite his nose and barking a lot.
I was taken out of the warm house and, I must say, rather bundled into the back seat of a car that smelled of bacon and lettuce sandwiches and discarded formerly hot beverages. The girl sat next to me for what seemed like a long, dark journey until we reached what they call the city of Hull.
I have never seen so many houses in all of my life or people or cars come to think of it. The new place, could be my base for a couple of days or longer, is arranged upside down to mine and Margaret's gaff. The hyperactive man and his family live up the stairs and I sleep down the stairs. Odd indeed.
I am settled in with a lot of pointing and the humans role play by pretending to be me. Their imitation of me climbing onto a settee is comical and rather disrespectful.
On the first morning of my residential placement I was taken for a walk by mayhem man.
Their big wide open space, because surely everyone has one, is actually just across the road from the house. There are no rabbit trails but a lot of daft ducks and geese. Those squirrels are mad and hell-bent on getting up the nearest tree as soon as they see me.
After my breakfast another man, a tall, quiet character took me out for a longer trek with tarmac and concrete under my paws and we met up with all of my new co-habitees at another upside down home called Meddys Flat.
Peter, or loony as I like to think of him, then took me on another route.
He talks a lot to himself, although probably directed at me, and as for the drone of his humming and that incessant whistling- well, how irritating is that?
We went through some dodgy looking alleyways on the way to, he explained, a Post Office to send a parcel for that Syd baby although I am not sure how he knows Margaret's acquaintances as well.
At the Post Office I thought I heard Peter mutter a rude word upon reading a sign saying "No Dogs Allowed". He hesitated a bit as though contemplating doing something bad and then, cheeky or what, he tied my extendable dog lead to a pavement bollard with me on the end of it.
Looking furtive he then made quickly for an open door, looked back and went in. I was left alone.
It was quite busy and noisy in the street with a lot to look at. So this was city lifestyle. Interesting concept. Perhaps where I live in Beverley should try something similar.
Then, outrageous indeed. A fat bulldog with respiratory issues was tied up next to me without any form of introduction and so I turned my back on him. No class or culture I thought.
It was a mere few seconds, as Peter insisted upon saying (lots of times), before he emerged. I made the usual pleased to see you gestures that humans like, you know pavement dancing and tail wagging.
A bit further along the street it was another piece of street furniture that took a loose reef knot to secure me as that Peter, who obviously relished the thought that he had got away with it the first time, went into another shop, this time one smelling of fresh bred, herbs and spices.
I thought I might get a small snack out of it but ......no.
We were soon back in that big open space and I welcomed the soft touch of grass, mud and leaves under my now urban-acclimatised paw pads. I celebrated with a wee . Peter was happy that I did it and it was his turn to do a sort of pavement dance outside the place where he lived.
We have an understanding, me and Pete that Margaret will never find out what happened.
As they apparently say what goes on in the city stays in the city.
My name is Maisie.
I am a cute, small to medium sized dog. People like me because I have canine movie star looks, you know, Disney-esque.
Margaret is the human lady who lives with me and we get on well even though I am sometimes a bit mischievous. I get plenty of exercise with good long walks over the rabbit-rich grasslands just up the road from the house and good food. Cheesy Cheddars are a favourite.
In all, it is as they say, a dog's life.
Things have changed in recent years, The man that also lived with me went away a few years ago and everyone was very sad. I am reminded of him often especially up in the carpet of flowers through the woodland every Spring.
Margaret, you know, who lives with me is very busy most of the time when I don't need her. There is always music in the house from her playing that large piece of furniture that she keeps in my sitting room or from a box high up above the cool cupboard in the kitchen where some of my food is kept.
I have a lot of visitors (although of course they say they have come to see Margaret), and I get thoroughly spoilt with titbits and offcuts although after the treats and the usual pleasantries I leave them to it and wander off to relax on Margaret's bed or on my blanket at the top of the stairs. I can see a lot of the garden from there in case of invasion by neighbouring cats.
On occasion Margaret makes something called "arrangements" and is soon readying clothes and a bag. I know this to be the precursor to a very long "shopping trip" as it is referred to although I know it means a holiday or some such disruption to my routine.
There has been a lot of excitement in the last two weeks with news of a baby called Syd arriving and Margaret who loves children almost as much as she loves me is going to see him.
A girl arrived a few hours after Margaret clicked shut the door (dragging a suitcase with her) and took me for a walk. She stayed over for a few nights often referring to bits of paper with information on my welfare, entertainment and feeding. I gave the impression of being helpful in seeking out an internet password before the girl settled down in front of the television.
Then that man arrived. I think he is called Peter.
He knows Margaret, in fact he does look like her a bit. He is quite excitable and I have to keep him amused by doing daft dog activities like rolling over, attempting to bite his nose and barking a lot.
I was taken out of the warm house and, I must say, rather bundled into the back seat of a car that smelled of bacon and lettuce sandwiches and discarded formerly hot beverages. The girl sat next to me for what seemed like a long, dark journey until we reached what they call the city of Hull.
I have never seen so many houses in all of my life or people or cars come to think of it. The new place, could be my base for a couple of days or longer, is arranged upside down to mine and Margaret's gaff. The hyperactive man and his family live up the stairs and I sleep down the stairs. Odd indeed.
I am settled in with a lot of pointing and the humans role play by pretending to be me. Their imitation of me climbing onto a settee is comical and rather disrespectful.
On the first morning of my residential placement I was taken for a walk by mayhem man.
Their big wide open space, because surely everyone has one, is actually just across the road from the house. There are no rabbit trails but a lot of daft ducks and geese. Those squirrels are mad and hell-bent on getting up the nearest tree as soon as they see me.
After my breakfast another man, a tall, quiet character took me out for a longer trek with tarmac and concrete under my paws and we met up with all of my new co-habitees at another upside down home called Meddys Flat.
Peter, or loony as I like to think of him, then took me on another route.
He talks a lot to himself, although probably directed at me, and as for the drone of his humming and that incessant whistling- well, how irritating is that?
We went through some dodgy looking alleyways on the way to, he explained, a Post Office to send a parcel for that Syd baby although I am not sure how he knows Margaret's acquaintances as well.
At the Post Office I thought I heard Peter mutter a rude word upon reading a sign saying "No Dogs Allowed". He hesitated a bit as though contemplating doing something bad and then, cheeky or what, he tied my extendable dog lead to a pavement bollard with me on the end of it.
Looking furtive he then made quickly for an open door, looked back and went in. I was left alone.
It was quite busy and noisy in the street with a lot to look at. So this was city lifestyle. Interesting concept. Perhaps where I live in Beverley should try something similar.
Then, outrageous indeed. A fat bulldog with respiratory issues was tied up next to me without any form of introduction and so I turned my back on him. No class or culture I thought.
It was a mere few seconds, as Peter insisted upon saying (lots of times), before he emerged. I made the usual pleased to see you gestures that humans like, you know pavement dancing and tail wagging.
A bit further along the street it was another piece of street furniture that took a loose reef knot to secure me as that Peter, who obviously relished the thought that he had got away with it the first time, went into another shop, this time one smelling of fresh bred, herbs and spices.
I thought I might get a small snack out of it but ......no.
We were soon back in that big open space and I welcomed the soft touch of grass, mud and leaves under my now urban-acclimatised paw pads. I celebrated with a wee . Peter was happy that I did it and it was his turn to do a sort of pavement dance outside the place where he lived.
We have an understanding, me and Pete that Margaret will never find out what happened.
As they apparently say what goes on in the city stays in the city.
Tuesday, 12 December 2017
Bookworm Billionaire
I have walked past this specific building on the
south eastern corner of Anlaby Road and Walton Street too many times to recount
but I am ashamed to admit that I have never really taken any notice of it.
The location gives a clue as to the most common distractions.
I have passed it on the way to and from the KCom Stadium to see Hull City home games or other events held in and around West Park. During Hull Fair week in October my face has usually been buried in a bratwurst and relish which requires full concentration.
The building is the Carnegie Library.
It was designed by J H Hirst, City Architect and as the name indicates it was wholly paid for by possibly the richest man in the world at the time in 1905- the Scottish born but American made billionaire- Andrew Carnegie.
It is in an interesting style, termed Domestic Revival or a bit Arts and Craftsie utilising brick inserts in a timber frame under a hipped plain tile roof and with something that I cannot visualise but referred to as rendered nogging.
To the front is an octagonal porch and the eye is caught by a pyramidal roof topped with a weather vane. The revivalist detail also encorporates fancy gutters on wrought iron brackets, leaded lights and a functional but also decorative chimney stack typically found on a cottage home of an artisan.
It is a unique structure warranting, for its architectural and local historic value, a Grade 2 Listing.
It ceased operating as a library a few years ago but has remained in public use as a Heritage and Resource Centre for the people of Hull.
It has an even more interesting back-story that includes the flight of an impoverished family, the trials and troubles of immigrants, a hard work ethic and fabulous self made wealth.
Andrew Carnegie left Dunfermline in Scotland aged 13 when his family, encountering hard times in the Aulde Country, took passage to the United States.
They were just one family amongst hundreds of thousands who sought a new and better life overseas.
Carnegie took his first job as a runner in a Cotton Mill before learning to be a telegraph operator on the railways. Aged 24 he was promoted to Superintendent on the Pennsylvania Railroad and by the age of 30, with shrewd investment, he owned rail interests, iron and steel works and Great Lakes Steamers.
At his peak wealth he was worth $309 billion US which placed him amongst the elite of the emerging global capitalists of his time. He is actually reputed to have been the richest man on earth.
He did not ever forget his humble beginnings and he took bold measures to ensure that he would give away almost his entire fortune in his lifetime.
One of his particular philanthropic interest was in public libraries as he had made great use of such resources, although scarce, in his self education and development upon first arriving in the States..
The Foundation in his own name funded some 2800 library buildings worldwide including that on Anlaby Road, Hull.
Carnegie in his generosity must have embarrassed the public library system in England which scandalously had only 30 substantial free libraries before 1850.
The Education Act of 1870 and the Libraries Act of 1892 set up improved frameworks for public access to books but the actual construction of accessible buildings was only able to forge ahead with the type of private endowment by Carnegie who paid for 660 and other public spirited individuals who ensured that cities and towns could meet the demand from their increasingly literate populations.
I now make a point of setting aside my tray of chips or pocketing the match programme when I am walking past Hull’s own bit of the Carnegie billions legacy.
The location gives a clue as to the most common distractions.
I have passed it on the way to and from the KCom Stadium to see Hull City home games or other events held in and around West Park. During Hull Fair week in October my face has usually been buried in a bratwurst and relish which requires full concentration.
The building is the Carnegie Library.
It was designed by J H Hirst, City Architect and as the name indicates it was wholly paid for by possibly the richest man in the world at the time in 1905- the Scottish born but American made billionaire- Andrew Carnegie.
 |
| The Opening 1905 |
It is in an interesting style, termed Domestic Revival or a bit Arts and Craftsie utilising brick inserts in a timber frame under a hipped plain tile roof and with something that I cannot visualise but referred to as rendered nogging.
To the front is an octagonal porch and the eye is caught by a pyramidal roof topped with a weather vane. The revivalist detail also encorporates fancy gutters on wrought iron brackets, leaded lights and a functional but also decorative chimney stack typically found on a cottage home of an artisan.
It is a unique structure warranting, for its architectural and local historic value, a Grade 2 Listing.
It ceased operating as a library a few years ago but has remained in public use as a Heritage and Resource Centre for the people of Hull.
It has an even more interesting back-story that includes the flight of an impoverished family, the trials and troubles of immigrants, a hard work ethic and fabulous self made wealth.
Andrew Carnegie left Dunfermline in Scotland aged 13 when his family, encountering hard times in the Aulde Country, took passage to the United States.
They were just one family amongst hundreds of thousands who sought a new and better life overseas.
Carnegie took his first job as a runner in a Cotton Mill before learning to be a telegraph operator on the railways. Aged 24 he was promoted to Superintendent on the Pennsylvania Railroad and by the age of 30, with shrewd investment, he owned rail interests, iron and steel works and Great Lakes Steamers.
At his peak wealth he was worth $309 billion US which placed him amongst the elite of the emerging global capitalists of his time. He is actually reputed to have been the richest man on earth.
He did not ever forget his humble beginnings and he took bold measures to ensure that he would give away almost his entire fortune in his lifetime.
One of his particular philanthropic interest was in public libraries as he had made great use of such resources, although scarce, in his self education and development upon first arriving in the States..
The Foundation in his own name funded some 2800 library buildings worldwide including that on Anlaby Road, Hull.
Carnegie in his generosity must have embarrassed the public library system in England which scandalously had only 30 substantial free libraries before 1850.
The Education Act of 1870 and the Libraries Act of 1892 set up improved frameworks for public access to books but the actual construction of accessible buildings was only able to forge ahead with the type of private endowment by Carnegie who paid for 660 and other public spirited individuals who ensured that cities and towns could meet the demand from their increasingly literate populations.
I now make a point of setting aside my tray of chips or pocketing the match programme when I am walking past Hull’s own bit of the Carnegie billions legacy.
Monday, 11 December 2017
Scraping by
It must have been a familiar sound in the working class streets of British cities;
the scraping of a workman's boots on the cast iron fender nestled into the front of his house.
the scraping of a workman's boots on the cast iron fender nestled into the front of his house.
This will have been part of an audio-symphony associated with the return home of a traditional patriarchal breadwinner- perhaps a cough at the end of the road to clear out the grime and dust from manual processes, a groan as an arthritic leg is drawn over the crossbar of a trusted pedal cycle and the creak of stiff and cold limbs as there is a straightening up in readiness of a welcome at the door from loved ones.
Below is a selection of the fronts of just one terraced street in York in the North of England.
The city had a range of thriving heavy industries as well as the well known association with chocolates as in Terry's and Rowntrees.
The terraced houses front directly to the pavement. There are quite a few different ways of dealing with the hole in the wall as the boot scraper has become obsolete with changes in working practices and the industrial base of the country generally
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| Mortar and brick fill - Neater shaped brick - Cricket wicket style |
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| Combined airbrick and infill Friday afternoon botch-up |
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| Neglected and wet Neatest effort |
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| The only two surviving boot scrapers in a street of 100 houses |
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