Dear Ronald

Dear Mr McDonald, or as I feel I know you so well after all of these years, Ronald,

I have been a great fan ever since I was a nipper and continue to be a regular customer at your restaurants in my adult and now, upper middle age years.

I have witnessed the transition of your company from its earliest days in the mid 1970's in the UK when there was a novelty value in a quality burger in a bun and with a side of fries. It was a very welcome change from what was pretty unappetising and appealing fare from the usual fast food outlets offering in comparison, well, just bits of meat in bread and soggy chips.

You have revolutionised the whole experience of eating on the go and first stop, always, on a early departure for our family holiday is at a McDonalds for a welcome breakfast and coffee for me, the missus and our children.

That family friendly atmosphere has been a major attraction and has perpetuated, for certain, in our small family circle a loyalty to the brand and ethos of good wholesome and tasty food that has now crossed generations to include grandchildren.

In more recent years I have frequented a McDonalds during the course of my working week as I can rely upon there being one somewhere out on my daily route which can sometimes involve a couple of hundred miles of motoring.

Sitting on a high stool or in a comfortable booth seat is a welcome respite from being stuck behind a steering wheel and in traffic and add to that the availability of free Wi-Fi and I have an instant satellite office from which to keep up to date with e mails, paperwork and demands on my time.

I have particularly liked the remodelling of the restaurant chain to the green livery and natural finishes. You cannot be said to have rested on your laurels in the introduction of new ordering, payment and serving systems.

I can honestly say that I now plan my working days to include a pass-by of a McDonalds just to give me the option, if needed, of a rest and good refreshment. In fact, I do not need an excuse to just pop in and enjoy a meal and a drink and to watch the world go by.

One such occasion was June 2nd this year, 2018.

It was a stinker of a saturday with heavy rainfall and quite treacherous driving conditions on the A1079 from my home in Kingston Upon Hull to my destination for a business meeting (Yes, a saturday is just like any other day to the self employed) at your Bilborough Top 523 restaurant on the A64 dual carriageway just to the south west of York.

I was glad to leave the waterlogged carriageway at the looping slip road and it appears that many other motorists had the very same quest for sanctuary from the very bad early summer conditions and I left a convoy on the A64 to join a similar one approaching your restaurant.

Consequently the volume of traffic caused a few issues of finding a designated parking space in the car park, I think I counted about 45 bays and with a number of cars just in waiting for a vacant place to park.

I had arranged my meeting on the premises for 10am and was a bit panicky in that I entered the exclusively McDonalds parking area at about five minutes before the allotted time, only to come across the aforementioned congestion.

At the best of times it is stressful to have to spot a parking bay but add to that the ongoing torrential rain and you can appreciate additional pressures on those present. I could sympathise with the cars where there were restless and hungry occupants already excited about a day out to such destinations on that route as Scarborough, Bridlington and to see the tourist attractions of York. There was also a couple of sports teams in their matching kit, appearing to be big eating rugby players.

It did take some time to park up and then make a frantic dash through the scything rain to the restaurant doors.

The scene inside was, I must say, a bit crowded and not a little bit steamy from damp clothing and footwear and I could see that the collection display was quite full with numbers, a bit like at a bingo hall and with a lot of people just hovering around in anticipation of getting their order.

I had to wait in a queue to give my request and others waited patiently at the automated screens to place theirs.

I have never before had to wait for so long to be served but I was sympathetic to the cause of those on duty who were, without doubt, performing to the best of their ability.

Meanwhile, through the rain streamed windows overlooking the A64 I could see and also hear the thundering flow of vehicles but now in the warm, humid and pleasantly odour infused environment of my favourite restaurant I felt like a million miles away from that treacherous route,.

Finding a seat and table was another challenge with food in hand as the many weary travellers like myself showed little compulsion to make a move and return to that inhospitable open road.

Life was in slow motion in that comfortable place and the business meeting went well although my colleague had been delayed by a bad accident on his journey from Leeds.

The choice of venue was excellent, but then again, it always is in a McDonalds.

Then just yesterday I got an official looking letter and a demand for payment of a parking fine for my 2nd June visit.

I was, as you will appreciate, very shocked at this and found myself staring at the images of my car that had been snapped as it entered and left the car park over a time period of one hour and fifty nine minutes but with the permitted maximum stay being just ninety minutes.

I began that process of forensically disecting my movements on that day.

I mentioned about the delay in getting parked and that must have been about fifteen minutes and then the further waiting around to order and be served with my breakfast wrap meal (brown sauce) and black coffee, at least another 10 minutes.

By my crude reckoning the sheer congestion on that horribly wet day both outside and inside the restaurant added an unavoidable 25 minutes which would mean that although I still exceeded the 90 minute permitted time this would only have been by some 4 minutes.

I am usually a very conscientious and diligent person and find my contravention of the parking policy on that day upsetting and I apologise for the trouble caused to those who oversee and manage this part of the McDonalds Empire.

I find myself asking for leniency in this matter as many circumstances conspired to bring about the illegality of my parking which were beyond my reasonable control.

Yours faithfully,

Peter, Aged 55

Training Days

In my daily work I am in and out of other people's houses.

This gives me an opportunity to make a mental note of fads and fashions, what new things are trending or what old things are making a comeback. In this way I have seen an increase in the number of huge televisions, bi-fold doors and home cinemas and a noticeable decline in yorkstone wall features, serving hatches, magnolia colour paint and most disturbingly, in model railways or the good old home based train set.

When I say decline, where model railways are concerned it is more like a complete disappearance.

I have a special place in my life for a trainset. There was always one in my childhood home and even today my Mother still has an old clockwork engine , carriages and metal framed rails up in a box in the attic and it often makes an appearance for the purposes of wider family entertainment. There is always a good chance of a game of trains, often a bit raucous at main gatherings of Christmas  and Easter. In reality, we do not need an excuse for such an outpouring of emotion and togetherness, it just happens if we feel like it.

A train set was, in my childhood something that took up all of the room.

If not being played with the huge sheet of rough, splinter inducing chipboard on which the railway system had been fixed with small tacks just had to be rested or rather precariously balanced upright against the wall or wedged behind a large piece of furniture to prevent it toppling over and causing potential harm to family, friends or casual visitors. Even if left out flat for an imagination bursting railway play time that expansive surface usually doubled up as a useful piece of furniture for young children to eat their tea off whilst watching after school TV programmes such as Jackanory, Blue Peter, Belle and Sebastien, Hectors House and Roobarb and Custard.

The actual trains were a second hand purchase and other bits of rolling stock were bought at table top and jumble sales in the local area. When the transformer was plugged in to the house electric supply it gave off an ominous, low resonance hum which could not at all have been safe. As for the electric motors in the small locomotives themselves they very rapidly gave off a burning odour and this prompted an abandonment of the session until they had cooled down sufficiently to be handled.

An abundance of British manufacturers with suitably evocative names reminiscent of great days of Empire turned out quality and therefore very expensive sets. There was a cost to ownership in regular upgrading and there were frequent trips to a model railway shop to buy another cardboard building for self assembly or a group of scaled figures of engine drivers, trackside workers and commuters.

Gradually from the 1980's the leisure time for families became crowded with new activities and technology giving more excitement and variation with the, by comparison, hard work of a train set falling out of favour. The wider availability of remote control toys, video and computer games even more compact and  portable fitted in better with the idea of a tech based lifestyle.

New build houses were just too small to accommodate a bulky semi permanently mounted track system and even remodelled older houses with the fashion for a through lounge could not make use of them. Cheap imported plasticised sets began to arrive from the Far East which put a lot of the domestic manufacturers out of business.

This brings me to the present day and the increasing rarity of seeing a model railway in a private house.

Sometimes I peer in to the dark recesses of a loft space with an expectation of seeing a perfect scale model of a town, city or landscape with the light from my torch glinting on the track and well loved rolling stock. I am, in just about very case, disappointed to find nothing.

I was therefore thrilled today to come across the rarity of a model railway and an outdoors one at that.

At first I thought that the bungalow, out in a rural village, had drainage problems as approaching it along the driveway there seemed to be a drain run off gully, albeit arranged quite haphazardly on the concrete pathways.

As I got closer I could see it was a railway line and it did a full circuit around the periphery of the property. I could not hide my excitement and this, in turn, prompted the homeowner to give me a full tour and display of the small steam engine that could lap the bungalow in a matter of minutes.

It was a great treat. Perhaps, I could take out a few timbers from my own loft (there are plenty of them after all) and start to construct a world of railways.

Dream of Fields

It is not very often that I get a chance to stand in a crop of maize.

This is largely down to my urban and city upbringing which gives a sense of fear and suspicion of anything unknown, or, in this case of a rural orientation. There is also the risk of being chased off by the farmer or worse.

It has only been noticeable to me in that last few years that maize has been more extensively, commercially grown in my local area and so opportunities prior to this to stand amongst it have tended to be pretty far and few between.



Oh, and there is the strong association of this particular crop with things sinister, foreboding and downright scary in that it has featured in popular cinema and culture as a favourite hiding place for alien beings  (Signs 2002),as the power house for forces of nature (Twister), a location for crude chase and peril (Wild Wild West 1999) and a Kevin Costner movie, Field of Dreams.

Even in made for TV features it is invariably in a field of maize that a crime is committed, a body found or a tension created that promises an edge of seat or behind the sofa cushions type experience.

This irrationality of mine has prevented me from appreciating the wonders of maize, that is, until today when I got up close and without anxiety or fear of bodily harm was able to study in detail the specific features of what is, after all, one of the most widely farmed crops globally, in fact it can be found on every continent apart from Antarctica.

For all of its wild appearance the plant does not grow naturally, it is actually entirely down to having been cultivated by humans.

Aside from the marketing persona of The Jolly Green Giant in getting us to eat sweetcorn, a part of the corn plant's flower, there are over 4000 different uses for corn and it can be found in the manufacturing processes of cola, ketchup, peanut butter, hot dogs, chewing gum, ice cream, paint, explosives, matches, batteries, soap and even crayons.

Maize was a staple in the diet of ancient civilisations and archaeologists have been able to take 1000 year old corn and make it into popcorn as an indicator of the sheer resilience of the crop.

It is a very distinctive plant from its strong, almost bamboo size and textured stem to broad waxy leaves, tight flower pod from which the cob sprouts and a spiny quality to protect it from its natural enemies of birds, insects and rodents.

You can see how it has become a favourite mood and atmosphere creator in art, culture and movies as it does have its own worldly and yet somewhat extraterrestrial characteristic.

I just had to finish on this photo, the last one I took before I ran, in a panic out of that field and to safety. I think I heard a crow call my name.......................................................................................

Yellow Peril

The Post It Note.

A small yellow rectangle of paper can surely not have played such a prominent role in modern life.

It was actually, or at least the low tactile adhesive, designed by accident before, eventually, much thought on a practical use led to its marketing as a product to ease the burden of commerce. Wholly unintentionally it has become the curse of the office environment. This is even where there may be a sweeping Mission Statement making various jargonistic allusions to a specific business running as a paperless operation.

I have always said that the paperless office and the promise of increased leisure time represent the biggest falsehoods in the late 20th and early 21st century workplace.

The Post It Note is more likely to be used as a tool for bullying by the stronger elements in the workforce against the weak. In fact, a critical, biting or just plain cruel comment circulated on the small slip with or without recourse to the self adhesive strip can be soul destroying for the hapless victim or target of the campaign.

Whatever it's intended use it is, at the same time, loved, feared, loathed and tolerated.

The office is of course the natural environment for the Post It Note although I have come across other and more unusual applications in the course of my own working life.

Take the large terraced house in the University District which was occupied by a group of First Year Students from overseas.

Many of the intake had arrived in the late summer, some weeks before the beginning of the academic year for the purpose of having a practical grounding in the English language and a working knowledge of the main customs and conventions.

The majority will have had no command of the language beyond their equivalent of secondary education and will have been heavily influenced by the lyrics of pop songs and videos posted on various social media sites. This gives them a slang based perception of English, perhaps not altogether a barrier to communicating with their peer group amongst UK and other overseas students but certainly in more formal surroundings where a sentence or trusted phrase is necessary and more appropriate.

The walls throughout the student house were littered with a rainbow arrangement of Post It Notes which I soon realised accorded with the different nationalities who resided there. The Chinese contingent, and I kid you not, were using the original and best known colour of the product, in canary. The Africans had adopted the green, a flamboyant nucleus of students from southern europe were pink and those from the nations of the former Soviet Union persisted with the red.

What had drawn me to the conclusion of the colour coded segregation was that each and every Post It Note was affixed to something and bore the name of that object in the respective native language and then the English.

This made for quite a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise and typical use of neutral and drab shades to the decor.

It seemed to be a good and practical system based on the rapid rise to fluency of the household by the first few weeks of the academic term.

The other application was, I found, sad and not a little bit disturbing.

It was a family house. Living there was a nuclear family unit of mum, dad and 2.6 kids which in reality can be rounded up to a full 3 offspring.

I am not sure of the back story of the family but my arrival was obviously at a time of a significant breakdown in relations between the parents and their children.

This was clearly illustrated by the proliferation of Post It Notes throughout all of the habitable rooms. They were written on in a grown up script and the bold text was intended to act as guidance, instruction and a warning to what must have been a mutinous, lethargic, sullen and downright useless group of children within those four walls.

The kitchen was most plastered in yellow slips bearing such orders as "Shut fridge door after use", "Wash up any plates and cutlery immediately", "Do not lick spoon after dipping in food", "Load and unload the washer if it is empty or full","Sweep the floor of crumbs", " Only boil enough water for use" and " Do not take food without asking", "Last person in to lock the door".

Hallway, main reception rooms, cloakroom, landing, bedrooms and bathroom were similarly festooned in almost military commands. One from each covered such disciplines as "Leave shoes in a neat pile", "No eating in the Lounge", "Set the dining table for meals as per rota", "Flush loo after use and WASH HANDS!", "No pushing on the stairs", "Make own beds in the morning", "Remove dirty plates to kitchen", "Do not leave towels on the floor". In fact the tone of intsructions was very much like those found commonly in a Guest House, Bed and Breakfast Establishment or a Remand Home.

The whole situation was quite oppressive and depressing.

This was compounded by actually meeting the three young members of the family, the beleagured element who, to me, seemed just like normal kids just demoralised and confused.

Their parents on the other hand had lost it and were resorting to desperate measures to, in their minds, regain a modicum of order and control in the house.

I was a bit mischeivous but felt it my moral responsibility to try to resolve a wholly unsatisfactory and unhealthy domestic situation.

So, out of sight, I scribbled on a blank Post It Note the contact details for Childline which I had Googled on my phone. I said a silent prayer that upon seeing such a cry for help, ostensibly from their youngsters the parents would come to their senses and just talk in a rational manner with perfectly rational children and return to what must have been, at one time, a happy home.

What a Doughnut should be

I have been learning about the illustrious history of the doughnut.

The word gives me quite a sickly feeling in my stomach as a consequence of recollections of many a pig-out on shop bought doughnuts.

We have all done it. That first sensation of a rumbling tum and you immediately seek something to satisfy the urge.

There are particular favourite foods on which to binge but in my case I have a soft spot for doughnuts.

Trouble is, it is very difficult to purchase a single one and I can easily persuade myself of the economies of scale and value for money of buying a multi pack of the things from a supermarket bakery shelf.

The modern doughnut bears no real resemblance to its great ancestors but we are more than happy to settle for the dumpy, heavy doughy, jam starved examples that pass for them today.

In popular culture there is a strong comic association with doughnuts which serves to cheapen and tarnish their heritage and value.

We have been accustomed to the sight of, in particular, law enforcement officers in those United States indulging themselves on sickly, oil infused products and of course the raconteur, humanist, genius and loveable underachiever Homer Simpson is never too far away from a bumper box of the things.

We may find immediate gratification in consuming one or multiple doughnuts but invariably we are utterly disappointed in them for their fast and junk food status, inconsistency of quality and above all, a sparingly amount of jam filling.

There is a renaissance in the doughnut world as it has come into the category of an artisan or craft food and has begun to appear at Farmer's Markets or in niche bakeries and food outlets.

You may recoil at having to pay about £1.50 for a single crafted doughnut but when you take into account the quality of ingredients, bespoke fresh daily baking and a bit of an allowance for pedigree then it is a fairly realistic amount.

In the 18th Century Salons of cultured Europe the doughnut was a delicacy packed with mixed fruit and exotic produce. It was very much a treat for that special occasion and highly prized in production and presentation.

So what happened to this aristocratic foodstuff in the intervening period to reduce it to a bland and stodgy staple food for the casually hungry, off duty coppers and animated characters?

It may be a case of having to blame the Dutch, or rather persons of Dutch origin who made their way to the United States in the mass migrations of the 19th and early 20th centuries and took with them their doughnut or Oily Cakes recipes.

Under the pressure of making a buck and in one of the first mass production markets the handed down ingredients and methods became bastardised and what we now know and grudgingly accept as a doughnut was the inevitable outcome.

There appear to be two main types of doughnut, either a baking powder infused version or an enriched slow proven yeast based dough.

The emergence of artisan bakers has seen a vast improvement in methods and materials for doughnuts and the best ones are a blend of warm water, yeast, free range eggs, double cream  and butter infused flour.

This gives a very light texture even after immersion into a deep fat fryer, or a high tech digitised piece of kitchen equipment, and just ready to be pumped up further with deeply injected fillings although being a purist I will only accept home made jam.

Don't forget about the hole in the middle which has been very much alienated in the factory output doughnuts and I hope that this too will make a much overdue return.

I look forward to seeing the new but authentic doughnuts on a shelf in my local shops- that is if I can get in past the queue of police officers and nuclear power station workers to see what they have left me.

All Life in the Park

A lot of people wander down our street and stand staring up at number 32, a three storey mid to late Victorian era house. 

Their particular and often whimsical focus is on the attic level with its two rectangular and one central arched window in the pointed gable end and, to the right hand side, a further dormer. 

A Civic Society plaque is mounted on the front main wall announcing that from 1956 to 1974 the poet, Philip Larkin lived in the flat at the top of the house. 

The longevity of his residence there suggests that he liked it and indeed in his voluminous correspondence to colleagues, friends and lovers he would regularly champion the privacy that the high rise living provided him with as well as being convenient for the open green space of the public park that it overlooked.

We moved to this inner city location nearly five years ago. It was a drawn out flit from a longstanding stint in a comfortable western suburb of Hull. It took more than 2 years as the first house we went after in the same terraced block was sold before we could offload our own. 

It was only through my wife’s regular and rather suspicious after-work and weekend motoring around the old carriage drive in the park that she noticed another property at the opposite end of the row being sold privately. Everything came together quickly and, after 90 or so text messages with the seller and a buyer for our own house materialising out of nowhere, we were able to move in. 

I can fully appreciate the sentiments that Philip Larkin expressed for the unique surroundings of the street and park with its lake (now a disturbingly toxic green colour), formal tended gardens, Conservatory with exotic reptiles and fish, a statue of a young, thin and very attractive 1860’s Queen Victoria with the separated and rather melancholy figure of her Consort Albert, a large adventure play area and the expanses of grassed areas for the citizens of Hull to sit, lie, sleep and occasionally, as we have witnessed, get Tasered by the Police, on. 

I can identify with the characters that Larkin regularly saw in these surroundings and these form the main observations in the first four verses of his poem, "Toads Revisited" written around 1962.

Walking around in the park
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on, 

Blurred playground noises
Beyond black-stockinged nurses –
Not a bad place to be.
Yet it doesn’t suit me. 

Being one of the men
You meet of an afternoon:
Palsied old step-takers,
Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters, 

Waxed-fleshed out-patients
Still vague from accidents,
And characters in long coats
Deep in the litter-baskets – 

In fact, on any of my own frequent forays into the park and with the lines of the poem fresh in my mind the same types and temperaments of park users are still to be found. 

I would however offer a 2018 update to the descriptions of the 1960's Larkin subjects. 

The playground noises are perhaps a bit louder as youngsters are no longer under the post war mantra of not being seen or heard. 

You can substitute tattooed and bare legged young mothers for the rather austere but alluring black stockinged nannies. 

The afternoons still have a good representation from the elderly and infirm although the hare eyed clerks have been replaced by nerve jangled drug and alcohol addicts with a very different type of jitters. 

Larkin’s reference to those waxed-fleshed out types can easily apply to the zombie-esque appearance of those engrossed in their social media screens or just being vague and worse for wear from the rigours of modern life. 

The same individuals can be found, as in any era, in long raincoats and delving into the waste bins.

Larkin speaks of the place and people with a deep fondness. “Pearson Park exercises a fascination over me and I always enjoy an hour in it” he wrote to his mother. 

He was as it seems forcibly moved out of the flat in number 32 after 18 years. It had only been intended , under the ownership of his employer, Hull University ,as temporary accommodation for academic staff awaiting other and perhaps more suitable lodgings and housing in the city. 

Larkin was sad to leave and as he reported to a friend “The University has decided to sell its ‘worst properties’, which naturally includes the house I live in”.

My own writing desk is about 100 metres east and at least 7 metres lower down than the attic from where Larkin found his inspiration and penned his trademark gloomy, death-obsessed and darkly humorous observations of human foibles and failings.

Being a resident myself I don’t think that he could have done it anywhere else than down our street.

(As a footnote this was written during last year and my enforced lay up due to my fall down a hole. The vista through the park and the characters who frequent it continue to thrill, amaze and surprise)

Tart in the City

I have never claimed to be anything else but a Townie.

The word, often used disparagingly by those who live in the countryside, is of course that given to urban dwellers with little or no affinity for or liking of the big wide open spaces.

I see nothing wrong with being close to shops and amenities even if it is at the sacrifice of, well, a view of meadows, trees and hills.

In fact, in the course of my daily work I do spend quite a bit of time in villages and rural areas and although I can appreciate the value of a certain tranquility and remoteness they are not qualities or attributes that I feel are important in determining the quality of life, and particularly in the context of a modern existence.

Against the positives of living out of a town or city you have to consider such things as poor access to the internet, a reliance on your own transport, lack of decent shops and services and the tendency, in productive agricultural areas for there to be quite an oppressive odour from animal waste and chemical sprays, not to mention the obstruction of traffic from slow moving farm machinery such as tractors, combines and trailers.

In the last couple of weeks I have been crawling along usually free flowing highways as a consequence of a lone vehicle attached to a piece of equipment.

In these days of large scale farming and contract working it is often the case that a tractor, for example, has to travel some distance between its base and the field and quite regularly rather than, in the past ,when each individual farmstead would have its own vehicles operating within a tight catchment of land which may not necessarily have involved having to use a main road.

I did work a full summer holiday when I was 17 on a farm that belonged to a friend's family and also had a couple of years in the Young Farmer's Organisation, a sort of social club for sons and daughters of the landed class. Given my opening sentence this subsequent revelation of  mixing with rural types may imply that I was somehow an insurgent, an undercover Townie but in fact I recall those times with much affection.

We are currently, it being July, in the early part of the harvest season in UK agriculture.

The short bodied tipper trucks, badged as working for Birds Eye Frozen Foods are a very common sight as they flit from pea viner to the factory, often leaving a thin trail of green vegetable juice in their wake.

This prolonged dry spell and record temperatures appear to have accelerated the ripening process of the cereal crops and this has been clearly illustrated on a recent satellite photo of Britain whose much lauded green and pleasant land has turned quite a parched light brown.

With the increase in the rate of the gathering in of the crops comes a reduction in air quality and I genuinely feel sorry for those who suffer from hay fever and other related allergies.

In our part of the city, well, confined to our small south facing brick paved rear courtyard we completed the first part of  our own harvest this afternoon.

It was done with minimal disruption to our neighbours although I admit to doing a bit of a dance in marking the end of a problematic growing season.

At first there was doubt as to whether the crop would be able to establish itself and flourish in what was, after all, a plastic tub.

There were issues over the quality of the soil, excavated from a small patch also at the back of the house which historically had been the site of a French Convent building.

The recommended enrichment process was followed with the purchase of a bag, on special offer, of compost from a city supermarket forecourt and regular saturation from the water tap in our garage which opens out onto the urban courtyard.

On a few mornings the soil from the tub could be seen strewn over the brick paving and we put this down to the activities of a cat in its toilet routine or perhaps a squirrel or even one of the foxes who frequent our corner of the city.

In spite of these threats we have marvelled at the progress of our very own urban fruit farm consisting of one each of olive, lemon, orange and bay trees and in particular, the focus of today's harvesting - a cherry tree.

Yes, I am proud to report a yield of two cherries.

It will not have any effect on import/export figures nor cause panic amongst the owners of traditional cherry orchards in Eastern and Southern Europe but the sourness and tartness of those two plump and juicy fruits was a wonder to behold.

The whole process took little more than a few seconds but was most enjoyable.

We could have saved at least one of the cherries for insertion into a cocktail or to sit atop a home made trifle but the heat of the moment and a deep rooted sense of achievement took over in our own celebration of being Townies.

Scale and Context

I have a very active imagination, always have had and from a very young age. It was undoubtedly because of my parents who made sure that us siblings grew up with access to age appropriate books, fun but educational type toys and above all, that we were allowed to be just kids.........and play a lot.

It helped growing up in smaller towns with the countryside just at the end of the garden or within a short and safe distance in a pedal car, on a scooter, bike (with or without stabilisers) and on foot.

We always did interesting things whenever on holiday or when time and money came together, which in a large family of 5 children was down to Father's hard work and Mother's budgeting.

There was plenty of play potential to hand and I could spend hours making things out of a cardboard box, or perhaps I should have really gone into Town Planning given that I designed some great road layouts and land use on large sheets of brown paper on which to drive my toy cars. Of course, this was the era just before Lego, Sticklebricks, Konnect and similar systems although I got a lot of enjoyment out of a plastic Meccano set (although the plastics used have been linked to carcinogenic effects).

One mainstay source of fascination and occupation was dinosaurs and everything prehistoric.

I collected figures of the most popular dinosaurs which were a freebie in a breakfast cereal brand or made pocket money purchasers of others on the regular visits to the local toy and model emporium. This childhood obsession with the terrible lizards inevitably led to buying archaeological sets where you had to chip and whittle away at a lump of rock-like substance in order to expose a relic of the prehistoric era or later artefact.

The greatest thrill for me was to unearth a real fossil at the beach or in the case of my best ever find, gouged out of the heavy clay whilst trespassing in the cutting of a busy rail freight route close to my house. There were also periodic outings to the Natural History Museum in London although this was quite a trek and logistical operation from up country in Lincolnshire where we lived.

I am now in my mid 50's I still take any opportunity to go to exhibitions on dinosaurs and only just this passed weekend took our friends two young sons to a shop based Dinosaur Centre in Hull, East Yorkshire. The sight, reproduced sounds and even scratch and sniff odours of the prehistoric era that are a central part of that place still have the same effect on me of quickening the heartbeat and instilling a combination of fear and amazement at the lumbering creatures , their feeding habits and habitats.

This brings in the big issue of the sheer size and scale of the largest of the dinosaurs. The Hull centre did have comparative charts and films to help in the visualisation of a Brontosaurus, T-Rex, Diplodocus and Stegosauraus against a typical human and, strangely, a double decker bus.

In my mind there is still a bit of confusion over relative sizes and this was illustrated by the discovery a couple of days after the weekend excursion to DinoStar of this skeleton in the course of my work.

It was a bit frightening on first coming across these remains as it was only in the shining around of my torch that I became aware of them. The animal evidently died peacefully although probably not without a bit of a pain if succumbing to poisoned bait, starvation or illness. It is very dinosaur-esque in its skull and bony spine and in its prime evidently built for speed and agility, as you can gauge from a powerful abdomen and strong, coil-like back legs.

In close up you can make out the vertebrae of its spine and just below that the arch of the rib cage.

The bones are well preserved but it is very difficult to say how long the skeleton has been there.

The skull is reminiscent of that of the Ridley Scott Alien, large cranium and hinged jaw being features

The hind quarters continue in a very long line of vertebrae and then an even longer tail bone. The feet are long and ideal for grip and stability on a variety of surfaces.

The animal? , well, it is probably a young squirrel.

In terms of scale and context, the whole skeleton was about the size of my mobile phone so don't have nightmares about monsters the size of two tier modes of public transport, promise?

Trumping the Queen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave does the deed

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

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

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

Strange Fruits

The five-angled Star Fruit, also known as carambola, is a waxy, yellow-green fruit that originated in the sultry, tropical area of Sri Lanka. A common citrus fruit in the Southeastern Asia and Pacific Island regions for centuries, star fruit dates as far back as the 2,000-year-old Silk Road trade route between China and Rome during the Tang Dynasty.

The fruit grows on a small, bushy evergreen tree, first bearing clusters of small lilac, bell-shaped flowers which become the oblong fruits. Today, this lovely fruit is cultivated in Australia, South America, Hawaii, and Florida. Because they're known to be intolerant of cold and actually die in freezing weather, it's best to grow them in more moderate temperatures.

Obviously, the most unique visual quality of the star fruit is its shape - that of a perfect star when it's cut across the middle. There are two varieties; the challenge is telling them apart, which you'll want to do, because one is deliciously sweet – described as a cross between an apple and a grape – and the other puckeringly sour. As a general rule, the sweet type has thicker flesh. Some contain two to five tiny, edible seeds in the centre of each angled cell.

One of the great benefits of star fruit is that the entire thing – waxy coat and all – can be enjoyed.
Besides the more common yellow variety, which may have touches of brown on the outer ridges (although there are several sweet types that are white) this is one fruit that can be purchased while it’s still green and set aside for a few days to ripen to perfection. If too ripe, however, the fruit turns yellow and develops brown spots. It refrigerates well, which is a good way to extend their shelf life. Uses for star fruit include juice drinks or blends, smoothies, salsa, chutney, and salads, although they're also good to eat as is, like an apple. To a first time consumer of Star Fruit there may be some familiarity of taste to raw pea-pods. Cooked, the tart varieties work well for imparting a uniquely tart zing to poultry, meat, and seafood dishes, and even cooked desserts. As a garnish, they're unrivaled.
Because they have a tendency to bruise, it's best to buy star fruits while they're firm, and handle with care.

It's comes as no surprise that the greatest amount of nutrients in star fruit is derived from vitamin C, providing 76 percent of the daily recommended value in a single one-cup serving.

The C content in star fruit helps ward off colds, flu, and any other type of infection. Science has shown that individuals in extreme arctic climates, such as military personnel, skiers, or researchers, experience a significant risk reduction – as much as 50 percent – for developing a cold when ingesting healthy amounts of vitamin C. Another reason vitamin C is called an essential vitamin is because it's needed by the body to form collagen in the bones, cartilage, muscle, blood vessels, and aids in the absorption of iron. Also, one of the most notorious consequences of a lack in vitamin C is scurvy, which early sailors discovered and remedied with all types of tropical fruits, including star fruit. Although it's rare, scurvy can have severe consequences, so treatment for patients with scurvy typically begins with vitamin C.

Smaller amounts of dietary fibre, copper, pantothenic acid, and potassium (which can prevent muscle cramps by increasing blood circulation) are important components of this fruit. B-complex vitamins like folates, riboflavin, and pyridoxine (Vitamin B6)  are also present and team up to perform various synthetic functions inside the body, such as forming metabolising enzymes.

The average star fruit contains around 30 calories (fewer than any other tropical fruit per serving), so with its high fiber content, it's a great choice for anyone wanting to lose weight, prevent constipation, and keep their system running smoothly. It also helps prevent the absorption of LDL ("bad") cholesterol while protecting the colon from toxic substances, by binding to cancer-causing chemicals that happen to be passing through.

The antioxidants offer their own benefits, including the neutralization of harmful free radicals that can cause inflammation. Flavonoids such as quercetin, epicatechin, and gallic acid offer this benefit, as well.

Traditional Brazilian folk medicine made use of star fruit as a diuretic, an expectorant, and cough suppressant. The leaves and fruit have been used to stop vomiting; placed on the temples to ease headache; for poultices to relieve chickenpox and rid the body of parasitic infestation. Powdered seeds reputedly have a sedative effect. However, dialysis patients or those with possible renal failure symptoms have reportedly developed neurological symptoms, and are advised to strictly avoid eating star fruit.

However, consume star fruits in moderation because they contain fructose, which may be harmful to your health in excessive amounts.

Now for a bit of science.......pay attention at the back.

Inhibitory effects of tropical fruits on midazolam hydroxylase activity of CYP3A (a major xenobiotic (a chemical compound such as a drug, pesticide, or carcinogen foreign to a living organism) metabolising enzyme in human liver microsomes were evaluated. Eight tropical fruits – papaw, dragon fruit, kiwi fruit, mango, passion fruit, pomegranate, rambutan, and star fruit –were tested. The juice of star fruit showed the most potent inhibition of CYP3A.

The addition of a star fruit juice in testing resulted in the almost complete inhibition of midazolam hydroxylase activity.

Preliminary results of another extensive study supported the use of A. carambola (star fruit) as an anti-inflammatory agent and introduced new possibilities for its use in skin disorders. Star fruit was noted for being rich in antioxidants and polyphenolic compounds, which inhibit reactive oxygen species. O-glycosyl flavonoid components such as quercetin, rutin (a component in fruits shown to protect against heart attack and stroke) and cyanidin were identified, and insoluble fibers slowed the absorption of carbohydrates to significantly reduce blood glucose levels.

The fiber content of star fruit can help prevent cardiovascular disease by reducing serum triglyceride and total cholesterol levels. Selective activity against brain tumor cells also was observed, and an extract from the leaves was shown to be effective against liver carcinoma cells.

Hanging on the tree, they look like odd little lanterns. It's when you slice star fruits around the middle that they render the perfect star formation that is so fun to serve as a garnish or in salads with other succulent fruits. This exotic tropical fruit is also grown in the warmest areas of the U.S., and there are two main varieties that are sour and sweet.

But beyond its ability to render any salad more colorful and tasty, star fruit is packed with vitamin C as an infection fighter, plus antioxidants, flavonoids, copper, pantothenic acid, and potassium. Studies have shown it to be effective against such diseases as liver cancer and diabetes, with more studies continuing.

For all of these great properties why is it that I have not seen them on sale in the supermarket for a good few years now?

(source; Mercola.com)

Geysers and Caesars

 Think of Tuscany, Italy. 

It is a varied region of coast, rolling hills, green valleys and iconic world heritage cities and architecture. That is even before you add in the culture and food of that area. 

I spent a few days in the main tourist centre of Florence, having flown in over and seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa and would readily go back there for a longer stay and the opportunity to explore yet more. 

One of the lesser known parts of Tuscany, by that I mean not on the main tourist trail, is in the South of the region around Lardello and Pomerance. 

It is known as Devils Valley because of the quite startling images brought about by a very active geology that includes geothermal springs and volcanic extrusions close to the surface of the landscape. 

Even today the sight of white steam coming out of the soil, bubbling pools and a black moonscape appearance is startling in the extreme. There are geyser type eruptions on a regular basis whereby ultra heated (up to 230 degrees centigrade) and high pressure (up to a pressure of 20 atmospheres), water vapour is shot out of fissures in the ground.

The emissions are made of gases and vapours originating in the subterranean magma chambers and mixed in with the water vapour are ammonia and boric acid.  

In ancient times what must have seemed like a restlessness and unpredictability of Mother Earth was in fact an attractive feature and the Romans in particular made use of the hot springs in their pursuit of holistic ,therapeutic and leisure activities. 

As an inspiration in literature it is known that Dante modelled his portrayal of Hell in his masterwork of The Divine Comedy on his own experiences of this local phenomena. 

Although there have been towns and villages co-existing with this geological volatility the area was ripe for industrial processes that harnessed the chemical elements which were a bi-product of the volcanic activity. Lardello itself is thought to have been named after a Franco-Italian entrepreneur who in the early part of the 19^th Century perfected the extraction of valuable boric acid from the deposits of sludge in the many hot water lagoons that dotted the topography. 

In 1904 the focus changed from basic extraction to the harnessing of the great energy of the geothermal influences and by 1911 the worlds first geothermal production plant was built in Devils Valley. 

I came across this pioneering operation in a bit of a roundabout way. 

In the maze of gallery rooms at a Country House in the South West of England there was a short film playing on a loop for the benefit of any visitors who found themselves in the far recesses of the display area. 

It was entitled Children of Unquiet by Mikhail Karikis. 

The backdrop is of the dramatic volcanic influenced landscapes of Devils Valley and the contrast of a modernist complex of man made structures in concrete and steel including mile upon mile of above ground pipework and the very incongruous presence of cooling towers in that strangely beautiful natural environment. 

The artist has turned the abandoned site into a  playground for children after having become obsolete as a place of human employment in the course of full automation. 

Where once there was a thriving community of families the film depicts nothing but 45 children running and playing and all of them making a very eerie output of sounds mimicking their surroundings. 

The deeper meaning is a show of the temporal dynamics of economics and capitalist demands for a quick profit in direct conflict with the speculative playfulness and interventions of innocents. 

All individual and communal expression is lost and a cause for lament. 

In fact the geothermal plant continues in production and represents one of the major and sustainable successes in this type of energy production anywhere in the world. 

I found the images and audio of the film fascinating and not a little bit disturbing. 

If that part of Tuscany is open for visitors I will certainly put it on my list for a bit of a day trip some time soon.

Mikhail Karikis Official Web Site

The tale of the three legged dog

It may be a bit of an Angler's tall tale but there used to be a three legged dog that hung around the shoreline of a local freshwater lake.

It was friendly enough but to those sat quietly, fishing those well stocked waters, it seemed a bit anxious as though looking for something. It was from this that the narrative arose that the dog had been swimming in the weedy shallows when a large Pike, a notorious predator fish, had bitten off one of the hind legs, decisively and clinically.

That sort of story, whether in fact true or a yarn, fable, rumour or outright fabrication has given to the Pike an enthralling reputation. It is fearsome and to be feared.

It's latin name, Esox Lucius, roughly translates to devil fish, which alludes to the myth,legend and also the factual and real life of this species.

I have had some personal experience of the creature.

In my early teenage years I was a keen but rather chaotic angler. It was actually a genetic thing inherited in a much diluted form from my maternal Grandfather, Dick. After he died I took on some of his beloved fishing rods and tackle and found out for myself about the joy and peacefulness of sitting on a riverbank for hour upon hour.

It was not really that important to catch anything, rather just to gather your thoughts, drink pop, eat sandwiches, play with warm, bran covered maggots and watch the world flow by on a slow current.

I started to buy the Angling Times to give some credibility to my bungling, amateur status as a freshwater fisher and in those pages I built up a startling image of the Pike. Grainy photos of successful catches loomed out of the pages of that publication. The Pike weighing down the two arms of beefy angler types were all huge.

I became obsessed with finding out more about this natural predator in typical schoolboy fervour following on from a similar all encompassing thirst for facts on the Bermuda Triangle, UFO's, the assassination of JFK and how to become an Astronaut.

You would not expect narrow, fairly shallow and typically slow flowing English rivers to be able to sustain, yet contain, a fish of the voracity of appetite of the Pike.

It has the appearance of a prehistoric origin, a crocodilian head, pits in the flesh of the skull acting as a sounding board to detect its prey, large pear- shaped amber and black centred eyes to scour the depths, an intriguing dappled olive skin with golden dots and dashes to provide clever camouflage in the weeds and yet mimicking the effect of sunlight on the water, a multiple array of teeth with an inward slant to ensure that snagged prey, once impaled, had little chance of wriggling free, fins mounted towards its hind quarters to give powerful rear engined thrust for a short burst from hiding place to target and all of these attributes in a long, efficient and sleek, shiny body.

Amongst the rather, by comparison, feeble and comical fish such as Ruff, Gudgeon, Roach, Rudd, Bream, Carp and even the Eel it is a totally unexpected resident in Northern European waters. It has undoubtedly thrived with a life expectancy of up to 25 years and with recorded sizes up to a whopping seventy pounds.

It's technique for hunting is aggressive but clever and patient. It secretes itself in the weeds and just sits and waits until an unwitting prey swims past. In a powering up of the fins and a lighting fast strike it ensures a regular diet of smaller fish but is also known to take ducks and of course 25% of a dog's appendages.

Some individual Pike have been more ambitious and fearless.

Anglers have recounted tales of being bitten as a consequence of a Pike attempting to steal away the catch at the end of the line. Divers working on bridge piers report being head-butted by large Pike in a sort of territorial stance. There have also been tales of mules and cattle taking water in a river and being attacked.

In history the species were prized by Monarchs and the Landed Classes as food and many Castles and Manor Houses had Pike or Stew Ponds as they were called as a source of what was regarded as a delicacy. The rather earthy, small bone latticed meat was quite an acquired taste.

In my youth, a friend caught a Pike and decided to take it home for his Mum to cook. He had struggled to land it as Pike are strong game fish but then knocked it on the head before placing it length-ways, head down in his backpack. On the cycle ride back to his house the fish regained consciousness and a panicked lad had to go through the process again on the busy roadside. He didn't say anything about eating it after that.

A Pike could be caught at any time in the freshwater season but pursuit of the species in the cold, damp winter months was the best of activities.

Armed with brightly coloured spoon or small fish shaped spinning lures we would cover many miles along the river bank in search of the creatures.

Alternatively we would buy a pound weight of Sprats from the fishmongers and carefully attach them as dead bait to the biggest hooks we could manage.

Unfortunately, if enthusiastically cast the slim, silvery fish would often detach themselves and on a river bank bordering onto private house gardens the residents will often have found, mystifyingly, several Sprattus sprattus on their lawns and patios.

My enduring recollection and image of the Pike is having to sit astride a nine-pounder whilst my fellow teenage angler used the hinged gag and long discorger to remove the lure to allow the monster fish to be returned, unharmed but mightily disgruntled to its natural domain.

In that moment of restraining the pent up power of that fish I had felt as though I was astride a dolphin, a bit like the picture below but in my case, wearing a thick Parka coat, balaclava and walking boots.

Sylvainian Family

Here's a poser or you could regard it as a bit of a dilemma.

What would you prefer to do out of the choice of spending,

1) a year in France or

2) a year on a bicycle?

You may find the wording of that question a bit strange and I would understand perfectly if you requested some clarification as part of the consideration of your answer.

Well, part 1) is quite straight forward.

What would you think to the prospect of having a year in France? It is in my own experience a wonderful country. The people, history, food, customs and landscape are amazing. I have had three separate visits which have certainly not nearly long enough but have seen the Normandy and Brittany coastal areas, Paris, the eastern area of the country and the battlefields of the first world war at Verdun.

The first excursion was a school exchange trip during which, I am convinced, that my host family kidnapped me and took me to the Atlantic Coast for a week, that being in the days before mobile phones, or in that remote location, any sort of phones. My second trip was solely on my bike and the third in a nice Ford Capri hire car, into which my bike fitted nicely.

There is a catch to my two parter, or this is where the dilemma comes in.

The year in France would not be a pleasurable one and also it would involve being on a bicycle for the whole of the time.

Confused?

Well, this situation is one that a professional cyclist, Sylvain Chavanel has had first hand experience of.

He is of course French and to my knowledge has spent most of his 39 years in his home nation although an illustrious career has seen him competing all around the world at the Elite level.

He is taking part in this years Tour de France and those watching the live television coverage of Stage 2, a couple of days ago, will have seen his exertions as he took part in a three rider break and then solo'd for around 80 miles before being caught by the race field with a handful of kilometres to go.

His combativity is a particular trait of his riding and he is right up there with the best of his generation in this type of aggressive but controlled activity at the front of a race.

What is remarkable about this year's Tour de France is that it is Chavanel's eighteenth appearance since a debut at the age of 22.

That gives him the position of highest number of participations just pipping the household names of Stuart O'Grady and Jens Voight.

The physical and psychological toll exerted by the world's toughest three week competitive race did lead to abandonments in 2007 and 2012 but his fifteen finishes on the Champs Elysees are an indication of his tremendous stamina and determination.

It is unlikely. given the demands on professional cyclists today, that anyone else will get near this record.

The attainment of the greatest number of  appearances is therefore assured and barring accidents or mishaps, when Chavanel rolls across the line later this month, he will also equal the record of Joop Zoetemelk for the most finishes which currently stands at 16.

So, in full circle we are back at my original question.

A year in France or a year on a bike?

Sylvain Chavanel has already done this in that the aggregated duration of 18 Tours de France amount to a staggering 52 weeks.

Oh, and in that time he also had three stage wins. Quite an achievement and a unique record.

Endless Summers

My working life is based on 30 minute blocks of time.

This has been the case for the last 33 years and so I have developed a sensory ability to track time in such increments.

If I have a busy workload the day simply flies past and I am left wondering where on earth the hours have gone.

That sensation of time going quickly, perhaps too quickly is something that we are all aware of and the older you get the phenomena of evaporating minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years becomes even more acute.

So why is that?

There are many theories around this discrepancy between actual time and perceived time.

In plain speak we feel that there is a difference between the time that the hands on the clock display and the time that we recognise in our heads. It is a mixture, a combination of mystical influences, mental processes and mathematics.

There are those in the scientific community who attribute this to Proportional Theory.

In its simplest form this relates to how much one day or a period of time takes up in our lives. For example, my first day on this planet as a new born baby represented 100% of my existence. I am now approaching my 55th birthday and so today was about one twenty thousandth and eighty one'ths of my life to date, a very small fraction indeed so it is no surprise that I perceive today to have passed extremely rapidly.

There are other complicating factors and just think back to your childhood days to experience just a few aspects of this. You will remember that the days of your summer holidays from school seemed to last forever, and yes, you recollect that they were also cloudless, warm and carefree days. That feeling was down to the trait of childhood of always looking forward to the next new thrill and excitement and getting tired and bored of current activities or events, so much so that time in effect dragged although not at all in a bad way.

How many times did you annoy your parents or guardians with the incessant chant, whilst on a journey, of "Are we there yet?, Are we there yet?

Fast forward in our lives to adulthood and we are not so much looking forward to new things as just re-living familiar routines and practices so that time, again, gives the impression of flying. That loss of childish fascination and freshness is something that many of us regret. It was a time of intense and vivid experiences which actually made time itself stretch and seemingly become endless.

Unfortunately, the demands of our modern lives make it necessary to process more things in our minds, analyse and categorise them with the inevitable effect of our becoming desensitised and on automatic pilot rather than being immersed in a certain situation.

Perhaps the best illustration of this for me is when I am driving the car. A high proportion of my 30 minute blocks of work time are spent on the road and although I am able to concentrate fully on safe motoring there is still a distinct sensation of a quickening of time.

That is clearly illogical as I am not time travelling nor do speed and distance distort and condense.

That is where scientists have a bit of a knowledge gap. There is little by way of understanding of the brain and whether it has a sort of sensory clock built in. After all, we do not have a specific organ for time to work alongside our other senses of smell, touch, taste, sight and hearing. In fact, there are those who see time as meta-sensory in that it sits above the human senses.

There is no medical evidence of a time accumulator or mechanism in the neurons of the human brain, no mental ticker or background monitor to help us manage our daily lives.

It comes down to a combination of perceptions, emotions and memories which are, to me, the most valuable pieces of the whole human existence.

In reality, well, I have just expended, by my reckoning, about an hour in the writing of this piece and yet it seems no be no more than a few scant minutes of activity. Actually, it has flown past as that hour represents a mere fraction or one four hundred and eighty one thousand nine hundred and sixty fifths of my existence to date.

Beardy Weirdo

"Excuse me", I said to the homeowner, "but did you know that the door to the reptile tank in the living room is wide open?".

It was a huge vivarium that took up most of the inside wall of the lounge being of a type that could accommodate quite a large scaly animal.

As well as the sheer size of the thing it was also a glaring source of light and on entering the room I had felt the dry, arid heat that was reminiscent of a Greek holiday.

The human occupant of the house shrugged his shoulders to my question and said that yes the Bearded Dragon was out and about somewhere in the house. His casualness hinted that the reptile was a very regular wanderer.

I do not have much knowledge of that species of lizard but my perception is clouded by deep rooted images in my hyper active imagination of dinosaurs, voracious creatures kept by various Bond Villains and wildlife programmes where the naturalist creeps about in the undergrowth talking in hushed tones so as not to frighten or arouse almost mythological monsters.

Looking at the dimensions of the vivarium I estimated that its normal resident could only really be about half a metre long based on a need to be able to move, turn and comfortably sleep in that space.

Unfortunately such a compact creature could also wick itself away anywhere in the house quite easily.

I had a strong feeling of anxiety about the prospect of coming across the creature in the course of my inspection of the house or even unwittingly giving it an escape route to the wide outdoors if it followed me into the garden.

In recent years I have had to pursue a dog across a village after the owner insisted that I re-capture it after having left the side gate open. Chasing a dog was difficult indeed but it would be a picnic compared to the hunt for a wily lizard readily adapting to its natural environment.

I skirted around the living room as my starting point.

The gap between the carpet and the underside of the settee was, I felt, too small to allow it as a hiding place although if it is said that a mouse can get through a hole just the size of a pencil then it might be possible for a flexible reptile to snuck itself away under the sofa webbing.

My job involves a look into the dark recesses of the understairs cupboard and |I carefully directed the beam of my torch over the stored items. There was no sign of any movement but then again lizards are very adept at being perfectly inanimate for long periods.

The kitchen units were firmly closed and I was not really required to open them which was a relief.

I made my way upstairs into a whole range of potential reptile retreats under beds, furniture legs and behind personal belongings. I made a point of making more noise than usual as I made my way around the rooms whilst taking a bit of a sideways walking stance just in case the animal made a run for the landing and stairwell beyond.

A thought then crossed my mind that surely reptiles were also natural climbers. This introduced the possibility of it perching on top of a wardrobe or a window pelmet and I had a horrible premonition of being jumped on by sharpened claws and being licked by a leathery tongue.

At least there was no chance of it being up in the loft as I had to take down the folding ladder to get into it.

I was still on guard as in previous years a domestic cat had followed me up into the roof space and it had taken a long time and a handful of crunchy feline snacks to coax it down again.

I was close to finishing my work and told the homeowner that I had not come across the actual , or any Bearded Dragons.

He was not surprised as it appears that the lizard only really has one favourite spot beyond the confines of its glazed tank and that is on top of the Sky Digital Box in the letter box type slot of the TV storage unit in the corner of the lounge.

I crouched down to peek into that hiding place and I am convinced that the inscrutable eyes blinked or rather winked at me for my troubles.