What it is to be English

There seems to be a lot of discussion in almost every walk of life about what it is to be English.

Some may simply say that they have always been so as a matter of pride and patriotism. There are always St George's Cross flags flying even if not coinciding with a fixture involving the national football team. Others may feel a bit beleagured by the constant media coverage of a perceived imminent invasion by foreigners. A few may think that they are already in a minority in their own local area.

Personally, I am a bit concerned by this upsurge in celebrating and commemorating Englishness particularly where it involves dragging up some long distant battle, invasion, siege or  resistance which should remain confined, for all its merits,  to a history book.

As a nation we are part of a larger, much larger global community. We fought against  most of our European neighbours at one time or another and although usually declaring ourselves the victor in the slaughter and human misery. Llets face it, the fact that not much changed as a consequence made it a victory on purely technical rather than righteous grounds.

Historic foes, now our friends do not seem to dwell on their past as much as we do. It may all be just diversionary tactics.

I think that all of the postering is because we are a bit confused about our own standing in the hierarchy of social classes that is the defining feature of English life.

There has been, since the era depicted by the TV series Downton Abbey, a huge change in  social mobility. In that programme the class differences were accentuated by the attitudes, behaviour and prejudices of those whether upstairs or downstairs although amongst their own class each were strikingly similar. The Lord of the Manor was head of the hereditary family and the Head Butler was Lord of the domestic staff.

What movement has there been in the class structure over my own lifetime, ie the past half decade?

It is obvious that the segment of the population that would with pride regard themselves as working class has declined because industry and the old working practices have declined. The parameters of the middle class have blurred and as a consequence the numbers have increased. The upper or ruling class remain stagnant in spite of some injection of new bloodlines and new money.

Try explaining the composition of English society to an overseas visitor  and you will appreciate how bewildering it is. So what, today, can be reasonably relied upon as a tell tale sign of someone's social standing.

The social anthropologist, Kate Fox, published a work entitled "Watching the English" in the early years of the new century. Last year she reviewed the research and findings to see if  we are still a nation obsessed with and yet dismissive of the class structure.

She highlighted two important factors in giving away the class to which someone belongs and they are the words we use and  how we say them.

Seven words in particular put down a marker to our social position.

If responding to an unclear enquiry the use of "Pardon?" is a lower middle or middle-middle indicator. The upper middle class will say "sorry-what?" or "What-sorry?". Surprisingly both the upper class and working class will use "What?" although the latter may drop the "t".

What we call the toilet is a defining thing. Upper classes refer to "loo" or the phonetic  "lavuhtry" and even "bog" if used with humour is acceptable. The working class use "toilet" but those with aspirations above their station can be caught out by using "powder room", "conveniences", "Gents" and "Ladies".

Table habits are also cited as class defining. A "napkin" is now upper middle and upper territory with "serviette" being relegated to the lower class.

If you refer to the family evening meal as "tea" you are working class whereas the higher social order use "dinner" or "supper". Another giveaway is that tea is served around 6pm but dinner nearer 8pm being a throwback to working hours in manual and executive employment respectively.

Those with a "settee" or "couch" are no higher than middle-middle but if you have a "sofa" then you are upper-middle or higher.

As for the room in which the aforementioned item of furniture is usually found? A settee is invariably found in lounges or living rooms but a sofa forms part of the ambience of a sitting or drawing room.

Even foodstuffs can be used as a guage of our class. The upper classes refer to the sweet course at the end of a meal as "pudding" but if you as a guest ask after a "dessert" or "afters" then notwithstanding it to be rude you should also think about fetching your own coat before leaving.

Confusion and ambiguity abound in our own minds about the class structure in this country so is it any surprise that we try so hard to define the essence of Englishness as an excuse to avoid having to deal with it.

Pumpkin Rescue

Halloween must be a very confusing time for children in particular and especially so this year with a renewed onslaught by commercial interests to use the revenue from spooky related items as another attempt to jump start flagging Corporate trading figures. Tesco and Asda have been frightful.

 I expect any moment now a directive from the ruling party that those failing to purchase flashing deelyboppers, plasticky face masks and fang shaped jelly sweets  may risk having their benefit docked. It is after all patriotic to take part in Halloween.

My local Tesco Express has been stocking everything scary for weeks. I use the term scary to describe the ultra high sugar and chemical preservative content of the cocktail of things found in a typical goody bag. The season presents an ideal opportunity for sweet manufacturers to offload their poorest selling lines by simply bagging them up as vampire snacks, witches vittels, frankensteins chewies or werewolf off-cuts.

I will however purchase a large bag of miniature chocolate bars to keep by the front door in the event of callers . There has been disappointment on my part from a very poor take up of such treats in the last couple of years. It is important to make an effort as any perceived lack of enthusiasm will surely result in an egging attack on the front of the house on the forthcoming mischief night. Some local traders have been leafleted by the Police to deter them from selling eggs and flour to those intent on mayhem. Of course those with dreams of cake baking success will be very disappointed with this ban.

Pumpkins, a poor mans savoury melon, have had a major resurgence. My daughter, Alice found a real pumpkin patch just outside York and indulged in a late season Pick Your Own. I have never come across that before. The celebrity cooks are thinking up wonderful treats involving members of the gourd and squash families. In previous years I have struggled to buy a pumpkin in the days approaching All Hallows but this years seems to have been a bumper crop. Either that or it is that more growers are active and flooding the market.

I thought the recipe for a fleshy pumpkin soup, infused with ginger and sherry was interesting. I followed the process faithfully.

Hand scoop out and dispose of the seeds. Wash hands,optional,  then claw out the insides setting aside in a heavy metal skillet. On low heat cook the flesh with butter. Add 1 pint of chicken stock, stir in previously prepared cooked onion and garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Find at the bottom of the food cupboard a brittle stick of cinnamon devoid of any flavour. Empty all or any Schwarz herb or spice jars from the top of the food cupboard. Drain those old bottles of spirits after retrieving them from the sideboard. Boil down the mixture to a firmish but not stiff texture. Remove from the heat. Use a hand blender to produce a smooth mix.

The crowning glory of the recipe is in its serving inside the shell. Unfortunately, my son had, during my cooking endeavours, cut out two eyes, a cartilage free nose hole and a wide toothy grin. My eagerness to serve up the soup was dashed by the sight of the rich, orangey and  creamy mixture extruding out of the orifices of the pumpkin and all over the kitchen to a combination of morbid amusement and horror of the hungry onlookers.

The whole effect was very dramatic and in some way I may have implied that the whole performance had been intentional as part of the evenings entertainment.

For Halloween tea we ended up eating '1000 year old zombie eggs in blood on an upturned rustic gravestone'. Apparently, they are available in 57 varieties.

As for the very sinister clown lurking about in the bushes............................that is something new.

No Blame Architecture

The Patriarchal system is, by all accounts, beginning to be overhauled but it has been, and will continue to be, a bit of a battle between the sexes until a balance or more equitable blend is achieved.

Strong mindedness, independent thought and determination are all character traits which are taken somewhat for granted in the modern woman but just imagine what it was like in the 18th Century for those of the then very much fairer sex trying to make their mark on the world around them.

One such personality, and by all accounts larger than life was Anne Bligh, daughter of the Earl of Darnley. She was born in 1708 to a privileged background and in her second marriage, after the death of her fist husband in 1745, she became the Viscountess of Bangor and resident, as with many Anglo-Irish Aristocracy of the Georgian Era, in an hereditary estate, by marriage, in Ireland, specifically on the shores of Strangford Lough in County Down.

Contemporary accounts of Viscountess Bangor, or just referred to as Anne Ward, depict her as "whimsical" which could in those times be used to cover a wide range of meanings from funny to strange, a bit eccentric or just plain difficult to live with.

If this can be taken as true then Anne and her second husband, Bernard Ward may not have been a match made in heaven.

There is little to go on in respect of the attributes of Bernard apart from a portrait showing a rather short, rotund man with a serious expression and, well, as far from a whimsical nature as you could possibly get. That is not however surprising for a man in the judiciary and State politics.

The only thing they seemed to have had in common was personal wealth with Bernard having inherited family monies and lands and Anne bringing along a large dowry.

On culture and style the two may also have been quite far apart.

Anne had been brought up in the genteel and socially active surrounds of the City of Bath in England whereas Ireland, although not a backwater, will have been a bit more parochial and traditional. She is recorded as being a Pastellist , so with some artistic and creative genes.

One of the first joint decisions of the couple was to build a large country house which, in the Georgian Era, was the fashionable and accepted way to display wealth and influence, indeed it was expected.

This was where, reputedly, the first signs of differences in the relationship began to be materially evident.

If it was a matter of appointing a Project Manager then both of them will have made very eloquent representations as to their merits and skills to occupy this role.

The normal procedure for the commissioning of a grand country house would be to select an in-demand Architect or invite submissions from up and coming talent for the prestige of winning the job.

The pitch from Bernard was for a classical and clean lined Palladian style which was based on the works of the 16th Century Italian , Andrea Palladio with all of its symmetry, columns, pediments, scallop shells and masks.

In contrast, the whimsical Anne wanted the up to date, mod and stylish Georgian Gothic which was characterised by arched windows, towers, spires and altogether a bit of a menacing and foreboding impression.

It is likely that Architects will have been confused by the conflicting brief of their prospective clients and consequently it appears that none took the risk to take on the project out of fear for their reputation and sanity.

Bernard and Anne did get their house built, Castle Ward as it was named although who did the final designs is not documented. Labour, trades and crafts will have been sourced accordingly.

It's final manifestation was a freakish one.

Those calling at Castle Ward and making their approach from the laid out gardens and driveway will have been presented with the gloriously impressive vista of a Palladian Mansion, a new and very prominent landmark in that part of County Down.

This may have indicated that Bernard had won the day over design but moving around to the back, or as it was referred to , the picture front, of the house and you are confronted with a full-on Gothic elevation in all of its moody and sinister connotations which supported that Anne had not been overruled or sidelined in her own plans.

It was not just the exteriors that illustrated the adversarial creative relationship of Bernard and Anne.

The interior floor plan also sub divides the style in a back to back arrangement separated by double doors between the two different genres.

The Palladian design is to be found in the main entrance hall and stairwell with neat squared and embellished doorheads and classical references but just through the connecting door and you are into a scene of fantasy and over the top imagination, yes, a bit whimsical.

Gothic ceiling and style

Any matrimonial rift between the two may have been stifled and glossed over in social circles but there will have been no chance whatsoever to attempt to camouflage the architectural representation of it in such a prominent landscape setting.

You could speculate that had the events taken place in the glare of today's media and celebrity culture then there would be a lot of giggling, finger wagging and satirical comment with equally cruel and heartless headlines of wasteful extravagance not to mention a bit of character assassination of the individuals involved.

It is not clear if Bernard and Anne kept to their own stylish creations, a bit "my wife next door" of an existence but there will have been a much more deep rooted division and difficulties in that Anne, in 1766 at the age of 58 abandoned Bernard and returning to England ended her days back in her home town of Bath.

There are no contemporary accounts of how Castle Ward was received in the salons and ballrooms of the Georgian aristocracy and gentry and it is only with hindsight that its merits have been truly acknowledged.

For these architectural clashes the building is an exceptional and striking one and under National Trust stewardship it continues to be a major visitor attraction.

(Inspired by the BBC 4 Extra programme- Rivals in Stone)

Letting the Genie out

I read with great enthusiasm the report that a fisherman in Scotland had landed a glass bottle containing a small slip of paper which formed part of a Marine Survey from some 98 years ago. The find qualifies as the record for the oldest recovered message in a bottle. With the heart warming feelings I experienced from this tale I was disturbed by a distant memory that troubled me and quickly turned my euphoria to just plain guilt.

On a family holiday, an autumn break in a rented cottage in Robin Hoods Bay, North Yorkshire it was imperative to make the most of the daylight hours as these were becoming increasingly eroded by the approach of winter. We would get up early and, tide permitting, walk along the wide sweep of the Bay scouring the rockpools and picking out nice looking pebbles and bits of gnarled, wave abraded driftwood. These items would fill our cagoule pockets or be carried awkwardly until a better example came into view. Transported home at the end of the week with the intention of doing something creative or for a rustic theme of Christmas gifts they usually ended up discarded in the garden water feature or in a cardboard box in the back of the garage.

Amongst fascinating geological specimens, a wealth of natural history and the sheer beauty of the cliffs and coves we focused our attention on an old plastic bottle possibly left behind in the picnic days of the high summer season just passed. We had an idea to use it as an experiment in just how far it could go containing our personalised message if thrown back into the surf. Paper and pencil were always close to hand in our wet weather gear and the children scribbled our home address and a message inviting whosoever found the message to write and report where it had been found. There were concerns that if it reached, say Holland, France, Spain, Africa, The Americas or beyond there may be some difficulties in translation but I gave reassurance that a message in a bottle was always understood whatever the language.

Ceremoniously we threw the lightweight bottle as far as possible into the advancing waves. It bobbed and wobbled for some time before appearing to escape the draw of the tide and float in that smoother part of the sea beyond the breakers. We left the beach chattering excitedly although that may have been largely as a result of the cold autumn weather. This had not deterred other people and the usual dog walkers and fishermen began to arrive as we headed back to the cottage.

A few weeks later a letter arrived at our home curiously addressed to all three children. It was from a 10 year old boy from Newcastle who had come across the bottle and message and was understandably thrilled about doing so. He had drawn a small map of where he had found the bottle and with a dotted line around a quite accurate representation of the North Sea Coast and Humber Estuary up to our home town. I could see from the detail that he must have spent many hours researching and studying the tides and currents in order to produce the map.

We felt immediate embarassment at what we had done. The small boy had been on holiday like us in Robin Hoods Bay and at the same time. Thinking back I recalled a father and son passing us on the Bay slipway, rods in hand at the very moment we had left the beach. The bottle had, in our estimation, possibly set a new record for the shortest ever time afloat before being discovered, roughly about 5 minutes.

Not my cup of tea

What is nicer to contemplate than a cup of tea?

The ritual of a brew is the first thing that I do on a working day morning.

Filling up the kettle, preparing the tea bag in the cup, lining up the milk, toying with the idea of, perhaps, a spoonful of sugar, waiting patiently for the water to boil and then pouring it and watching the infusion take place is an important preparation for the day ahead.

A simple procedure, essentially British in nature and yet what could in fact be less British?.

The logistics? Tea from India, China or Africa. Sugar from the Caribbean.

In partaking of my early morning tea I am in fact reinforcing a lot of associations, some quite violent and distasteful from days of Empire and rooted in the very history of the world.

Tea, before the 1700's was a very expensive luxury import from China, taken neat in small cups and by all accounts sour and sharp. It was a social grace only to be afforded by the wealthy and upper classes and with celebrity endorsements by the wife of Charles the Second and Queen Anne. The tea was kept locked up in a secure caddie and location with the sort of jealous obsession afforded a drug stash. Johnson, the 17th Century pundit admitted to having an addiction to the drinking of tea with the words "tea solaces midnight and welcomes morning".

The aspirational aspects of taking tea became increasingly popular in the 18th Century and the addition of milk and sugar by the wider masses transformed it from a harsh to a sweet experience. Consumption surged and supply kept pace with the consequence that prices fell within the budget of the working classes. Marketing targeted tea drinking as a respectable practice which could be enjoyed by men and women alike in contrast to coffee which was firmly a male preserve.

Tea Gardens and venues flourished and at home the likes of Wedgewood produced budget tea services in earthenware and pottery. A visitor from Scandinavia was amused to see the working classes taking to tea drinking citing the image of coal carters milling around outside tables supping a welcome brew.

By 1900 every person in the UK was drinking 3 kilos of tea a year.

The ruling classes went out of their way to encourage tea drinking amongst the populus as a means of weaning workers off port, gin and other intoxicating liquors. The mild antiseptic properties of tea were seen to be beneficial as was the preparation with boiling water to kill microbes and germs. The Temperance Movement and Methodism advocated the practice to promote a sober workforce. In all it was a means of crude but effective social control.

Slowly the British image was being transformed from a nation of rowdy, boisterous drunkards intent on the demon drink to one of sophistication in the sipping of tea.

Many workers now ate in the late evening, around 7.30pm to 8.00pm and so tea and a sandwich taken at 4pm filled that gap.

We still perpetuate this ritual to some extent and have tended to forget the true price of tea and its very violent hinterland.

Early trade with China brought not just the imported leaf but also a lot of Opium leading to the opium wars of the period. This conflict led to the development of other sources and where better than within the British Empire where climate and labour were ideally suited. Calcutta in India was soon brought on stream followed by Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, which saw an influx of Tamils from South India to work the plantations. Whole socio-economic profiles of nations were therefore re-shaped by the consumer led thirst for tea.

Actual growing, tending and harvesting was low cost in the producing nations. The added value and profits went to the traders and merchants who funded large and fast Clipper sail ships to get the goods to London. A further,darker element linked to tea was the sugar trade with slave labour in the West Indies and Southern United States. Even after the abolition of slavery by Britain in the 1830's the supply of slave sugar persisted from Cuba and other non-aligned states.

We should not forget milk either as a powerful economic and nation shaping commodity.

In the early to mid 19th century it was a fact that most cows actually lived in the cities and larger towns. This was down to the need for rapid distribution to the market prior to reliable refrigeration. The development subsequently of the railway network in Britain permitted dairy farms to spread out into the suburbs and a more natural rural environment.

So, next time you are enjoying your cuppa just give some passing thought to the part that tea has played in social and economic history not only of Britain but of the wider world. It may leave a bitter taste.

Nostrildamus

I am often asked to investigate smells.

You might think that this sort of work would not be within the normal scope of carrying out an inspection of a property but it is very apparent that funny odours are pretty high up on the list of the concerns of home owners and house buyers.

Over the years I seem to have developed a keen olfactory awareness and on a regular basis I am surprised to discover new smells that can be added to my sensory memory bank.

The most obvious to be found in housing, both older and modern, is the smell of moisture.

This can range from rank odours as a consequence of rampant damp to the merest sensation of stagnant air and fustiness. The Government led policy to maximise the energy efficiency of the UK housing stock has certainly helped to reduce carbon emissions and energy costs but as an unfortunate side effect we now experience hardly any natural air changes in our homes. They are in effect hermetically sealed and with that comes a build up of moisture as condensation which in itself provides an ideal environment for mould spores and other nasties which can serve to exacerbate pre-existing health conditions such as asthma, respiratory illness and eczema.

Whenever I come across trapped moisture issues in a property I can feel my nostrils contracting in reaction to the atmosphere.

This can on occasion make me feel quite poorly even though my exposure is only a matter of minutes at most. I can therefore imagine the effect on someone actually living in that place and my reporting back gives some practical recommendations to alleviate the problems.

Another common type of bad smells relates to drains.

In older properties where the floor plan and layout have been altered there could be old and redundant drains from a former kitchen or downstairs toilet. These may not always have been isolated or even infilled and the persistence of strong sewerage smells can be a problem. Although readily detectable by my nose the actual tracing and exposing of the source is an altogether more difficult exercise and can result in high cost for investigative excavations and all of the potential for upheaval and damage that this involves.

A very distinctive odour is that of rodents, in particular mice.

This has an earthy quality to it, not actually unpleasant in itself but when added to the perceptions of a homeowner or home purchaser of an invasion or infestation its detection takes on a much greater significance.

One odour that has certainly declined in recent years in my daily workload is that of nicotine.

In the halcyon days of smoking tobacco as a sociable and fashionable pursuit my nose was often assaulted by its thick and pungent smell not to mention the sticky tarry residues that accumulated on decorative finishes and just about every surface in a domestic environment.

It is quite common now to see householders on a strict outdoors only smoking regime but from time to time I am exposed to some very overpowering nicotine infused environments which must, in the longer term have health implications, I do carry face masks in the event of extreme circumstances as a sensible measure.

We are, on this small island, great lovers of pets but my nasal sensors can go into override in properties where there has been a less than sanitary and hygienic policy and regime on cleaning up after dogs, cats, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, micro-pigs, reptiles, domesticated rodents, caged or free flying birds and many other creatures that you would not expect to encounter in a living room or bedroom.

I have been able to diagnose, by close sniffing that a wet patch in a house was not caused by damp but as a consequence of frequent urination in the same spot by the family dog.

Climate change can be seen as the cause of one particular smell where there has been a trend for increasingly extreme weather. My local work area is low lying and on clay soils and after a heavy rain shower there can be potential for standing water under the ground floors of houses that have raised or suspended timber finishes, commonly floorboards.

The fluctuations in ground water levels or water table as it is known can lead to stagnant pools in the underfloor space resulting in distinctive odours. Airbrick vents can help to dissipate the moisture and smells but fears of ant or spider entry via the perforated bricks often results in them being blocked up by the house occupants.

One relatively new smell, although increasingly present, is that of cannabis.

This can be easily distinguished amongst the other common odours and often wafts down a street or out of an open window in every type of neighbourhood from well to do to older inner city.

Just about all of the foregoing causes and sources of what I would call traditional building smells can be tackled by practical,and sensible measures. These are all within my skill set to identify and diagnose but in the case of cannabis I just have to leave that to others.

One small step

I am excited about the pending release to cinemas of the "First Man" biopic of Neil Armstrong and his epic quest to be the first man to set foot on the moon. 

I do associate with the Space Generation being a child born in the early 1960's and yes, after the initial promise, I am bit disappointed that I do not live on Mars nor commute to work using a personal jet pack but never mind. 

Those things will come in their own time but probably not for me to participate in. 

Below is the closest I may ever come to actual space in being one of the contributors to restore a piece of modern and iconic human history. I got a nice T-shirt out of it as well. 

A Crowd Funding Appeal to restore and digitise Neil Armstrong's historic spacesuit raised more than the original target of $500,000 through 9477 contributors. 

On the basis of my donation of £30 sterling that makes me the proud sponsor of a rivet....hurrah!!

The F in Fish

Some people have naming ceremonies for their domestic pets.

Having been a dog owner myself I can appreciate the excitement and anticipation that goes with choosing a name for what will become a new member of the family. The name can be based on a longstanding favourite from previous pets of the same species to give continuity or to venerate a particular character in history or of the very over-used celebrity status. In recent months I have come across dogs and cats called Stanley, Churchill,  Beyonce and Forsyth.

The animal could have a colouration or features that are irresistible as a name such as Spot, Bluey, Patch or Tripod (an unfortunate three legged Jack Russell taken on from a rescue centre). Other names can be a bit jokey or abstract, for example my Mother's gorgeous Westie Terrier has been given, by previous owners, the incongruous name of Gnasher after a famous comic book hound although his quiet and fluffy demeanour is so far detached from that mischievous and anti-social companion of the Menace, Dennis.

A favourite of mine was from the Canadian Crime series of Due South on 1990's TV where there was a bit of an in joke about Diefenbaker the dog/wolf with his name shortened to Diefer, as in D for Dog. Other names are so left-field that the suitabililty of those thinking up the names to be pet owners must be under scrutiny. Tosser may be a good description of an active hound but when called out in a public open space it can have a different interpretation with those that hear it.

 A friend of mine had a single sheep in his back garden which, to his mother's friends was referred to as James Rydell although we all knew it as Jimmy Riddle as a main trait appeared to be urinating everywhere.

Having written the foregoing I am somewhat ashamed to admit that my two goldfish, constant companions to me in my work-room over the last 3 years remain without any names whatsoever.

I can explain this, partly, in that they were acquired as participants in an Iranian New Year Festival. Amongst various symbols of renewal and tradition the fish represented life and creation as they swam around the glass bowl on a ceremonial table. I fully expected our Iranian friend to claim ownership of the fish and take them with him but no.

 So, a few years further on and they are just behind where I sit at my desk, although in a much larger tank. The bubble and murmur of the filter and pump are hardly noticeable to me now although from time to time the fish flick the surface with their tales to disturb my concentration. This is usually as feeding time approaches or if they require a staring match through the thick glass of the tank which they seem to enjoy doing.

As for giving them names, well, I am pretty close to doing that with the catalyst being something that the pair of them have recently done to their rectangular environment.

It is only in the last week or so that, unbeknown to me and very much behind my back (actually behind where I sit) they have undertaken a large civil engineering project.

Half of the floor area of the tank is now onto the glass bottom of the tank, devoid of any gravel or objects. In a painstakingly slow process by mouth or fin the two fish have created a sloping shelf or underwater beach from the small aggregate stones and pebbles that runs from the middle of the tank all of the way up to the outfall of the pump/filter.

Apparently this behaviour is quite normal for goldfish but in this case normal is not a word I would use. The creation is geologically and topographically perfect over its 30 degree slope. In addition some sizeable stones which were collected during family holidays and excursions for their unusual shape and texture have been manoeuvred into very natural looking positions within and at the foot of the gradient.

This will have been no small feat given their density and ,what I had thought,  immoveability. I have been so engrossed in my own work that this major redevelopment scheme has gone unnoticed for so long. I cannot say which of the fish has assumed the roles of architect, designer, project manager and general labourer although they are very different in size and manner being from two distinct breeds

I can imagine that the larger of the two, a chubby, bossy and belligerent classical Carp shaped fish would be the instigator and the much smaller, delicate and flowing tailed one a bit of a fawning acolyte.

Yes, the fat fish is very bright orange, quite flamboyant and self assured and yet not in possession of the sharpest mind. His companion is subservient but I suspect very clever and a little bit devious in appearing to go along with the whims and fancies of the dominant partner and by doing so getting exactly what it wants.

I can therefore have the naming ceremony here and now.

The pair of fish will henceforth be called Trump and Kush.

There is some satisfaction in having reached this point but I am now a little bit concerned about what the outcome of the further fish tank based activities of Trump and Kush might be- a golf course, a wall or as a launch pad for aggression and mayhem in their own little world...............................................or beyond.

A Room with a View

It was a pleasantly warm day in Florence, Italy.

Those visitors to the city, like myself, from the colder climates of northern europe were dressed in short sleeved shirts and shorts. Amongst the aromatic odours from the confectioners, bakers, restaurants and trattoria's was the familiar and distinctive fragrance of sun tan lotion on pale freckly skin , a bit premature I thought for what was still only the third week in May.

The local population in contrast hustled through the straggling crocodiles of organised tours being distinguishable by their sporting of full winter coats and ski jackets in the relatively chilly conditions in an eminently fashionable style that only Italians can.

Progress on the flagstone and marble pavements of the narrow streets of three and more storey civic and residential buildings alternated between heat and shade. It was entirely possible to traverse the historic city either in full dazzling sunlight or perpetual cool shadows.

Care had to be taken in negotiating the hordes of tourists who were either wired up to a running commentary from their flag bearing guide at the head of the column or adopting a stop-start policy after catching sight of another ancient statue, church, facade or just a tempting menu displayed on a lecturn at a pavement cafe.

In addition to the groups were the freelancers consisting of individuals or hand-holding couples. They were somewhat obvious in their carrying of their copies of Baedeckers Guide to Florence as though on their own grand tour of the Tuscan region, a customary pursuit for many over the generations. Some clutched  worn paperback editions of Room with a View and Dan Brown's Inferno, the latter in imagining themselves as the main character Robert Langdon on a typically complicated and contrived trail of mystery, mayhem and controversy.

There is no doubting the pedigree of the city as a cradle of creativity in the arts, humanities and science. In the cool, pillared vaults of Santa Croce I wandered about a bit punch drunk with the monuments to Gallileo, Michelangelo, Dante, Da Vinci and Machiavelli all being captured within the same camera phone shot. Being too tight to purchase a definitive guide to the rest of the hallowed sons and daughters of Florence I remained ignorant of the contributions of many others to society, culture and philosophy.

By mid afternoon I was thinking that I had not yet, amongst the great architectural wonders, seen anything like a stone closed spandrel segmental arch bridge. My wife, on her second visit to Florence, sensed in a way that only 25 years of marriage can that I was on the trail of a stone closed spandrel segmental arch bridge (scssab) and excitedly led me in a remedial but somehow romantic hand held way through further crowds towards the river, the Arno.

Emerging just ahead of me from a shady street after breaking free of my sticky right palm she stood back and gestured at some object of which she obviously had prior knowledge.

I had to just stand and stare.

It was indeed a truly magnificent example of that elusive, and now abbreviated "scssab".
The Ponte Vecchio.

I had of course seen photographs of the thing, not being a complete cultural philistine, but nothing in one dimension could have prepared me for the true scale and splendour of its graceful span over the river and the retained Medieval charm of the shops and kiosks lining the road.

The history bit.....built in 1345 after previous structures had been washed away in the frequently devastating power of the watercourse and after only just survived a similar fate in the 1966 inundation of the old city, it is indeed a unique sight.

Legends and fables abound.

The term bankruptcy is often associated with the practice of breaking up the tables of traders on the bridge by the authorities if the individual was unable to pay his debts.

The bridge was spared, undamaged with the retreat of the German army in 1944, this rumoured to be on the express orders of Hitler, perhaps like me a fan of a stone closed spandrel segmental arch. Other less notable and functional crossing points were destroyed.

 The retail identity of the bridge is firmly in the jewellery sector with small display frontages of high priced items and somewhat spoiled in my mind by a large, gawdy Rolex backlit sign.

I have a built in reflex to usher my wife away from high end goods emporiums but this was proving difficult given the mesmeric effect that the shop windows were having on her. We lingered and dwelled outside a few establishments, with me pretending to have some sophistication and secret affluence in peering dutifully over my wife's shoulder.

We had talked about purchasing a memento from Florence to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. There was some difference in opinion as to what form it would take. I favoured, perhaps, more of a city scene snow-globe type acquisition. It would be a case of compromise obviously taking into account Allison's own expectations of the item.

Something shiny away from the jewellery shops caught my attention and I stood and gawped at the collection of padlocks secured to the superstructure of the Ponte Vecchio.

Apparently it is a tradition, albeit of the modern era, for lovers to write their names or initials on a padlock, fasten it to the bridge and then throw the key into the Arno. Although a waste of a good stout lock it is deemed symbolic of the eternal bond as lovers.

Over the years thousands upon thousands of couples have patronised this practice ultimately to the fiscal benefit of the owner of, surprise, surprise, the only padlock shop trading on the bridge.

The custom became so popular amongst dewy eyed lovers that the city authorities decreed that the bridge was under threat of damage, in effect, from this form of romantic nostalgia.

I have ultimate confidence in a stone closed spandrel segmental arch to carry all manner of imposed loadings including a few extra tons of tempered and forged steel but the main injury to the historic bridge was from the physical attachment of the hasps to railings and the statue of a certain civic dignatory, a Mr Cellini.

I mused, on that hot afternoon about the sacrifices and inevitable price to be paid for love and all things symbolic about love. I concluded that it was 160 Euro's plus the cost of a confiscated padlock, the current sanction imposed by the Florentine City Fathers on those still intent on doing soppy and impetuous things involving vandalism of a public monument.

Now, where did I recall seeing those fabulous snow globes?

That old chestnut............

I gave in to a stereotypical middle aged geek urge to try to calculate the hourly income generation of Hull Fair, the largest travelling entertainment of its type in Europe. It is here this week. The figures that I have used are from a couple of years ago but are about right for 2018.

This is my calculation based on guesstimate, prejudice, inappropriate stock judgements and not a very detailed knowledge of the economics of a very large, slick and efficient commercial enterprise.

I divided up the Fair into broad groups based on form and function.

This covers the multi-million pound Mega Rides right down to the individual hawker with a fistful of helium balloons.

I then estimated the average spend of a visitor to each category, how many visitors could be served at a time and how many times the transaction could be done per hour.

For example, Bob Carvers Chip Emporium has about 15 servers who could turn around a punter every two minutes from order to payment therefore 30 per hour at an average spend of £7.40 assuming 2 portions of pattie, chips and peas.

I applied this across the full range even down to Eva Petulengro Fortune Teller and stalker of Coronation  Street Stars who can, I guess, throw considerable uncertainty into the ongoing lives of 6 people per hour for £5 a go.

The full calculation is as follows;

Fast Food Concessions.
Average take £3, 5 servings at a time, 2 minutes duration, 30 per hour, 50 stalls

Fortune Tellers.
Average take £5, 1 at a time but with 5 caravan based clairvoyants, 10 minutes consultation, so 6 per hour.

Major Rides.
£2.50 average fare, 25 per ride, 12 revolutions, cycles or inversions per hour, 20 such high tech marvels of inertia and motion.

Traditional side stalls.
£1.50 per chuck, launch, shot, hook a duck, 10 people at a time, 2 minutes of adrenaline soaked enjoyment, 30 per hour across 40 very similar stalls with this years top promotion of Meerkats.
Special category for dart throwing stalls.£1.50 , 10 men, 2 minutes including a cigarette, 30 per hour, 20 anachronistic and chauvinistic booth operators.

Bob Carvers, carried over from the illustrative section above.

Children's rides.
£1 fare from grandma's purse. 20 per ride unless the toy cars have not yet been dettol'd so allow for 75% occupancy, 12 sessions per hour, I reckon about 10 old style rides just surviving the high tech expectations of the under-5's.

Amusements/slots/falls.
£2 average spend, a lot of 2p's, 50 punters per arcade, disillusionment kicks in with fresh blood every 5 minutes, 5 arcades all possibly operated by the same company.

One-off specials.
Difficult to see how these actually pay the operators. Cost of £10 per person, teamed up possibly with a perfect stranger to be elastic-launched no-where and be photographed of how you would look faced with the your worst nightmare or entering the Big Brother House. 10 minute set up and ride time so only 5 boings per hour. Possibly 2 of these ridiculous pieces of showboating equipment.

Traditional stalls selling candy floss, toffee apples, liquorice whips.
Average spend £2, well staffed so 10 people served at a time, 2 minutes customer interface time, 30 similar stalls but strong representation from Wrights of Brighouse.

Hawkers
Vendors of balloons, light-up hats, battery operated pets in baskets, whistles reminiscent of childhood Punch and Judy but cringingly annoying after 5 seconds. £3 per spend, 12 sales per hour with 30 high viz vested sellers.

I think that I have covered all income generating areas but if you can think of any more please fill in the dotted lines and carry over to my gross figure....................................................................................
..........................................................................................................................................................

As the Americans always say incorrectly ' Now for the math'.

My hourly gross figure working through my calculations comes to £105,420 per hour for the peak evening sessions from 7pm to closing time.

This produces a global gross figure for the peak hours and over the 8 nights of the Fair of £3,373,440.

Making allowances for bad weather, exceptionally fine weather and those afraid of the dark who only attend in the daylight hours there is considerable scope for fluctuations in figures.

There are of course significant costs to be offset against this figure which I, no doubt, will ponder in the wee small waking hours of the next week or so.

Fair Game

There are many urban myths around the annual event of Hull Fair in East Yorkshire, UK.

It is the largest travelling funfair in Europe and for 8 days and nights it occupies its longstanding site on Walton Street just to the west of the central city area. Many who make a point of attending the inaugural evening have to consider the urban myth that they are in  fact just guinea pigs to check that, under a full compliment of riders and passengers, all of the nuts and bolts have been tightened up, the safety bars and cages are indeed secure and the complex electronics and controls of the latest technologically sophisticated attractions are working as they have been designed for.

The first night has not been without danger and tragedy in the past with well documented accidents and incidents but given the enforcement and sanctions that are an integral part of modern health and safety culture these are very much diminished and this year, as far as I am aware, the Fair passed without any thing to report by way of injury.

Other myths revolve around the food stalls that are very much a tradition amongst the pastimes and recreations.

Take one of the most famous purveyors of Fair fare, the home grown Bob Carvers Emporium. His reputation of providing good old grub has been established through his city centre shops for decades. A Saturday night out on the town would not be complete without his fish and chips after pub closing time, the cooking fat soaking through the newspaper and putting your best going-out clothes and taxi upholstery at risk of reasonable salvage.

The stall bearing Carver's livery and under startlingly bright floodlights is always crowded with hundreds queuing up for the signature dish of gritty chips, mushy peas and a pattie.

In my early years in Hull I regularly heard stories about the reason for the gritty texture of the famous chips. This could range from the use of poor quality potatoes in rotten or bruised skins to the failure of Carver's Staff to actually clean the soil and field debris from the newly delivered stock. What the chips were cooked in was also a matter of speculation from second hand fat to the positively unthinkable.

I actually stumbled across the true reason for the distinctive crunchiness of the chips when, in Hull Fair week, I was stuck behind a pick-up truck with the open load bay full of plastic bins of cut chips just barely covered in scummy water. I could see the surface of the bins collecting the particulates of pollution as the vehicle crawled through the traffic congestion, generally worse than usual because of the road closures and volumes of Fair-goers. Although very evident as the source of the unusual texture I still made sure that a Carver's supper was on of my first purchases at the Fair.

The huge exodus of the public to the Walton Street venue produces its own problems in terms of transport and parking.

In recent years a Park and Ride Service has been laid on from the western suburbs and this has proven popular as trying to find any parking place for the duration of a visit to the Fair is very difficult.

The surrounding streets are full of just residents cars and there is a high possibility of getting a parking ticket if frustration just leads you to abandon your vehicle anywhere.

Enterprising businesses within a short walk of the Fairground and with an empty out of hours Car Park or spaces can cash in on the demand with anything from £3 to £5 charged for a 2 to 4 hour session.

I was talking to a property owner just yesterday, a mere 4 days after the travelling entourage of the Fair had dispersed for their winter holidays or to move to the next pitch.

His large double fronted house within 100 metres of Walton Street was being renovated and so was vacant. A Contractors van had damaged the side gates to the rear yard and this meant that there was nothing in place to stop Fairgoers, if they were minded to do so, from using the spacious yard as impromptu and free parking.

The man and his wife made their way to the property on the thursday evening or day 6 of Hull Fair. The trip was to include their usual check over the premises but also with the intention of enjoying all the fun of the Fair.

At the side drive of the house there was a dark clad figure and next to him a neatly hand written sign of "Hull Fair Secure Parking £5".

This shocked the couple and even more so the gesturing of the self styled attendant to move along and find a space before paying him.

They pulled up alongside the house, in effect blocking in the 8 or more cars already using the facility.

When challenged by the couple if this was with the owner's consent the positive was offered most enthusiastically.

"If that is the case then I am due half of your takings as I am the owner"

There followed a swift legging it of the individual down the street and out of sight.

What time is it Eccles?

I am really enjoying the BBC Radio 4 Extra broadcasts of The Goon Shows which were first aired on the BBC Light Programme in the 1950's.

It has, for me, been an acquired taste as, of course, they have been on and off the radio schedules over the last 60 years but I have never before actually "got" the madcap and cleverly written dialogue and comedic delivery, voices and all.

Perhaps I have myself mellowed and become attuned to the pace and rhythm of the performances by Messrs Secombe, Sellers and Milligan.

This is a particular favourite sketch of mine featuring the wonderfully idiotic tones from Milligan as Eccles and Sellers as Bluebottle. It comes from a radio show in 1957.

(dialogue begins over a chorus of clock chimes and tick-tocks)

Bluebottle; What time is it Eccles?

Eccles; Um, just a minute. I've got it written down here on a piece of paper. A nice man wrote it down for me this morning.

Bluebottle; Oh. Then why do you carry it around with you Eccles?

Eccles; Well, um, er, if anybody asks me the time I can show it to them

Bluebottle; Wait a minute Eccles my good man

Eccles; What is it fellow?

Bluebottle; It's writted on this bit of paper; but it's 8 o'clock he has writted.

Eccles; I know my good fellow. That's right, um, when I asked the fella to write it down it was 8 o'clock.

Bluebottle; But, um, supposin' when someone asks you the time it isn't 8 o'clock?

Eccles; Then I don't show it to them.

Bluebottle; Oh. Well, how do you know when it's 8 o'clock?

Eccles;  I got it written down on a piece of paper !

Bluebottle; I wish I could afford a piece of paper with the time written on

Eccles; Oh

Bluebottle; Hey, Eccles. Let me hold that piece of paper to my ear would you?

Eccles; Oh

Bluebottle; Here, this piece of paper ain't going!

Eccles; WWHHHAAAT! I've been sold a forgery!

Bluebottle; No wonder it stopped at 8 o'clock.

Eccles; Oh dear.

Bluebottle; You should get one of them things my grandad's got.

Eccles; Oh?

Bluebottle; His firm gave it to him when he retired.

Eccles; Oh?

Bluebottle; It's one of them things what it is that wakes you up at 8 o'clock, boils the ketteyel and pours a cup of tea.

Eccles; Oh yeah. Um what's it called?

Bluebottle. My grandma.

Eccles; Oh, (thoughtful pause and sniff). Wait a minute. How does she know when it's 8 o'clock?

Bluebottle; She's got it written down on a piece of paper!


This is an archived recording.

What time is it Eccles?

Spending a penny

We are not an adventurous family when the fun fair comes to town.

You will not find us on the high altitude, thrill a minute rides. We can easily give the Waltzers and even the traditional Carousel a miss. One year we managed to just get through an impulsive go on the Giant Ferris Wheel, but never again.

Don't be mistaken by this reticence and deep rooted fear as we are faithful fans and supporters of the great Hull Fair, reputed to be Europe's largest travelling event, when it sets up in the city in the second week of October.

Regardless of the weather we will be there to savour the sights, sounds and smells that assault the senses on all sides.

One attraction that we always get drawn to is a specific Amusement Arcade operated by the same family business that graces Hull Fair for as long as I can remember.

As if you already regard us as a bunch of meek and cowardly beings from our avoidance of the big noisy fairground rides I should reassure you that we do not gamble recklessly as though seeking some sort of self- affirmation.

The sole purpose of our visit to the arcade is to try to outwit, beat, conquer and defeat the Penny Falls machines. Often called Coin Drop Machines they are well known as a mainstay of Fairground Culture and have been for decades if not longer.

The English versions are typically operated using 10 pence coins as the maximum tariff but our particular challenge takes 2 pence coins.

Themed on  Post-War Americana, Elvis Presley or something anachronistic as the machines are evidently ancient they take a familiar physical form.

There are three coin slots within a stainless steel facade. A formed matrix draws the coins downwards before they cascade randomly onto the upper of two sliding shelves. Adding more coins, individually or using all three slots, is with the intention of shunting the upper tier coins over the edge and onto the lower shelf. This is where all of the action takes place with the tantalising promise of  Chupa Chup lollies, Refresher chewy sweets, plastic novelties, a high denomination bank note and , yes, multiple 2p coins being pushed into the prize slot to be gathered up with relish.

Our domestic budget during Hull Fair Week includes a fund for expenses at the Penny Falls.

We each collect our plastic bank-teller bags of a pounds worth of 2p coins and make a quick but calculating tour of the bank of gawdy and noisy, self promoting machines for a likely candidate for a concerted effort at swelling the family finances.

A feeling of anticipation and excitement always takes over at this point. It is all consuming and for the duration we are oblivious to anything else around us. In truth, the rest of the fair could have already packed up and departed for their next venue without us realising.

We are immersed in the Penny Falls and yet we are normally quite a rational bunch, not easily fooled, and the first to howl in disbelief at Tv programmes where individuals fall prey to scams, fiddles and tricksters.

We are in fact being bamboozled by one of the oldest and most lucrative of machines for fairground operators.

However hard you think about or hope for it, there is no freak of mathematical probability in the progression of the coins onto the sliding shelves.

Brian Cox, the physicist would be hard pressed to come up with an explanation for the apparent ability of the 500 coins, there assembled, to display a fluidity and yet no critical mass is reached which would result in a hoped for payout.

I think that even Albert Einstein would struggle to formularise the processes at play.

We still shovel the 2 pence coins into the slots.

One of our family is the designated runner who, when the plastic coin bags start to feel lighter in our hands, makes for the Change Booth to hand over more pound coins for fresh supplies.

In spite  of our manic and, let's face it, uncharacteristic behaviour for anywhere other than the Fairground, we do accept, somewhere in our collective hearts and minds that their is no actual material or tactical way to beat the Penny Falls.

It is a clever feature on the lower shelf that heralds our ultimate disappointment.

Just tucked away within the mirrored sheen of the shelf surround, on each side, are narrow holes. They may be concealed in the Hollywood-esque designs but are actually in full and plain sight.

These voids allow accumulated coins on the lower shelf to be cleaned away periodically so that new arrivals just seem to be absorbed into the precarious pile on the lip of the prize shute.

The manufacturers of Penny Falls play on a unique selling point in that the balance between coins played and those paid out can be adjusted to ensure profitability for the operator and yet give the by now obsessive player some sense of being rewarded.

Most manufacturers recommend a retention rate to the operator of around 72%.

We fully understand that the game works against us under the phenomena of diminishing returns but we can easily wile away a good half an hour in pursuit of any ultimately elusive recompense for our financial outlay.

That thirty minutes of together family fun makes the fair special and we would not, perhaps illogically, forfeit the same experience , year in ,year out.

It is all of the fun of the Fair.

A Crisis of Identity

It is my observation that the business of producing lanyards must be booming.

I refer of course to those thin looped straps worn around the neck and used primarily nowadays to hold an identity card, door security key or similar.

Just about everyone that you see in daylight working hours sports one of these.

It could just be a modern phenomena borne out of the need to confirm not just identity but as a very visual expression of having a bona-fide reason for being somewhere and doing something.

There is a certain style to the wearing of a lanyard so as to convey professionalism and competence to those around you. I managed to work without one for the last 30 years but my badged up and Company Logo endorsed version is one of the first things that I seek out and put on at the start of a week day.

During the last three decades I was never challenged on my identity or purpose in a particular environment.

Perhaps the fact that I was dressed in a shirt and collar with tie, suit and shiny shoes gave me a certain authority and even an intimidating persona which just opened doors and gave me unquestioned access to all areas of homes, shops, factories and every type of property in between.

The actual history of the lanyard is quite interesting being mainly associated from its 15th Century origins with the military. The derivation of the name is thought to come from medieval French meaning a thong or strap.

In warfare a lanyard was used as part of an artillery battery as the means by which to arm the fuse of a cannon. It has a strong association with all things naval and referred to a piece of rigging to secure objects.

In more modern battle situations it was used to pull out the cotter pin to arm a bomb and those grainy and stuttering images of a First World War battlefield often show an army officer type with his faithful pistol attached to a more substantial leather lanyard so that it was less likely to get lost in the quagmire of the trenches and no-mans land.

My own lanyard has developed a mind of its own.

I cannot explain the mechanics of what happens but between 3pm and 4pm every day my identity card and its stout plastic holder somehow detach themselves from the sturdy spring loaded clip and fall to whatever surface is beneath me.

This occurs without fail and is beginning to not just annoy me but worry me as well.

I have speculated that in the middle of a working afternoon as my energy is sapped I start to stoop a little in my stance and this may squash the clip against my manly barrel chest causing the release.

Other theories of mine are that it simply snags on my notepad clipboard when I am, again, flagging a bit and not paying attention or simply does it out of some sort of inanimate object mischief.

Yesterdays involuntarily release caused no end of problems and embarrassment.

After having flashed the badge to the homeowners on their doorstep I spent some forty minutes or so inspecting every part of their detached property.

This included my usual 360 degree circling of the exterior (a luxury only permitted by a detached status), a ramble up and around the garden and in and out of any outbuildings and then a room to room, floor by floor systematic survey of the interior culminating in a head and shoulders check of the roof void.

I have a good and logical approach to each inspection but inevitably there are potential distractions such as an attentive and curious owner, inquisitive or annoying children and over enthusiastic domestic pets, all of which can divert attention from, in this case, the precise moment that my ID card dropped off the lanyard.

It was not until I had reached the following appointment after a 30 minute drive that I noticed that it was missing.

A frantic search of the car, inside and under was inconclusive. I backtracked in my mind to recollect my movements in the preceding hour plus twenty time frame.

It had to be at the detached house.

Pulling up on the kerb I had a quick scan to where I had parked earlier. It had been school pick up time in that neighbourhood and so I imagined a small child using the ID card in a role play session in the privacy of their own home.

My embarrassment at ringing the bell again was acute.

The owners were however most sympathetic and understanding and allowed me to repeat my earlier intensive inspection without any quips or remarks,

Family members even took to the back garden and outbuildings on my behalf. There was, for a few moments, a search party of 6 of us.

I even popped my head up into the loft to see if the card had snagged on the top of the stowaway ladder. It had not.

I was by now resigned to the fact that I would have to go through the drawn out process of ordering a replacement.

The owners took my office address and said that if they came across it they would be sure to send it on.

For all of the meticulous retracing of my steps I had a bugging feeling that I had missed something.

As I turned at the front door to thank the five persons for their efforts I saw the door of the understairs cupboard.

I had stuck my nose in there to look at the fuse box and gas meter.

The assembled group must have thought I was a bit obsessive in the quest for the card and stood aside as I made a final lurching movement for the pine door nestled under the balustrade.

Staring up from its resting place on the Ewbank carpet sweeper was my holiday photo, taken on a boat in the middle of a Scottish Loch which had been the only one out of a few hundred that I had liked to confirm my identity.

I could have danced a jig and whooped and a-hollered but out of respect for my professionalism I said my farewells and left.

Suffice to say I have since soldered shut the spring clip.

Up, Down and Up again; Walliker Street, Hull

I have not really given a second thought to Walliker Street, Hull, East Yorkshire.

I now realise that this has been a gross neglect, on my part, of its heritage, the individuals who have resided there and how its own story reflected those of the wider City of which it is part. It took its name from Samuel Walliker, a contemporary of Rowland Hill, social and Postal Service Reformer, and who became Postmaster in Hull from 1863 to 1881,

It is a short street, running from a junction with the main Anlaby Road corridor to the north and terminating at a pedestrian footbridge over the railway line that connects Hull to the rest of the country. It is of one way traffic with a dogleg offshoot along Arthur Street leading westwards.

My first experience of Walliker Street was in 1985 when, as a trainee surveyor, I had to visit a number of houses to assess their value as part of a possible demolition and clearance scheme. They were a mixed bunch of properties.

A few were abandoned and semi derelict, others small and palatial through the hard graft of their owners and one was operating as a brothel.

Reprieved from destruction but at the same time left unfunded for renovation the street remained in a sort of limbo. Owners came and went, landlords and tenants followed and in between there was round of speculative action by builders and DIY developers.

As a direct consequence of haphazard actions, the street became a mish-mash of different roof coverings, window styles, masonry finishes and paint jobs. The photograph below shows the eastern side of Walliker Street around 2016.

In the development and growth of this inner city area of Hull the street is amongst one of the earliest to have been built.

Archive maps from 1850 show open fields and where the houses on the photograph stand was part of Maiden Hill Farm which fronted what was little more than a track from Hull towards the hamlet of Anlaby.

The agricultural identity held out until 1881 when a terrace of two storey houses was built on the western side with, at that time, wide open unrestricted views to rural countryside and yet within half a mile of central Hull.

The only interruption to the idyllic scene was from the railway line which carried a constant flow of freight and passenger trains serving one of the busiest Ports in the country in terms of goods and also those passing through as immigrants heading to Liverpool for an onward passage to the Americas.

The block of houses in the photograph were built on the eastern side of the street some 14 years later in 1895. The tract of land was yet another venture by The Alexandra Land and Property Mortgage and Investment Company Limited whose activities were across the city in areas for new housing. They sold and conveyed the land to Messrs William and Fred Barnett who appear to have been building contractors.

The title deed stipulated what trades and businesses would be expressly prohibited from dwellings when built with the intention of keeping up residential quality and the neighbourhood. These included blacksmith, fish curer, soap boiler, lead smelter, fellmonger or the depositing of human soiling in the locality in the days before reliable foul drainage.

The photograph below is taken from the Anlaby Road end of Walliker Street in 1904 and shows a tidy, impressive group of working and middle class houses. Residents are more likely to occupy as tenants as outright purchase and owner occupation was only within the reach of the wealthy. Those living in Walliker Street in the 1890's included master mariner, chemist, butcher, accountant, marble mason, law writer and an examining officer.

In the right foreground is signage for Chas W Lewis, Cab Proprietor whose name and occupation appeared in the listings of occupants in the 1890's being typical of longevity of living in the street.

By the first decade of the 20th Century the surrounding area had been fully developed and there was a transition from semi rural to inner city for Walliker Street.

In the blitz years of the Second World War the street appears to have escaped serious bomb damage unlike large swaths of urban and suburban Hull which were flattened or in some way affected. This was remarkable given the proximity to a strategically important rail route and manufacturing areas.

The decline of the street will have begun in the 1970's as many former residents moved out to the new estates on the periphery of Hull to leave behind old, damp and costly to maintain properties.

At the time of my first employment in the City a two or three bedroomed house on Walliker Street could be bought for around £10,000 which in today's money sounds rock bottom although in the hierarchy of inner city housing in Hull it was about mid range.

The future of the street and wider Newington District was precarious for some years and it was only in the last couple of years that Walliker Street received grant funding for long overdue improvements to the housing stock including external insulation, new frontages and a uniformity in style and appearance.

The works were completed and the photo below was taken just a few days ago.

It depicts a remarkable return to the appearance of the street in its halcyon years.

The image is taken from the same position as the scene from 2016 with the styling achieved through the use of brick slips, render finished insulation and reconstituted stone effect for the door arches and window headers.

I believe that the original Victorian residents will have approved of the turnaround in the street.

On leaving home...............

I have experienced first hand the stress and anxiety of trying to sell a house.

Well, a few times now but that sensation of self inflicted, albeit temporary, insecurity and rootlessness does not diminish.

I should be pretty familiar and attuned to the process given that my job is in property and I deal with sellers and purchasers on a daily basis.Through this I am, in small measures, exposed to some of their pressures and worries.

This was no more emphasised than just a couple of days ago.

My commission was to inspect and report to a prospective buyer on a property called "Blacksmiths Cottage" which was in a small Yorkshire hamlet just a few hundred metres from the crumbling cliff line of the North Sea coast.

My pre-visit research of the many internet sites in the public domain showed a modern chalet style house. The origins of its name were therefore likely to be a spurious reference to history, a bit like Jack and Vera on Coronation Street calling their city based terraced house "The Old Vicarage".

I expected a bit of a bland 1970's build quality and styling. On the one hand, not too challenging but on the other very disappointing.

On arriving outside at a rusty five bar gated driveway I noticed a few features on the house which were distinctly not from the modern era but had not been discernible in my initial desk top investigation.

The chimney stacks were painted render and the pots quite ancient. Window dimensions were squat and wide. The wall thickness to the front door opening was about two feet thick. A side wall was in  local sea cobbles which will have been collected up over the generations and used for building.

The arrangement for my visit was to be met and shown around by the daughter of the owners.

This is quite a common scenario where, for example, the actual occupants are on holiday, in hospital or otherwise indisposed due to a myriad of circumstances.

A lady, in her 50's welcomed me at the front porch and then in hushed and nervous tone ushered me into the living room.

In the same low voice she looked over my shoulder to the driveway as though checking on something that was happening out of my line of sight.

After a tense momentary pause she noticeably relaxed with the words "ah, they've gone now".

I had a fleeting image of sprites, goblins or ghosts making an exit on my behalf. An explanation was required and it was this.

Her parents had moved to what had been the actual 18th century village Forge and Blacksmiths Cottage some thirty years ago. In their prime at that time in their lives they had taken on a huge renovation project. The father had been a contracts manager for a large Civil Engineering and Building Company having a wide knowledge and practical hands on skill in all trades.

I was shown an album of rather faded and age bleached photographs of the property in its abandoned and derelict state. The family were confined to a static caravan in the front garden for the duration of the scheme until habitable. This is likely to have taken a good few months.

The completed property met all of the requirements for that family with a large ground floor footprint including three living rooms, large kitchen, full width glazed verandah and a total of four bedrooms upstairs. The back garden was large and south facing and the old Forge attached provided a utility room, storage, leisure facility and a place of the oil fuel tank.

After their offspring grew up and left home the couple will have rattled around in all of that space but with a happy prospect of retirement in idyllic surroundings.

Unfortunately in their senior years they experienced ill health. The father, as with many men who had worked manually and in harsh environments, felt a stiffening of joints and arteries which had to be tackled with a course of medication. This caused mood and temper swings which were wholly out of character. Mother developed panic attacks which made interaction with others and what most of us would regard as simple chores almost unbearable to contemplate let alone attempt.

The hardest decision had to be made . It was to sell their dream home, their safe haven and the place where so many memories had been formed.

I can only imagine what reaching this stage in life is like.

A house and garden of this size demands ongoing attention and if prevented from doing this by ill health I can to some extent appreciate the stress that this produces.

The couple could not therefore take the thought of me, a stranger, wandering around their home prying and probing on behalf of a prospective new owner. I felt bad about forcing them to vacate. It was also a bit of a chilly, dull October morning. I asked if they would be all right particularly if the only option in that tiny hamlet was to walk about until I had finished my work.

I was reassured by the reply that they were going to seek refuge in a cafe on a nearby seaside caravan park.

The property was fascinating in that although renovated three decades ago it still retained authentic features of beamed ceilings, inglenooks, exposed sea cobble internal walls and overall character and charm.

It took a couple of hours to do the place justice.

On leaving I apologised to the lady, again, for inconveniencing her parents, hoping that they had not got too cold or saturated with tea.

I did glance down the street on reaching my car on the off chance of seeing what I imagined as a devoted but involuntarily bad tempered and irritable couple, huddled against the cold wind and contemplating the next stage of their lives in a bland 1970's bungalow.

I would not wish that on anyone.

Shameless Plug

I do not usually blow my own trumpet, well not since I retired at the age of 16 from Brigg Town Silver Band ,but my first publication is out this week.

It has been adapted, designed and art directed by the dynamic team of Joe and Alice at Form Shop and Studio in Hull, East Yorkshire and is also on sale at Humber Street or via heyform.co.uk.

Thank you for the opportunity to get into print and reach a wider audience. It is the first of a series of 'zines based on my daily blog writings from the last 7 years.

Hope you like it. Feedback welcome or if you particularly like any of my archive of blogs just let me know and it could find its way into a further series. I apologise to my global readers that it is only in English but you never know, a whole multilingual catalogue could soon be in the development stage.

Titbits with bite

It is a particular passion of mine; to determine what sauce is most popular out of brown or red.

I can take both in moderation but strictly down to the specific meal on my plate, in the newspaper, polystyrene tray or cardboard carton in my hand. 

If I were to commit to a sauce however then there is no debate. It has to be brown sauce above all. 

The UK brands for brown sauce have become institutions in their own right with the two main ones being HP and Daddies but with many, many more having in their halcyon days surpassed these mainstays in terms of volume sold and popularity. 

Two specific products from a now defunct company in Selby, North Yorkshire warrant a special mention, these being Titbits Sauce and Tiger Sauce.

Their history and heritage actually suggests that they predated the invention of the now dominant HP sauce in the last decade of the 19th Century. 

The status and loyal following of HP has led to the production of a formal written history. 

Its origins in Nottingham in the UK Midlands are a matter of myth and legend with the recipe, concocted by a grocer and said to have been acquired by a vinegar manufacturer in settlement of a business debt. 

Although only likely to have been produced in small quantities in Nottingham it's inventor did have the foresight to register the product as House of Parliament or HP sauce in 1895 but it was not until 1903 that the acquiring company launched it on commercial basis. 

It quickly became established as the brand leader and still enjoys that position today. 

However, any claim that HP may have to being the first brown sauce on the market appears to be in question and Fletchers of Selby had a part to play in the story. 

The Titbits Sauce brand was the invention of a company called Stamp, Bointon, Junior and Co whose business address was based in Harrogate and Southampton. 

In a published share issue document from 1894, therefore one year earlier than the HP registration their principal operation mentioned the two brand names. 

Fletchers acquired the rights to the Titbits brand in 1913 and made it their own. 

The products enjoyed huge commercial success with millions of bottles being sold every year in the domestic market and globally through the expansive trade market of the British Empire. 

In 1947 Fletchers was bought by HP Sauce of Birmingham and although the respected and loyalty inducing products continued to be seen on shop shelves until the 1990's it was always expected that the parent company would protect and promote their own market leader by running down any competition or threat to market share. 

It is a shame that such well known and popular brands do not survive in the harsh trading conditions of the wider world but I can take some comfort in the fact that the ingredients and taste of my favourite sauce, brown sauce will have remained constant over the ensuing 124 years.

Three Minute Warning

"Public Image" by Public Image. 

It is one of the few tracks from the Punk era of the late 1970's that I still play regularly and loud some 40 years on. It has the same effect on me now as it did then.

It is not from a sense of nostalgia. 

I have no punk rock credentials although at the time that the single reached number 9 in the UK Charts in October 1978 I was aged 15 and keen to find my place in the big wide world. 

This could be achieved through musical allegiances amongst my peer group although I did actually align myself with the Mod Movement making use of one of my Father's two piece suits and winkle picker leather shoes. 

What appeals to me about the track is the combination of angst ridden anti-exploitation lyrics and a beautifully worked melancholy guitar riff above a driving drum and bass rhythm. 

It has a very emotive quality to it, almost reaching a classical phrasing. 

The thought process behind it should not have produced something so evocative. 

The song was originally the work of John Lydon in his days with the tragically destined Sex Pistols. It was a collaboration with co-writers Levene, Walker and Jah Wobble but kept in reserve until he founded Public Image after everything fired off with the Pistols. 

In an interview with Melody Maker in October of 1978 the motivation and driving force behind the track was chaotically explained by Lydon in his own words:

"despite what most of the press seemed to misinterpret it to be, is not about the fans at all, it's a slagging of the group I used to be in. 

It's what I went through from my own group. 

They never bothered to listen to what I was fucking singing, they don't even know the words to my songs. They never bothered to listen, it was like, 'Here's a tune, write some words to it.' So I did. 

They never questioned it. I found that offensive, it meant I was literally wasting my time, 'cause if you ain't working with people that are on the same level then you ain't doing anything. 

The rest of the band and Malcolm never bothered to find out if I could sing, they just took me as an image. It was as basic as that, they really were as dull as that.

 After a year of it they were going 'Why don't you have your hair this colour this year?' And I was going 'Oh God, a brick wall, I'm fighting a brick wall!' 

They don't understand even now". 

The launch of the single in the UK included a fake newspaper effect sleeve daubed with mock slogans and a few "in" jokes for those with a more intimate knowledge of the personalities involved. 

The UK singles chart in autumn 1978 was an eclectic mix of artists and songs. Many equally great tracks as Public Image never made it to the top spot as the songs from Grease were still dominant and other acts such as The Boomtown Rats, Boney M, Donna Summer, Electric Light Orchestra and Dean Friedman blocked any progress beyond its 9th best selling. 

It did get airtime on the regular sunday chart show on Radio One although at less than three minutes long it could easily be missed in the rundown if you were required to make a cup of tea, do a chore for parents or go to the loo. 

I, as many of my generation in the pre digital era , did the usual illicit recording of the Chart Show on a hand held Sony tape recorder. It was a very poor quality reproduction and being placed next to the radiogram speaker in the living room there was always the strong possibility of picking up all of the sounds in an active family house. That track just penetrated through everything. 

Public Image remains as a personal favourite. In one of those end of year or end of century polls it got to be the 242nd greatest song of all time and so certainly appealed to many others.

Here is the best rendition to be found; 

Public Image