James Preserves (Jim Jams)

It's nice to get into your pyjamas.

It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.

I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.

I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.

An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.

It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.

There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of sterilised-milk. It was an observation deep rooted in past age and culture but still relevant today.

This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their ciggies and consumables straight from their beds. There has been a big change in our retailing habits mainly forced upon us by the trend for large out of town Supermarkets. That natural instinct to provide for family can sometimes mean the same early-bird shopping requirement but the megastores have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.

It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarrassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.

With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy wearing your jammies without fear of ridicule or intrusion.

When in my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.

I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.

Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.

I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and Lucozade. Happy days indeed.

As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.

As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive Pyjama Day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on leftovers and the contents of the fridge.

We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.

(reproduced from 2012)

Lifting the Lid

It must be my age and the general pressures, stresses and strains that go with it but I am no longer excited by a big tin of Quality Street Chocolates.

Although these goodies, in various packaged forms, are of course available on an all year round basis it only tends to be in the Christmas Season that the large receptacles appear. The brand first came out in 1936.

We were given one by a good friend of the family and yes, it is a big thrill and a treat amongst the overload of food and sweet things that wash around at this time of the year.

Even so, it is only just this morning that I tore off the plastic seal and ventured into the foil and cellophane wrapped contents.

That in itself must be a record, make a note, 29th December for first sighting.

The media has, as usual, bemoaned the fact that the famous flavours within the Quality Street brand have diminished in size as part of a wider trend amongst manufacturers of many products to shrink them down from what we perceive to have always been their traditional scale and presence. This is certainly true in my experience with my own childhood favourites of Sherbet Fountains and Dip Dabs, the Black Jack and Fruit Salad Chews and many others which have survived in the face of sugar reduction, E Number removal and other global regulations.

My reason for tackling the tin of Quality Street was not to gorge on its contents but to carry out a bit of my own consumer research.

This was sparked off by an article in The Telegraph newspaper in the UK on Boxing Day which purported to have the definitive rankings for the twelve classic Quality Street flavours listed from worst to best. The photo below shows this league table of favouritism in an arrangement of my own doing on the dining room table. I do have a bit of slack time, yes.

The three lines are all part of my impromptu survey with one each being given to family members for their own indication of preference.

There are some interesting contradictions to the rankings from The Telegraph poll which may suggest an influence on the grounds of geographical location, demographics and culture.

I recall a Rock and Pop Poll in a school magazine back in the late 1970's which threw up similar significant variations with, for example the winners of the Best and Worst Groups being one and the same. As they say, there is no accounting for taste and the seems to be the case with Quality Street more than most.

If you happen to be near a tin of that brand whilst reading this, one that has been opened and in circulation for a few of the Festive Days, then just peek a sneak and make a brief visual note of the dominant colour of wrapper.

According to The Telegraph survey you should be looking at a very orange and red colour range with their least popular flavours being Orange Creme and the Strawberry Delight.

I can sympathise with the reasoning behind the blacklisting of these two but in the family poll the least popular rankings include three others, surprisingly the Caramel Swirl and Chocolate Toffee Finger. Those ranked from just outside of the top three to number 10 inclusive in the Telegraph are very much of a toffee persuasion. These are core brand types for Quality Street including one of my own favourites, the Toffee Penny. This is a real destroyer of teeth enamel and fillings not doubt keeping many an Emergency Dentist busy between Christmas and the New Year.

My own family, in contrast have listed in the mid to lower range those of a more chocolately and exotic content such as the Coconut Eclair, the Green Triangle, Fudge and Orange Crunch. As for the top three the National Consensus is, in reverse order, Coconut Eclair, Green Triangle and the winner, simply referred to as The Purple One ( a luxury concoction of runny caramel, hazelnut or brazil nut). My family do buck this trend in their preferences with top position going to Milk Choc Block, Toffee Finger and one affirmation for that otherwise poor performer, the Strawberry Delight.

This is the family ranking. Identities have been witheld in the interests of security and personal safety in view of the very emotive subject matter of the survey.

The biggest variation between the National and My Family preference relates to The Purple One which consistently attains high popularity in polls and from anecdotal evidence but yet performs poorly in out house with an average ranking of about 6th.

Myself, well. The picture below gives you no doubt as to my favourite.

If you feel that your own personal favourite Quality Street is not properly represented then drop a line in the comments section giving your top three.

The Art of Monologue

This is a reproduction  of a famous cautionary tale for children. It is not one of Hilaire Bellocs' but one by Marriott Edgar, a Scottish writer and comedian . Amongst an illustrious output he was prolific in producing a number of Monologues. These were championed by the great performer Stanley Holloway and with perhaps the best know being "The Albert Series" about an unfortunate Lad and his antics, adventures and mixed fortunes. I heard just recently a version by Bernard Cribbins in a broad Lancashire accent which gave me a good giggle. Here it is although Holloway and Cribbins add a bit of their own interpretation and colour to the original lyrics.

Albert and The Lion

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool
That's noted for fresh air and fun
And Mr. And Mrs. Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.
A fine little lad were young Albert,
All dressed in his best, quite a swell.
He'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle;
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.
They didn't think much to the ocean,
The waves they were piddlin' and small.
There were no wrecks and nobody drownded,
'Fact, nothin' to laugh at at all!
So, seeking for further amusement,
They paid, and went into the zoo,
Where they'd lions and tigers and camels
And cold ale and sandwiches, too.
There were one great big lion called Wallace
Whose nose was all covered with scars;
He lay in a som-no-lent posture
With the side of 'is face on the bars.
Now Albert 'ad 'eard about lions-
'Ow they was ferocious and wild;
To see lion lyin' so peaceful
Just didn't seem right to the child.
So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showin' a morsel of fear,
Took 'is stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And stuck it in Wallace's ear.
You could see that the lion din't like it,
For givin' a kind of a roll,
'e pulled Albert inside the cage with 'I'm
And swallered the little lad - 'ole!
Now Pa, 'oo 'ad seen this occurrence,
And not knowin' what to do next,
Said, "Mother, yon lion's et Albert!"
An' Mother said "Ee, I am vexed."
They complained to the animal keeper
Who said "My, wot a nasty mis'ap;
Are you sure it's your boy 'e's eaten? "
Pa said, "Am I sure? There's 'is cap!"
The manager 'ad to be sent for;
'e came and 'e said "Wot's to-do?"
Ma said "Yon lion's et Albert,
And 'I'm in 'is Sunday clothes, too! "
Father said "Right's right, young feller-
I think it's a shame and a sin
To 'ave our son et by a lion
And after we paid to come in. "
The manager wanted no trouble;
He took out his purse right away,
Sayin' "'Ow much to settle the matter?"
Pa said "Wot do you usually pay?"
But Mother 'ad turned a bit awkward
When she saw where 'er Albert 'ad gone.
She said "No, someone's got to be summonsed!"
So that was decided upon.
And off they all went to p'lice station
In front of a Magistrate chap;
They told what 'ad 'appened to Albert
And proved it by showing 'is cap.
The Magistrate gave 'is opinion
That no one was really to blame,
And 'e said that 'e 'oped the Ramsbottoms
Would 'ave further sons to their name.
At that Mother got proper blazin':
"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she-
"Wot, spend all our lives raisin' children
To feed ruddy lions? Not me! "

 (Here follows The Return of Albert)

You've 'eard 'ow young Albert Ramsbottom,

In the Zoo up at Blackpool one year

With a stick and 'orse's 'ead 'andle,

Gave a lion a poke in the ear.

The name of the lion was Wallace,
The poke in the ear made 'im wild;
And before you could say 'Bob's your Uncle,'
'E'd up and 'e'd swallered the child.

'E were sorry the moment 'e'd done it,
With children 'e'd always been chums,
And besides, 'e'd no teeth in 'is noodle,
And 'e couldn't chew Albert on t'gums.

'E could feel the lad moving inside 'im,
As 'e lay on 'is bed of dried ferns,
And it might 'ave been little lad's birthday,
'E wished 'im such 'appy returns.

But Albert kept kicking and fighting,
Till Wallace arose feeling bad,
And felt it were time that 'e started to stage
A come-back for the lad.

So with 'is 'ead down in a corner,
On 'is front paws 'e started to walk,
And 'e coughed and 'e sneezed and 'e gargled,
Till Albert shot out like a cork.

Old Wallace felt better direc'ly,
And 'is figure once more became lean,
But the only difference with Albert
Was 'is face and 'is 'ands were quite clean.

Meanwhile Mister and Missus Ramsbottom
'Ad gone 'ome to tea feeling blue;
Ma says 'I feel down in the mouth like,'
Pa says "Aye! I bet Albert does too.'

Said Ma 'It just goes for to show yer
That the future is never revealed,
If I thought we was going to lose 'im
I'd 'ave not 'ad 'is boots soled and 'eeled.

'Let's look on the bright side,' said Father
'What can't be 'elped must be endured,
Every cloud 'as a silvery lining,
And we did 'ave young Albert insured.'

A knock at the door came that moment,
As Father these kind words did speak,
'Twas the man from t'Prudential,
E'd called for their 'tuppence per person per week.'

When Father saw who 'ad been knocking,
'E laughed and 'e kept laughing so,
That the young man said 'What's there to laugh at?'
Pa said 'You'll laugh an' all when you know.'

'Excuse 'im for laughing,' said Mother,
'But really things 'appen so strange,
Our Albert's been ate by a lion,
You've got to pay us for a change.'

Said the young feller from the Prudential,
'Now, come come, let's understand this,
You don't mean to say that you've lost 'im?'
Ma says 'Oh, no! we know where 'e is.'

When the young man 'ad 'eard all the details,
A bag from 'is pocket he drew,
And he paid them with interest and bonus,
The sum of nine pounds four and two.

Pa 'ad scarce got 'is 'and on the money,
When a face at the window they see,
And Mother says 'Eeh! look, it's Albert,'
And Father says 'Aye, it would be.'

Young Albert came in all excited,
and started 'is story to give,
And Pa says 'I'll never trust lions again,
Not as long as I live.'

The young feller from the Prudential
To pick up his money began,
And Father says 'Eeh! just a moment,
Don't be in a hurry, young man.'

Then giving young Albert a shilling,
He said 'Pop off back to the Zoo.
'Ere's your stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
Go and see what the Tigers can do!' 

Out of the Box

The box is not of the best quality wood, far from it, a sort of thin matchwood that would even be rejected as the back panel for a piece of Ikea furniture.

Excepting its cheap manufacture it was purpose made, possibly in Portugal because it came to be in my house as the packaging around 6 bottles of Port Wine and some Stilton cheese given to me by a client, perhaps now 15 years ago.

The contents were gratefully received and consumed in a phased assault between Boxing Day teatime amongst the cold cuts, pickles and pork pie and lasted until New Years Day supper.

The unveiling of the box had prior to this been a bit of an event and the children, the eldest being 7 at the time, watched with great interest as it was manoeuvred out from under the settee where I had hidden it from prying eyes a few days before Christmas.

As boxes go, it was quite large and rather than a conventionally expected square shape it was flat, long and wide in its three main planes and therefore rectangular. The flimsy wood was a bit scuffed and worn from transit across a continent from vineyard to quayside, ships hold to Vintners shelf although most of the damage originated from my own poor handling of it between my office, car and the selected hiding place.

As I slid the box out it caught, in its rough surfaces, bits of raised carpet tufting and had to be extricated with a small patch of wool mix fabric hanging from a splinter.

The white wood of the box was, after its tortuous journey, surprisingly clean and bright which captured the attention of the children. Their small hands enthusiastically tugged at the object as they helped to move it into the centre of the room. The dimensions of the box were sufficient for all three of them to get some purchase and sense of contributing to what was, by now, almost qualifying for an elaborate ceremony. A missing element was a fanfare or soundtrack, I thought Thus Spake Zarathustra, or Chariots of Fire at first and no doubt the children would be opting for more like Bob the Builder or the theme from Teletubbies.

I explained to the eager congregation a convincing back story for the box and they were quite enthralled although I could not help but thinking that they had probably seem similar in the Food Hall at the local supermarket when on a shopping trip with their Mother in the run up to Christmas.

A fire-branded crested or monogrammed  mark, smudged beyond recognition caught the imagination of the children. My long-winded history lesson on trade between the Iberian Peninsula and our country was just that. Long and windy. I had misinterpreted their fascination in the scorched logo as an opportunity to show an informed but altogether limited knowledge of the subject of Port Wine production, marketing and shipping before the big reveal of the contents of the box.

The children, however, were scaring themselves on their assumption that something was trying to burn its way out of the box. I knew then that they had been too young to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark which had been a pre-Christmas broadcast on the BBC. A near state of self generated hysteria had to be nipped in the bud as it was already distracting my wife, busy baking in the kitchen.

I slowly pulled the top panel toward me and in a smooth action it slid out along the groove. The utter disappointment in the actual contents of the box was clear to see on the faces and in the mannerisms of the children. "Bottles", those amongst them who could speak, uttered.

There, resting in a nest of straw-like material were the six skittle like dark brown glass vessels and a wax-paper wrapped wedge of strong, mould veined cheese.

At this point the actual box became the main focus of attention and I had to remove the items to enhance its play value. That Christmas we need not have bothered to undergo the process of buying toys and gifts for the children because the box was capable of being all things to them. Laid on its longest side the partitioned compartments could hold Barbie Dolls and accessories. Horizontally and flat it could hold multiple cars and building blocks. Vertically it was a series of display shelves for playing shops. Firmly closed it could support up to three small children as a temporary seat for watching television.

At the time of dismantling the seasonal decorations, taking down the Christmas Cards and wrestling a balding fir tree out of the living room in a rainstorm of pine needles there was considerable debate over the fate of the big box.

It was too good to be broken up for kindling for the open fire. It's allocation to one specific child was not an option as this intimated favouritism. My wife did not want it just lying around the house, cluttering up the rooms or serving as a trip hazard for small legs.

That post- Christmas dilemma of how to package up the tree baubles gave the perfect solution to the problem. The six slim compartments were ideal for the safe storage of the fragile glass decorations, the metallic globes, novelty figures, the special ones brought back by relatives from trips to German Markets or seen in High Street Emporiums and there was also a coveted, supervisory space for the Fairy extracted from the very top of the tree.

Destined for the dark recesses of the attic for the duration of the next year the children felt it best to differentiate the box from other stored items, in spite of it being completely unique in size and form. An afternoon of painting the lid with poster paints served to prolong Christmas a little bit longer. There appeared a layer of snow, two fur trimmed red felt stockings, large decorated trees in falling snow, piles of presents beneath and all under a large, Merry Christmas greeting of regular brush strokes achieved by that essential artistic skill of concentration with your tongue hanging out.

The box emerges every year with its precious contents. All of the family must be present at the time of the big reveal of the familiar, tactile and memory steeped baubles and the Fairy but this is becoming an increasingly difficult thing, what with the children all now young adults and making their own way in the world.

Boxing Day Memories

This was first written in 2011.

I have very mixed feelings about today, Boxing Day.

Typically for this country it is a damp, cold and cloudy start. Very nice if you can sit in a heated sheltered spot. A bit bracing out in the open. There have been a few cars passing by the house, on the way to the traditional retail sales. Children's bikes have, it appears, taken a bit of a downturn in popularity this year as I have not seen any youngsters wobbling by on the road or pavement being chaperoned by an anxious red faced parent.

I have had a lazy first few hours. A bit of a tidy up, unload and load the dishwasher, hand-wash the larger pots, catch-up on the TV, spend some time with my wife and grown up children amongst the new gifts from Christmas Day.

It seems like an ordinary Boxing Day but it is in fact extraordinary because it is yet another that has come round since father died in 2011.

We, as a family, have been through the same heart wrenching feelings before.

My father in law, George was greatly missed at our Christmas table in 1995 and since then the Season has always invoked much emotion.

Boxing Day gives the opportunity for a big get-together. It has passed the time test and is now a tradition which assumes precedence over all other things. This can be both good and bad as being 'one side of the family centric' there are spouses who inevitably miss out on establishing their own tradition. Some of the family have other commitments amongst close friends and extended families and cannot attend but send, instead, their love and sentiments.

Those that can converge on the family home from as far away as America and all parts of the UK at this time. There can be a full attendance of 19 on Boxing Day plus the occasional guests, so very much a full house.

This takes some organisation with Mother in her element and there is always a warm and rowdy welcome, a fire in the grate, food and drink in abundance and the ever present ingredient of the unconditional love of family. The house is nicely trimmed up with paper chains, lanterns, holly and a real tree.

The seating of the 19 does take some doing and the old settee, loaded well beyond capacity, is frequently re-aligned as one or more unfortunates disappear between the cushions. At the epicentre of the gathering has always been Father. Usually in the kitchen when we arrive, hosting drinks and helping Mother with the preparation of the food he bursts onto the scene in ginger wig and Tam-o-Shanter greeting the new arrivals with a mischievous smile and laugh.

We always remarked that, having been an only child, the size of the gathering must have been both joyful and a shock to father but strictly on a 99% to 1% ratio respectively.

He was always the last into the room of expectant faces in readiness for the distribution of the family gifts accompanied by the cheekily irreverent high pitched hoots of "Doornald" from the assembled masses.

He took up pride of place equidistant from tree and hearth seamlessly combining the operations of Santa and fire stoker. The youngest children took on the role of little helpers passing over the wrapped gifts to father.

The drama of the present giving was brilliant. Father's spectacles were up and down from their forehead position as he feigned squinting and mispronunciation to the amusement and frustration of his audience. As everyone's pile of gifts grew we would encourage father to open his own which remained untouched.These were reluctantly accepted and usually pushed down the side of his seat cushion to be opened later.

What can you buy for the man who asked for nothing and yet had everything that he ever wanted there in the room?

The toys and gadgets requiring batteries or mechanical attention were magically activated through Fathers attentions, the kitchen table taking on an appearance not dissimilar to Santa's workshop. At the coming together of heavily laden tables for the meal I was privileged to sit at his side as he headed up the grown up's and his natural shyness and reticence to talk was forgotten in the presence of his closest family.

The Boxing Day meal always gave a further insight into the life and times of a quiet and reserved man of great intelligence, knowledge and wisdom.

Today will certainly be one of mixed feelings for us all. Importantly those who make up the  younger generation in our family group now take precedent in perpetuating the traditions .

Such is the strength and vividness of our memories of Father that there will always be a good and loving spirit and feeling wherever we may be on that Day, whether by the fireside or elsewhere.

Christmas Crackers

It is one of those urban myths.

It is often quoted to instil fear into householders to dispose of their debris and rubbish in a proper manner.

In my personal experience I cannot say either way if it is true.

It is the alleged fact that we are, at any one time, within seven feet of a rat.

I would like to propose an alternative.

It is not necessarily one with any health implications.

On the basis of a little bit of seasonal research I would put forward the theory that we are never more than seven feet away from a novelty that originated in a Christmas Cracker.

This applies at any time of the year.

Have a look around in pockets, car ashtray or coin recess, the bottom drawer of the kitchen unit, a sideboard cupboard or in one of those old toffee tins that everyone has to keep loose change, spare keys and batteries.

The quality and type of item can vary significantly on a directly proportional basis to the cost of the box of crackers. I have seen adverts for offerings from Cartier and Rolex in cracker form or where romantic partners have secreted away an engagement ring or similar. Harrods sell a lot of £1000 boxes containing luxury leather goods, MP3 player, crystal ear rings and all manner of finery.

You cannot however better the standard crackers from the average supermarket.

In addition to the paper hat (tissue or holographic foil) and the often corny to the point of genius joke or saying is the novelty item.

I count on the Christmas period to replenish my supplies of miniature screwdrivers, tape measure, torches, Allen key collection, key rings, measuring spoons and opaque but functional magnifying glass.

I am not that bothered about hairbrushes, comb sets, grips and ties and they can go into the unceremonious pile of discarded goods which always feature in the middle of the dinner table. These are picked over in the coming days together with sewing kit, balloons, pencil erasers, gonks and smurfs, rigid joke moustache, dice, miscellaneous figurines, Mister Men, water pistols and joke squirty flowers, watches, toy cars, brooches and other jewellery. I especially like the clip on ear-rings even if they are a bit dodgy and not at all ones that a pirate would be seen out in.

Games and puzzles are mainstay features. I like the small brightly coloured plastic mazes with tiny, weeny ball bearing and those stainless steel links and hoops to coax or more likely wrestle into separate parts.

A pack of playing cards can be almost guaranteed.

Noisy items usually include whistles from police to bird and swanny , harmonica, kazoo, football rattle and jews harp.

For the more artistic temperament regular cracker fillers include a set of lead pencils, retractable ball point pen, one of those multi coloured thick barrelled pens, small etch a sketch, slate and pen, wax crayons and felt tip pens, painting sets and a pack of plasticene for modelling.

Hong Kong and latterly China will have been in overdrive for much of the preceding months in churning out plastic novelties and those on the production line may well believe the political teachings on the decadence and materialism of the western world just on the crap that fills up an old toilet roll tube, wrapped in sparkly paper and a bit of ribbon.

They must be completely mystified by the shoe horn.

George Bailey does it again

This is a favourite of mine from a few years ago now.

It has happened. It was snowing hard in Bedford Falls. Mary Bailey had rallied round the good townsfolk and they came up with the required funds to make up the unfortunate deficit at the Savings and Loans.

George Bailey looked at his small ginger hair daughter and thanked Clarence, his guardian angel to the sound of a bell tinkling on the tree.

I cried. I always cry.

The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening just a few days before Christmas Eve. Only four more sleeps to go, as they say. It takes something special to break throught the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas.

Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of  biscuits, bombay mix, twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.

The unseasonably warm autumn weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to infuse myself with the spirit of Christmas.

There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage, down to the Civic Amenity site where a lot of men dressed as Santa seem to work.

There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas.

I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church but as yet I have not sung any Carols which is a bit disappointing. Apparently I am a bit of an Anglo Catholic and we adhere strictly to the Advent hymns until Christmas Eve. We will be going down the road from the new house to the Christmas morning service if the building survives the onslaught of revellers the night before. The church is slap bang in the middle of the party circuit and does get a bit of a hammering from the hammered.

Our  tree, carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile is starting to exude the natural pine smell when prompted.. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings have been brought down from the loft. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. It is surprising how much room a turkey in a carrier bag takes up,.

The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off.

We are just about prepared.

Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of on-going child poverty, persistent austerity and uncertainty on our doorstep.

It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.

Gert and Daisies

In my sixth decade I find myself doing a bit of mental arithmetic.

20 years ago I was arguably in my lifetime prime but projecting the same period into the future from my current age and I will certainly be quite an old man.

My unfortunate falling down a hole some months ago now did give me a bit of an insight into typical ailments of seniors from reduced mobility to awkward ablutions, rapid fatigue and a completely different attitude of others towards me from my able bodied days.

It was a sobering experience but I have largely recovered from the accident with just a little muscle stiffness and a reluctance to take any chances on potentially slippery or loose surfaces.

So, back to my casual speculation about what I can expect from my frail human body as I approach, hopefully, the last phase of what Shakespeare referred to as the Seven Ages of Man.

I suppose that I am , on his dramatic classification, somewhere between Justice and Pantalone, although that latter term applied in the writings of The Bard to a character obsessed with greed and status which are two attributes that I can honestly say that I have not made my life's work. No Sir.

What I came across recently was an interesting way to simulate old age.

It is a system of clothing and accessories developed and sold by a German Company that recreates on an otherwise fit and healthy individual many of the impairments, restrictions and limitations of advanced age.

The equipment is marketed at schools, colleges, health organisations and manufacturers of aids and means of assistance to the elderly and infirm.

For younger persons it gives a good insight into the trials and tribulations of their elders and perhaps improves them a greater understanding , empathy and compassion towards this older generation. It may mean a bit more respect from youths for a slow moving senior in the bus queue or in the supermarket aisle.

The technical name for the item is a Gerontologic Test Suit or GERT for short.

The brochure for the GERT shows images not unlike a bomb disposal operative or Robo-Cop in his underclothes. The various elements can be attached in isolation or accumulatively to head, torso, main and minor limbs and appendages.

Ear defenders are intended to simulate the loss of high frequency hearing. Goggles are of an opacity to mimic that condition where it affects the lens of the eye in old age and also serving to narrow the visual field.

The combination of these two pieces can also restrict mobility of the head.

Bracing and strengthening in the body suit contributes to joint stiffness and the placing of weights in the fabric creates a distinctive and very real impression of a bent spine and postural weakness.

Other attachments give a loss of grip and muscle power.

The whole thing can produce a disturbing sense of lost co-ordination, confusion and helplessness.

These components of the basic GERT can also be supplemented by accessories such as overshoes to give an unsteady and wobbly gait, knee pads to further restrict muscle movement and glass lenses to reproduce the effects of 6 eye diseases.

There is even a simulator for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, often called smokers cough and this causes shortness of breathe and wheezing during even the most untaxing, normally,  physical activities such as tying a shoe lace or negotiating a doorstep.

What else can the wearer of a GERT expect to experience?

Well, there are simulations for tremor and tinnitus which can easily develop in old age as the central nervous system comes under attack.

I can see and appreciate the value of this innovative system.

It may be a natural progression from a fat suit or a strap on baby bump although just reading through the brochure is a little bit of a wake up call for what I generally expect to be my most active, energetic and vigorous era yet.

English Lesson 2

Yet more of the clever word juggling and definition bending offerings of English words as given to the world by the participants of the BBC Radio Show, "I'm Sorry I haven't a Clue" since it burst onto the airwaves in 1972.

The list comes from a great compilation by a particular fan of the show plus a few enthusiastic additions.

I apologise to actual students of English for this bit of humour which is irreverent, politically incorrect and downright confusing.

The B's

Beaverbrook- a nude bathing area

Beatitutde- pose adopted by an insect prior to pollinating a plant

Baptist- a junior hamburger chef

Banshee- a typical golf club committee member

Balderdash- what you have to do when your wig blows off in high winds

Baloney- disappointing skirt length

Boutique- protest against environmentally unfriendly hardwood

Biology- the study of why women shop

Bordello- unenthusiastic greeting

Bedlam- very favourite sheep

Bloodless Coup- an anaemic pigeon

Bulldoze- fall asleep during a Party Political Broadcast

Bouffant- surprising typeface

Blame- walking with a blimp

Buttercup- face down

Barricade- helpline for soldiers

Brandish- meal with high roughage content

Bigotry- lumberjack boast

Bacteria- returning more upset than when you left

Bigamist- denser than usual misty weather

Bishoprick- unpopular clergyman

Barometric- European standard garden implement

Bile- Australian hay

Biopsy- organic gypsy

Biro- act of purchasing caviar

Boa Constrictor- truss worn by a South African of Dutch ancestry

Brouhaha- a jolly tea party

Bustard- a rude driver of public transport

Buttress- interrupting woman

Buzzard- energetic TV quiz game

Boomerang- show displeasure of a soft dessert

Baltimore- second helpings in an Indian Restaurant

Bacchanalian- support for Martians

Bin Men- sex change waste operatives

Buggery- a study of insects

Biosphere- scared of writing your own personal profile

Binge- where Sean Connery puts his rubbish

Bigamy- proud to be stout

Bloater- Japanese straw hat

Benign- what it will be after 8 O'Clock

Baltic- lice on the testicles

Biceps- sexually ambivalent mushrooms

Bias- street vendor cry

Beforehand- losing a finger

Battleaxe- constipation medicine for bats

Baghdad- type of satchel for males

To be continued................................

Can you smell carrots?

Just about all of the great and the good in the Pop and Rock World, and a few second stringers also, have felt it necessary to bring out a Christmas themed record. 

It may be out of a genuine love of the Festive Season and all that it represents. 

There may have been pressure from fans to release a bit of a one-off or a novelty at this time of the year. 

Other motivations may be less honourable such as a blatant attempt at a cash grab or trying to perpetuate an income flow into the future. That anticipation of  Royalties could make for a nice bit of forward planning towards a pension long after a mainstream livelihood in the music industry has ceased to be able to meet outgoings of a Rock Star existence. 

In some cases a Christmas single may be a career defining piece of work but many would honestly hope that it is not the case. 

In the ever prolonged build up to 25th December the airwaves and supermarket aisles in particular become saturated with seasonal offerings. 

One radio station that shall remain un-named only seem to possess a dozen or so records and although on first tuning in this can be quite a happy experience it soon becomes predictable and, frankly, boring. 

Once in a while strict adherence to that rigid playlist is forgotten, perhaps as an attempt by the presenter or back-room staff to try to avoid falling asleep out of the monotony. If this rare moment coincides with a return to the radio station in order to give it a second chance to redeem itself then a track that has not been heard for a long time or has simply slipped out of your memory bank may suddenly emerge and make the day most pleasureable. 

That was the sensation that I enjoyed just today upon catching a broadcast of "Frosty The Snowman". 

The song was written in 1950 by the duo of Walter "Jack" Rollins and Steve Nelson and was first recorded by the multi-talented Gene Autry who was a contemporary singing star of the post war era as well as excelling as an actor and rodeo rider.  

It was originally a winter rather than a specific Christmas song telling the story of a snowman brought back to life by a magical silk hat found by some children. 

Autry's popularity in the Country and Western genre of music saw "Frosty" peak at number 4 in the Country Singles Chart and at 7 in the US Pop Chart. 

Sensing the lucrative commercial value from the subject matter and the timing of its release many Agents representing top celebrity singers clamoured to get their man to release it and in the same year as the Autry version both Jimmy Durante and Nat King Cole could be heard across the nation and beyond. 

The public must have suffered sensory overload from this rapid succession of the same song as neither Durante nor Nat King Cole bettered 7th place for their efforts. 

Within a couple of decades other artists who hoped to make a Seasonal killing with "Frosty" included Perry Como (1957), Johnny Mathis (2003) and the third placed singer in the American Idol series of 2002, Kimberley Locke who also had a US Chart topping version of Jingle Bells in 2006  and so was perfectly qualified to have success with "Frosty" at the following Holiday. 

There have of course been many, many other performers who have recorded and released this classic but for me the best, by a long way, rendition is the 1992 one by my favourite dream pop, ethereal wave and gothic rock band, The Cocteau Twins. 

I was first drawn to their quite unique style in the mid 1980's with their album Victorialand although they had been on the scene since the late 1970's. 

The characteristic trademark sounds from guitar, drum and bass are rich and melodious and go perfectly with the evocative vocal sound and multi-tonal range from lead singer Elizabeth Fraser. 

I should explain these two aspects of her performing repertoire. 

Fraser hits every note without fail and with a crystal clear sharpness but if you are looking to learn and sing along with the lyrics of many of the Twins' songs then you may struggle. She has her own language drawn from many sources and woven into a beautiful blend in many of the defining releases over the 18 years of music making. Just seek out the impressive back catalogue of The Cocteau Twins for yourself, turn down the lights and chill. 

Of course, "Frosty" is given the full works by the band and Fraser in particular brings to the spirited but short-lived life of the snowman her own quirky and distinctive style. Here it is.

Frosty The Snowman by The Cocteau Twins

Classic Carmedy 1959 style

The following is a classic comedy sketch from the duo Eric Merriman and Barry Took and first featured in a 1959 BBC radio show "Beyond our Ken" with it's Star,  Kenneth Horne and stellar supporting cast of Kenneth Williams, Hugh Paddick, Betty Marsden and Bill Pertwee.

I transcribed it from a re-run on BBC Four Extra inspired by the sight of a Model T Ford Car in a local car park just today.

Out of interest the monetary figure which is mentioned in the dialogue is about £1100 in today's money.

The sketch starts off with a narrative from Kenneth Horne (KH) and the others are Bill Pertwee as Charlie (C) and Hugh Paddick as Mr Larksmoor (ML)


On Friday I was driving to the BBC when my car developed a mechanical defect and so I drove it into the nearest garage.

(KH) Good Morning, I wonder if you can help me?

(C) Certainly Sir, the scrap metal yard is in the next street

(KH) Don't be rude about my car, it just wants a little attention, that's all

(C) I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that model. I've only been in the trade since 1927. I'd better call the Guv'nor.  (shouts) Mr Larksmoor

(ML) Coming Charlie. What appears to be the trouble? Hello, here Charlie, nip inside and ring the Police. That car's been stolen from the Victoria and Albert Museum.

(C) No it hasn't Sir, it's his, an old crock

(ML) So's the car. Morning Sir, you're a bit off course ain't you? The others will be in Brighton by now.

(KH) I'm not on the London to Brighton run. Now then, will you kindly find out what's wrong with it. I think its something to do with the clutch. Every time I change gear the chain flies off the ratchet.

(ML) All right Charlie, let's have the bonnet up.

(C) Ooh, lumme Mr Larksmoor, just look at the engine. I bet that burns a bit of coke

(ML) Hello, what's this? You've got a leak in your radiator

(KH) A leak? I know I was touring Wales the other week and they gave it me as a souvenir

(C) Hey, just a minute. I think I've found something, oh yes, there's a fault here in the ignition system.

(KH) What is it?

(C) The candle's gawn out

(KH)What did you say?

(C) I said the candl....(interrupted by ML. Quiet you fool, we're not here for our health)

(ML) Well Sir, I'm afraid this is rather serious. There's definite signs of a major deterioration in the suction intake output causing severe reverberation in the crankshaft casing.

(KH) Oh, what does that mean?

(ML) About Fifty Pounds

(KH) Fifty Pounds? I've been offered that for the car.

(ML) Well, I'm afraid that's our price Sir

(KH) Who were you thinking of getting to do the work- Lord Nuffield?

(ML) No, (laughing), Lord Nuffield.................................... He only does weekends.

Look Sir, I tell you what I'll do. For the same money I'll trim the wicks on your headlamps and give you a free 900,000 mile service.

(KH) No!

(C) Mr Larksmoor. Could I make a suggestion?

(ML) If it's an expensive one, yes.

(C) Well. I was going to suggest the gentleman might buy a new car

(ML) Charlie, this is your finest hour. You've justified all my faith in you. I did the right thing when I stood bail for you. Charlie Boy, pop and get a couple of brochures.

(C) Right-o Mr Larksmoor

(KH) Look here, I don't want a new car. This one's perfectly sound

(MH) Beggin' your pardon, with all due respect but if you was to give that car a good kick....like so...............(crash, bang, wallop, metallic ring) well the whole thing would fall to pieces........................hasn't it!

(KH) Well, yes, well, that doesn't prove anything. I mean look at this new Super Deluxe 1959 Model car. If I gave it a good kick like so...............(nothing)

(ML) Hey, hey, I told you Sir..........................(then crash, bang, wallop- metallic ring).

Oh, just a lucky kick Sir. Probably a faulty one but you just try the same with the others.

(huge crashing, banging and walloping sound going on for minutes)

(KH) Well?

(ML) You was right Sir. It applies to every model we've got in stock. Just look at the debris

(C) Oh Mr Larksmoor. I've got the brochures. Blimey, have you had a lady driver in here?

(ML) Charlie, you any good at jigsaws.

(KH) Well, I'd better be getting along now. I'll pick up my car later.


                                                            - THE END -

Watch out, Watch out there's a Zoril about!

I always feel the beginning of a sniffle and a repressed sneeze when open up my copy of Noah Webster's Dictionary from 1866.

It is a dusty old volume that was bought at an Auction Sale albeit wholly accidentally in that it was hidden away at the bottom of a box of oddments of magazines and copies of The War Papers which were reproductions of authentic WW2 broadsheets as part of a collectable series in the mid 1970's. Truth be told it was those fascinating documents that had caught my attention but ironically it is that rather tired and dog-eared Webster's that I have turned to the most in subsequent years.

I have recently been re-acquainting myself with the Dictionary entries for the letter Z with a view of comparing them with those in a contemporary dictionary to see what words have managed to survive the very fluid developments in language, have simply vanished from modern vocabulary or have been replaced by, mostly, slang and popular social media terminology.

Just for starters here is the 1866 section for the last letter of the alphabet.

Be aware that some descriptions may be seen, today, as offensive and discriminatory but are the original Webster offerings.

Zaccho- the lowest part of a pedestal or column
Zaffer- impure oxide of cobalt
Zambo-the child of an indian and a negro
Zamia- genus of plants similar to ferns and palms
Zamite- a fossil plant of the previous genus
Zany- a Merry Andrew or buffoon
Zanyism- as above
Zaphara- mineral used by potters to produce a sky blue colour
Zapote- Mexican fruit
Zarnich- name of native sulphurets including arsenic
Zax- slate cutting instrument
Zayat- resting place for travellers found in most Burmese villages
Zea- generic name for Maize
Zeal- passionate ardour
Zealed- filled with the passionate ardour
Zeal less- lacking the above
Zealot- someone with two of the above things, see Zealotical, Zealotry, Zealousness
Zebra- stripey african horse-like animal
Zebu- Term for an Indian Bull or common cow
Zechin- Italian gold coin
Zechstein- a magnesian limestone
Zed- a name of the letter Z
Zedoary- East Indies medicinal plant
Zein- gluten of maize
Zemindar- land holder in India
Zend- ancient language of Persia
Zendavesta- sacred book of the Zoroaster
Zenith- direct perpendicular line
Zeolite- mineral found in lavas and basalts
Zeolitic- as above
Zephyr- the west wind
Zerda- canine of Africa resembling a fox of jackal
Zero-nothing
Zest- piece of citrus peel or to heighten taste
Zeta- Greek letter or small closet or chamber for ventilation
Zetetic- solving problems
Zeticular- small withdrawing room
Zeugma- grammatical figure
Zibet- Indian animal like a weasel
Zigzag- having short turns
Ziment Water- liquid found in copper mines
Zinc- brilliant metallic element
Zincky- like zinc
Zion- a hill in Jerusalem
Zircon- silica containing mineral
Zizel- earless marmot
Zodiac- a broad circle in the heavens
Zohar- hebrew term for book on scripture
Zone- a girdle, also a division in the earth
Zonnar- belt or girdle to distinguish Levantine Jews and Christians
Zoographer- studier of animals
Zoolatry- worship of animals
Zoolite- fossil of animals
There are lots of other zoo prefixes
Zoril- South American skunk or striped polecat
Zounds- exclamation of anger or wonder
Zuffolo- small flute
Zumology- study of fermented liquors
Zurlite- Vesuvian mineral
Zygodactylous- toes in pairs such as found on woodpeckers, cuckoos
Zygomatic- bone in the head
Zymate- compound of the imaginary
Zymone- part of gluten in wheat
Zythepsary- a brewery
Zythum- a malt and wheat based drink

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ- the desired effect from reading the above.

Dressing up box for the over 50's

In these days of dressing down and casual wear I am probably quite a rarity in that I have four, yes four suits to my name.

Two of these are my daily business attire and I rotate them on a regular basis as my line of work in the inspection of buildings, all types of them, does attract general dirt, grime and other unidentified residues.

This means regular expenditure on dry cleaning with one or the other out of circulation for the duration.

The third of my suits is now rarely worn as it is what the Americans would refer to as a Tuxedo or what us Brits just call a dinner or dress suit.

It used to be out of the back of the wardrobe every few months on the occasion of formal gatherings, evening socials and at New Years Eve but there are not the same levels of interaction and networking of this older and, lets face it, generally male orientated type.

In those far off days an event requiring formal evening wear often meant that the entertainment would include an exhibition of boxing and a stripper.

In hindsight all of that was a bit crude, rude and lewd but it certainly went on as an important part of an often charitable endeavour or fund raising drive for many a good and worthy cause.

As for my fourth suit, well, that is worn even less frequently than the smart black grown up one as it is, I am proud to admit, a Father Christmas one.

I have written about my Santa impersonations a few times in the last couple of years after I splashed out on, or rather invested in, a plush version in 2016 to introduce the children of our Iranian friend to the customs of Christmas in what was their first experience of the Festivities in this country.

That led to some appearances in my daughter's shop on a couple of afternoons in the crazy consumer days in mid December, a Boxing Day trip to a coastal resort to surprise my Mother in Law who was away on a themed hotel break and the giving out of presents to family.

In between I made impromptu appearances at a petrol station, local supermarket and from behind the steering wheel as I made my way around the various engagements. Those transient moments were perhaps the best to elicit warm and appreciative reactions from those who saw me.

Last years short season included a few more retail support opportunities and a meet and greet, on a pre-arranged basis with children amongst Mother in Laws neighbours.

I have just retrieved the box containing the suit from the loft space for the 2018 run up.

Fortunately it has not been attacked by moths or nested in by squirrels and remains resplendent in its faux fur red with white trim. The white wig and beard set are a bit tangled and matted but should comb out quite well to a better state of presentation.

As I wrote about a couple of weeks ago I have upgraded from the originally supplied overshoe covers to a pair of proper shiny black boots, zip up to the side and topped with thick fur effect.

That should add to the outfit as the basic covers could not really conceal whatever footwear I happened to find most comfortable at the time.

I think that the white gloves and thick but cheap looking black belt will be the next to be replaced for next year but should just about last out the two or three appointments that I have pencilled into my diary in the 14 days left before Christmas Day.

It is all very exciting and I admit to having tried everything on under the smallest excuse just to feel the buzz and anticipation of stepping out in the persona of a great and beloved character.

See what I mean about the boot covers

Inspired by watching "Christmas Chronicles" available on Netflix. Kurt Russel? No competition.

Resins to be Cheerful

There are regular bulletins and Stock Market Reports on the state of the current and pending cultivation and production levels of the main staple cereals, banana's. the citrus crops, rice and beans as well as tea, coffee and soya. This is understandable given that  these are the main exports and foodstuffs on which a good proportion of the global population and their national economies rely on.

Other raw materials are similarly studied and speculated about from minerals and ores to precious metals.

As far as I have been able to research there is no such system about Christmas Trees and that, for just one day in the year (today as it happens in our household) brings one of the most critical consumer decisions that we encounter in our otherwise comfortable first world existence.

What is the availability of a natural tree?

How much will it cost? and

What will they be like in terms of key requirements of being green, bushy and with a pine odour that will last for all of the Festive period?

These are just three concerns in the run up to the journey out to a rural farm beyond our residence in the city for the express purchase of a tree.

Of course it has been a freakish year for climatic conditions with a very wet Spring, a record breaking run of extremely high summer temperatures and drought and an iffy autumn with alternate balmy and sub-arctic weather on a daily basis.

How have the traditional growing regions in the UK fared in such a variable climate?

My only gauge of the welfare of Christmas Trees has been from a regular pass-by in the car of a small business just outside York in East Yorkshire, UK.

Caught frequently at a traffic light controlled junction I have kept an eye on the growth and number of the contents of a field of commercially grown pine trees.

That is for sure a long term business model involving phased planting and harvesting for a sustainable income. There must have been quite a few years at the beginning of that operation when revenue from the trees was zero and so the family run company relied upon a core business of landscape gardening to keep them going until the crop of trees reached maturity.

From my stationary position awaiting the green light signal I have, on an all year round basis, had the impression of spurts of vertical growth and intermittent tending and nurturing of the trees although in reality I have been party to somewhat of a time-lapse sequence over many months on that same route.

What has thrown me in recent weeks however has been the systematic emptying of the stock of firs and pines in that very familiar setting.

This is to be expected as we approach Christmas but in previous years any gaps in the rows have been seen to be filled by fresh saplings in that rolling process to establish successive production.

This thinning out process was explained by the appearance on the road verge of a "For Sale" sign for the business, lock, stock and barrel or rather family house, outbuildings, land and an inventory of machines and equipment.

I have, of course, no knowledge of the motivation behind the decision to sell, whether it was time to cash in after many years of hard work, out of ill health, trading difficulties, matrimonial or other family issues.

Perhaps the market for real Christmas Tress is failing in the face of strong competition from artificial trees.

The economics are clear enough in that forking out say, £120 for a high tech man made tree against around £60 for a real one means that going plastic pays for itself within 2 years.

Add to that the avoidance of fallen pine needles and disposal costs at end of season and a self assembly tree in a box makes sound financial sense.

A further factor is that recently built houses are tending to get smaller and dare I say it, their owners thereby forced to be a bit more minimalist when it comes to considering what type of Christmas Tree to have.

I have not even touched on the subjects of ecology and sustainable forestry.

Commercial growers of pines and firs for the seasonal demand will operate on an eco-friendly basis but there are obvious issues over the fact that those trees available to the market are un-rooted and therefore of single use.

I have not yet seen a campaign to discourage consumers from buying on this sustainable argument although Activists may already be through the chain link fence and liberating as many Scots and Nordmans as possible whilst I write.

I need not have fretted over the imponderables at play in the Christmas Tree business sector.

The shed on the out of city farmstead was bursting to its portal frame with very green trees of all sizes, heights and profiles. It must, after all, have been a very good growing year.

We had a good selection and the third tree twizzled on its stump met all of our hopes and expectations.

In the car on the way home that glorious pine odour from my sticky palms on the steering wheel  gave me the Christmas Spirit.

James Bond Christmas

Shaken and Stirred

A local hotel is advertising, amongst its seasonal events what they call a 'James Bond Christmas'. Here goes........

Commander Bond lay under the duvet cover. The distant sounding of church bells reminded him that this was indeed Christmas Day.

He had got in at about 9.30pm from yet another of  'M's festive gatherings. It had not been that exciting. He had returned alone. Moneypenny had gone home even earlier, after all she was an old lady and no fun. M's quiche had made him a bit bilious and the dry martini's had not been enough to quell the acidity in his stomach.

He let one go under the heavy winter tog rated bedding and casually wafted it away into the gradually increasing natural light of his flat. What to do for Christmas Day?

He swung a leg out, feeling for the thick pile of the carpet. Pulling his heavy built form upright he found that his Onesie had ridden up during the night with some constriction of his lower abdomen. It was a legitimate reason for a prolonged scratch and re-arrangement of his undercarriage.

The flat was cold and he cursed not mastering the central heating thermostat in the twenty years of his occupation. He had no time for manuals. 'Q' had been kind enough to show him the settings for instantaneous hot water and radiator heating. They had been very similar to the afterburner controls on Little Nelly and a nasty and expensive quarterly gas bill had been the consequence of a degree of confusion accordingly.

A light, healthy breakfast appealed to him. Those long sessions at the Casino in recent years had ruined his physique .He had contracted and only just recovered from a nasty virus from , he suspected, the sampled contents of a small bowl of mint imperials at the coat-check counter near the toilets in Monte Carlo.

He was disappointed by the contents of the fridge. The orange juice was 'with bits' which he had bought from M&S without checking. He infinitely preferred smooth. No yoghurt, no bran or porridge oats so he settled for a lump of cheese and half a packet of cream crackers. The Onesie successfully captured any fragments of the flaky Lancashire and biscuit crumbs in its thick, luxurious velour giving the faux tiger-skin print the appearance of a dandruff outbreak.

Living the life of a bachelor, out of the normal hours of his regimented and disciplined professional assassin duties, the living room was a tip.

He stumbled over a collection of take-away cartons,pizza boxes and discarded clothing-all his. A pint glass full of the discarded shells of pistachio's fell and rolled across the parquet floor gradually decanting its contents. A few well place martial arts kicks cleared the rest of the debris under the DFS corner suite and Ikea wall unit. The DVD's would have to be sorted later from an unruly pile. The movie of 27 Dresses at the top caused him to pause and recall how he had enjoyed the plot and sentiment of such a well structured and acted rom-com.

As Commander Bond dragged the Dyson bagless around the room he made an instinctive check for any signs of intrusion whilst he had been at M's reception. Trip wires and carefully adhered strands of his chest hair were still in situ. It was disappointing not to be the subject of any nefarious intentions during the holiday season. How was he expected to keep his hand in?

The number of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece was well down this year. This was, he mused a combination of how convincing his manufactured death had been earlier in the year resulting in many deletions by Facebook friends and the trend amongst fellow assasins to occasionally have to kill each other.

The unsigned, oversized padded card depicting an alpine scene was definitely from that rascal Blofeld. He had a decent sense of humour under that serious visage of world dominating villainy.

The morning passed quickly. Feeling peckish after his exertions of a man's comprehension of cleaning and hoovering he chipped away at the slab of ice which had consumed his freezer compartment and recovered a couple of ready-meals which would do nicely for his Christmas dinner. The combination of Tikka Masalla and Hot Pot was novel but palatable. Dessert was a bit more of a challenge but the Angel Delight was soon whisked into a firm peak that briefly and erotically reminded him of past conquests.

The controllers at the 'Licenced to Kill' desk deep in the MI5 building received a text from Bond and they duly sent him the TV listings for the rest of the day . He did not expect HM The Queen to expand on their skydiving antics into the Olympic Stadium in her traditional address to the nation. He knew she had enjoyed it on an altogether private level by her whoops and screams and covert and playful cupping of his groin on the descent through the late July sky over London.

Next he knew, it was dark outside the flat. He had dozed off, sprawled across the settee, and with a dribble of spittle running down his chin, a faint tint of butterscotch discernible. Annoyingly he had missed the blockbuster film and no-one had availed him of the operational details of the i-player.

Strictly and Downton thrilled him for the rest of the evening. He would never be asked to participate on the dance floor because of the intricacies of his professional lifestyle.This was a major regret.  His enjoyment of the Period Drama had been tempered by his instinctive identification of access and escape roots in the stately home and the best place to set off a diversionary explosion for maximum mayhem amongst the sinister looking below stairs staff, all ex KGB without doubt.

The latter part of the day was now dragging. The invitations to a 'Christmas At Home' from a selection of gangsters, sociopaths and the criminally insane remained on his antique escritoire, opened but not responded to. A threat of menace and a long monologue about blah, blah, ransom, blah, blah, extortion, blah, blah, gold reserves and the prospect of a scorching of nether regions by a high powered laser was now of some attraction when in the past it had just been part and parcel of the job.

It was a pity that he had not forged better links with those he had collaborated with on his missions. That Felix Leiter was a personable chap but obviously had problems of self image based on his frequently radical changes in appearance and skin colour.

He poured himself a Baileys over ice (chipped from the freezer compartment) and gorged himself to the point of being nauseous on the After Eights, a raffle prize at 'M's with the proceeds going to support the families of disavowed agents.

James Bond contemplated starting a diplomatic incident to alleviate his boredom. A convincing non-nuclear conflagration of the Home Counties was well within his capabilities from just the contents of his lock up garage in Twickenham.  His life story, auctioned to the tabloids would keep him in the style in which the public perceived him to exist.

In reality and out of abject loneliness he found that crying himself to sleep on Christmas night was a form of light and therapeutic relief. 

As always, he firmly believed that it would be different next year....for sure.

(First written a couple of years ago)

Holy Moule

Isn't human progress amazing!

One such illustration is that in just over 100 years Mankind went from struggling to dispose of its excrement in a friendly and ecological way to setting foot on the Moon. 

The saying that necessity is the mother of invention applies nowhere more so than in the matter of household sewage. 

Of course, through history sanitation was important and the great ancient civilisations will have devoted time and effort to some sort of system to prevent settlements from villages to towns and cities from becoming overwhelmed by the effluent from their populations. 

As well as serious health implications from poor sanitation there was an increasing perception that for a race or dynasty to be regarded as truly enlightened there had to be some separation of bodily functions from other aspects of daily life and culture. 

Toilets with water were used in the Indus Valley.The cities of that civilisation had a flush toilet in almost every house, attached to a sophisticated sewage system. They also appear in the ancient Minoan times from the 2nd millennium BC.

Primitive forms of flush toilets have been found to exist since Neolithic times circa 31st century BC, in North West Scotland which used a form of hydraulic technology for sanitation.

Similar toilets were in use by the Romans from the 1st through 5th centuries AD. A very well-preserved example are the latrines at one of the largest forts on Hadrians Wall in Britain. Such toilets did not flush in the modern sense, but had a continuous stream of running water to wash away waste. 

Other options available in subsequent millenia included the cess pool, a man with a cart to collect night soil and just squatting when and where the function demanded. 

Flushing toilets were, by the Industrial Revolution and 19^th Century, the must have domestic appliance but the infrastructure to remove and treat the effluent was still non existent or at best primitive and inconsistent across the country. There were signs of dissent amongst those whose saw the water borne systems for sewage to be unsatisfactory and unsustainable in a rapidly growing and increasingly urban population.

It is therefore a bit of a shock that serious thought was only given to Public Health aspects of foul waste in the latter part of the 19^th Century.

One pioneer in this emerging science was the Reverend Henry Moule of Fordington in 
Dorset in the South of England who is credited as having invented the first composting toilet. 

His reasons were part spiritual and part practical, the former as he disapproved of the Water Closet in that he felt it polluted God's rivers and seas and was a waste of God's nutrients that were contained in excrement and that it should be returned to the soil and the latter because he was frustrated and stressed by the regular problems experienced with the family cesspit. 

Other influences on his thoughts was the witnessing of cholera epidemics and most notably what is graphically described as "The Great Stink" that enveloped the country in 1858.

Moule discovered that dry earth, mixed with human waste, produced clean compost in just a few weeks. 

It was an early eco- process even if stumbled upon by accident. 

He patented his first eco-earth closet in 1860 with his registration under the description of "improvements in the nature and construction of closets and commodes for the reception and removal of excrementitious and other offensive matter, and in the manufacture of manure from thence."  

This led to the development of his mechanical earth closet in the 1870's which allowed human manure to be saved for return to the soil, without the owner having to endure the stink of the average privy.Dry earth or peat was put into the hopper at the back of the seat and a removable bucket placed below. 

When the handle was pulled, a small quantity of earth was spread on top of the human waste to reduce the smell and help it to decay. When the bucket was full the contents were dug into the garden.

The race was on to make progress in earth closets and the Patent Offices in the UK and USA were inundated with the presentations by inventors from all walks of life. They cannot be accused of sitting down on the job.



Written after coming across a earth closet in the outhouse of an old cottage south of York, UK, the first seen for some considerable time on my travels 

Sit down and take notice

What a great fund raising idea; Toilet Twinning. 

I had not heard of it before but it has evidently been up and running for a few years now through a particular global charity whose mission statement is to deliver safe sanitation to those parts of the world where no such thing currently exists.

I only came across it a couple of days ago whilst taking up temporary occupation of a lavatory cubicle in a West Midlands Golf Club in a very welcome comfort break during a Corporate meeting. 

As there is not a lot to do in an ablution scenario my attention was drawn to a small framed photograph on the wall of what, at first, looked like someones favourite garden shed. 

The image was actually set in a Certificate indicating that the golf club members had donated to the Toilet Twinning process and in return had been presented with a grid reference for the Himalayan Foothills in which that timber structure, a community loo was located. 

I assume that the Twinning is a two way exchange and that in a village in the shadow of that great mountainous region there is a similarly mounted picture of the very same compartment in which I was happily spending a few tranquil moments................. and a penny. 

Out of the two pictorial representations the English equivalent was far from as inspiring as the lavvy on the edge of the world. 

The motivation behind this unique fund raising project is as serious as you can get and really highlights the inequalities in what should be a fundamental provision for human existence. 

Sadly, some 2.3 billion of the global population lack a safe toilet which in even more revealing statistical wording represents 1 in 3 of all occupants on the planet. 

It is a fact that bad sanitation is a killer and every minute a child under the age of 5 dies from ill health arising from deficiencies in toilet amenities. 

It is always the weak and vulnerable who suffer. 

There are many other consequences of poor sanitation from illness in the wider population  and it is a fact that half the global population have had an illness linked to this lack of suitable provision. 

Where donations to Charities are being ever more squeezed through political, economic and social pressures this type of unique project seems to have caught the imagination of the public and has been able to secure a reasonable level of funding.

Faced with the scale of the problems this is likely to struggle be enough to bring safe and secure sanitation to those who need it most but is a most worthy cause. 

I will certainly be looking to contribute to the project as soon as I am feeling flush.