Keeping abreast of Science

THE EXPERIMENT;

The Synopsis; A lot of scantily clad women assembling in one place, a bit like a Benny Hill sketch but entirely within the bounds of taste and political correctness. It is a happy go lucky atmosphere, bells and whistles are heard, a few football rattles, aerosol air horns, a retro-tambourine and a few catchy chants, not so much out of protest or militancy but with an excited expectancy or equivalent dread of something that could happen but it is unanimously hoped for that it will not. It was not a dream but the inaugural meeting of the movement known as Boobquake.

The Theory; Setting aside any religious, ethnic or political grounds or reasons the Boobquake initiative was devised as a populist scientific experiment. The founder and organiser, a seismologist from an American University had taken it upon herself and womankind at large to investigate a much publicised viewpoint of a prominent Cleric that the reason for all the turmoil of earthquakes in the world was a direct consequence of, to put it bluntly, what he defined as loose women or more tactfully, loose or skimpy clothes worn by the same. In some cultures and faiths this remains certainly a strong moral standpoint. In the US educational system and in that particular seismology department such a verbal affront was considered to be worthy of a stand-off.

The Practice;  There are, on any one day or within any suitable 24 hour monitoring period at least 100 earth tremors around the globe. The convening of the colourful and noisy get together was carefully orchestrated. Participants dressed down with all brands of underwear, lingerie and accessories to the fore.The seismic sensors were coordinated with the duration of the event. Independent adjudicators and Officials oversaw, perhaps with a downward gaze in the interest of modesty, the whole thing. A good time was had by all.

The Outcome; Considerable interest was generated by the exercise. Facebook played a prominent part in advertising and endorsing Boobquake. There was a media frenzy, but I cannot recollect having seen any live footage or reportage on the actual day in April 2011. The Cleric, the catalyst for the movement, and his supporters claimed that a tremor had hit Taiwan at the time of the experiment but this appears to have been disproved with the specific earthquake having taking place in the morning and therefore prior. Women's groups and activists were completely split in their opinions and so Boobquake was either a resounding success or an own goal.

The Conclusion;  Such is science.

6/10 , Could do with a bit more substance and analysis,

Return to Briggadoon

What  better activity for a wet and stormy Bank Holiday Monday than to travel back in time over 40 years.

I reluctantly agreed to the suggestion of my wife that we have a drive to and around the town where I used to live before a family house move in 1979.

It was not a massive expedition, far from it, as the place in question is only twenty five miles or so away from where I live currently. I have drifted back a few times over those four decades.

In those far off times, however, even such a short distance did to me, in my early to mid teens give the impression of the other side of the world. That was to be expected given the vast differences in the two locations , one being a small sleepy market town and the other a regional city of around half a million population.

I even went on what was called a Cultural Exchange back in the mid 1970's from town to city which involved a rickety coach ride, paddle steamer ferry boat crossing and dodgy mini bus transfer over that relatively short distance. The big metropolis was pretty frightening to a sensitive soul like myself and I was quite homesick over the 36 hours of the stay.

That same journey which involved multiple types of transport and took around 3 hours some 40 years ago is now a 20 minute drive. This is on dual carriageways and over the striking landmark of a suspension bridge, at one time the longest in the world, which saw the end of that characterful and adventurous ship crossing when it opened in 1981.

First call on the trip down memory lane was the former family house.

 It was brand new when my parents bought it in 1972 and at the very end of a cul de sac with open fields on two sides. In neo-Georgian style it was then very grand and befitting Father's position as a Bank Manager. During out time there the huge Elm Tree which dominated the back garden outlook perished from the Dutch disease and within a few years a new housing estate occupied one of the two pieces of open ground.

The house looked good in its own middle age, well looked after.

We drove down the street and around the corner past the bungalow where Gran lived. That always seemed to my teenage self a sprawling almost ranch style place but was now just a very small looking residence.

The same shrinking effect went for the local park which could accommodate a ranging game of no-rules free for all footie where  most of the kids in the town would participate and get bruised but always came back for more.

I almost drove past it as it was only really as wide as a tennis court. That would explain why we lost so many plastic footballs into a house garden on the opposite side of the road and whose owner would take great and obvious joy in spearing them immediately on trespass with his fork or other sharp implement that happened to be within reach.

On the roundabout with the town War Memorial in its centre what had been the sole petrol station was now a window showroom. I can clearly recall the pricing display on the forecourt stating 33 new pence a gallon and this being the target of disgruntled locals for what represented a big price hike at a time of yet another oil crisis in the Middle East.

The main road through the town had always been busy with a constant flow of heavy lorries and through traffic constituting a peril and hazard as we walked to school but following construction of a motorway link and new ring road in the late 70's some semblance of quiet had returned with only local users out and about.

There had always been a very pleasantly potent mix of smells being a merging of the fumes from a marmalade factory and a sugar beet processing plant. These were sweet and sickly but long since dissipated as their respective industrial sources had fallen to market forces and obsolescence.

I had not expected the place to take on the form of a time capsule over the four decades but was disappointed to find that my junior school, an open verandah type to serve  the 1920's expansion of the population had gone and was now a housing estate.

Similarly the wooden Scout Hut where I spent many an hour was no longer there although the plot on which it had stood remained undeveloped.

A smart paved square had been formed as part of a pleasant pedestrianisation scheme where again, the lorries had once thundered along.

Father's Bank Branch was now a bar or eatery.

The Parish Church where Mother and my two sisters had formed half of the choir numbers was still there and seemingly unchanged which is always an indication of constancy in a rapidly changing world.

I had been a keen angler following in the footsteps of my maternal Grandfather .The two rivers that ran through the town had back then the aura of mighty watercourses both in length and breadth. A group of us in our mid teens thought nothing of arriving and setting up at 5am during the school summer vacation and not moving away until dusk.

That magical tree lined river bank was still there but now very much in miniature.

I was keeping a look out for any familiar faces from my childhood years but it is difficult to physically age anyone over such a elapsed period of time. I was perhaps expecting the exact same teenage faces of my old mates but on adult shaped bodies.

I do believe that the move away in 1979 did give me an opportunity of a wholly different  set of  experiences but made all the more worthwhile by some wonderful childhood memories of freedom and a safe environment in that place.

Soilent Green

I am now receiving a lot of marketing literature about Funeral Plans and just about all of my favourite TV programmes are interspersed with advertisements on the same subject.

The first is down, obviously, to my age profile and the second, no doubt, attributable to a clever algorithm derived from multiple organisations pooling and sharing the data that has been culled every time I look at a product or service on line.

Deciding on how to go after death used to be quite simple.

There just used to be a burial plot in a Cemetery that had been established some generations of the family before. That space was typically purchased and held in perpetuity serving as a focal point for grief and remembrance.

Many a day out with relatives would include a visit to the graveside either before or after a trip out to the coast, a stately home, garden centre of farmers market. With the upsurge in popularity in all things ancestry I have spent many an hour walking up and down the rows in abandoned and overgrown cemeteries trying to make out familiar surnames from a very unruly family tree diagram.

Those vast acres in and around our towns and cities strewn with variously angled headstones, weathered or vandalised memorials soon reached full capacity. New sites for graveyards were just too expensive when greater pressure existed on land use for homes and amenities for the living.

Cremation, although an ancient ritualistic practice in many cultures over the Millenia only really became available in the post war years in the UK as Local Authorities developed such facilities together with rose gardens and parkland to relieve the pressure on, I hesitate to call it this, the system.

My late dear Father chose to be cremated in a wicker casket as testament to his thoughtfulness about the environment. However, things have moved on a pace in very recent years and even the emissions from Crematoria are a target for criticism by Climate Change Campaigners.

Such things have been the catalyst for innovative ideas for our passing.

You can have the remains of a loved one, human or animal, formed under huge pressure processes into a diamond and then this bit of carbon set into a piece of jewellery.

I'm not sure if I saw this in a magazine or dreamt it myself but precious remains can also be set into a watch to ensure ongoing close contact with the deceased as you go about your daily life.

It is therefore a natural progression for Washington State in the USA to legalise what is called "natural organic reduction" as an alternative to conventional burials and cremations.

That fancy term can be condensed into just a simple word- Composting.

There are two main methods of composting which appear suitably sensitive, practical and commercially viable.

The first, alkaline hydrolisis involves the body being subjected to heat, pressure, water and chemicals, typically a metal hydroxide known as Lye.

The other process which is to be offered following the Washington legalisation is the placing of the newly departed in a sealed vessel in which is introduced a mixture of woodchips and straw.

Such is the chemical reaction and biodegradable potency of this combination that relatives can collect the equivalent of two wheelbarrows worth of organic soil type mixture after just a month.

The residual material is for the family to use as they wish in their garden or in any form of commemorative activity requiring a nutritious and fertile mix.

Although the chemistry and biology may seem impersonal to those in mourning the outcome is actually akin to the most natural occurrences in wider nature and in this way relieves pressure on the environment in many positive ways in what is a global Climate Emergency.

I can see myself as a growbag. Yes I can but would I be best recomposing as tomatoes or potatoes?

Where has the garden gone?

I was working recently in Scarborough on the North Yorkshire Coast and drove past the end of a street called Holbeck Hill.

Somewhere, deep down in my psyche lurked a fact associated with the address.

It took a bit of mental processing of both good and useless data to tease out the reason for my feeling of deja-vu.

Then it came to me. The Holbeck Hall Hotel.

Bingo, well no. It was much too high class an establishment for that sort of seaside entertainment but it did have the attention of the nation for a week or so in June 1993.

The Hotel had an unrivalled location overlooking Scarborough South Bay, the Spa, seafront, harbour and across to the Castle on the promontory. The 70 metres of ground in front of the hotel were laid out as landscaped gardens above the cliff line. The ambience of the place was reflected in the room rates, amongst the highest in the resort.

A guest, looking out on a fine June 4th morning, noticed that only 15 metres of the garden remained as a feature with the bulk of the land mass having disappeared and the rest beginning to slump and fall away.

There had been strange goings-on over the preceding six weeks with cracks appearing in the footpaths along the cliff top. These had been repaired but as a precaution the Council closed the access points above and below the cliff line. Heavy rainfall in May and early June onto the glacial clay has caused a point of saturation. It was too much for the natural composition to cope with culminating in a huge rotational landslide of the one million tonnes of material.

Likened to a slow motion lava flow the mass spilled out over the cliffs and into the sea forming a large semi circular platform. The Hotel structure was powerless to resist the forces of nature and gradually began to tear apart.

News crews from the UK and a wider world interest documented the destruction of the Hotel in a very voyeuristic way. Updated bulletins over the next few days showed real-time images of the development of cracks and fissures in walls and between elements of the building. There were sights of curtains billowing out of gaping holes and furnishings falling out of what had been windows, doors and full walls.

The four star hotel became part of the equally auspiciously rated tourist beach.

As often happens even after such dramatic occurences the memory of the event has tended to fade.

The former position of the Holbeck Hall Hotel has been stabilised and landscaped and it is hard to comprehend that there was ever a prominent building in that idyllic spot.

A large saucer shaped undulation and the bulge of the coastal path catches the eye as being something unusual. The curious by nature may pull up and park at the nearby Viewpoint and read the information board about what happened.

There have been more recent cases of landslide and soil creep along the East Coast, notably on the steep valley sides above the Esk River in Whitby including a section of the graveyard below the church which was the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula.

First written under the title of "Slip sliding away"

The distant light of ships

A lot of families have some sort of deeply entrenched tradition that just passes through the generations.

It could be something as simple as measuring the height of their children at regular intervals on the architrave of a door in the family home.

There could be a regular trip out to a tourist attraction or favourite natural feature, a fixed date on the wall calendar for a barbecue or picnic, meeting up with old friends at a specific location, attendance without fail at a Festival or other annual event and many other things in between which have a special meaning, happy or not so happy.

I know a family out on the coast who have a bit of a morbid and fatalistic tradition.

Theirs is the measuring of the distance between their house and the rapidly eroding clay cliff line.

Unfortunately , although not perceived as a livelihood threatening issue when the parents  bought the property some 40 years ago, they find themselves exposed to what is now the fastest eroding coastline in Europe.

The boulder clay forming the low slung cliffs, about 5 to 8 metres in height, just tends to slump and slip onto the beach or into the surf with alarming frequency and this has become significantly worse in the last few years as a direct consequence of seemingly irreversible climate change.

At the time of purchase back in the late 1970's there were two good field depths behind the detached farmhouse. The landed area and perceived remoteness of the place, although only two miles from a traditional seaside town, had been amongst many of the most attractive features that had elevated the property above the attributes of a good few on the "to view" list.

Moving from the South of the country with its considerably higher property values had enabled a cash purchase from the proceeds of the sale of a fairly ordinary, suburban semi within a 30 minute commuting distance of London.

The prospect of throwing off the modern manacles of a mortgage loan for good was another plus point in the upping of sticks and migration in a Northerly direction.

So, the deal was done.

At that time it was quite a nice activity of an evening for the parents to walk, romantically hand in  hand out of the back door, across the meadows  and stand on the cliff top gazing out to the distance horizon, beyond which was Denmark and Holland.

Any evening across the seasons would be suitable as there was always something to see.

In the winter months the twinkling light of a fishing boats or illuminations of a large freight carrying ship were a reassuring pinpoint in the darkness. Spring brought the high tides and the impact of waves at the foot of the cliffs would throw up cobbles and rocks into the air like an artillery barrage. That was seen as fun although quite dangerous if too close. Summer mornings and the emergence of the sun seemingly from the depths of the sea gave inspiration and the chance of soulful reflection. Autumn brought with it the strong storms from higher up in the Arctic which hastened the migrating flocks of birds to warmer climes.

As a bit of an activity with some educational merit  the new members of the growing family when at walking age were encouraged by Mum and Dad to start the practice of measuring from the back wall of the house to the cliff top.

Thus the tradition began.

Over the first few years there was a lot of arguing that the tape, a 100 metre retractable one left behind by someone working for the Electricity Board, was not deployed properly as the readings were never constant.

Granted, over two fields there was plenty of opportunity for the vinyl tape to become snagged on a fence post, strands of old barbed wire hidden in the grass or the inherited galvanised water trough from when livestock had been grazed there.

Pulling the tape tight often caused it to work lose from its nail fixing and no-one in the family group wanted to volunteer to go back and secure it.

In this way the first ominous crumblings of the clay cliff went unnoticed.

(to be continued)

Paws for thought

When fully built out and ready for first occupation the house will be one of the priciest for some miles. I would say that it is warranted given the exclusivity of the plot (although in fact occupying half of the garden stolen away from the donor property, a character post war detached), the location in a very oversubscribed historic Yorkshire market town, an internal  floor area of around 300 square metres, and a luxurious specification for the fittings and installations.

It could become a modern classic, given the passage of time and a reasonable exposure to weathering to the rustic brickwork and bespoke clay tile roof.

I have seen the build through all of its stages.

Some 8 months ago I was standing looking over that garden plot trying to make some sense of the plans and elevations provided by the builder, a well known local contractor with an eye and a flair for individually designed private residences.

It is quite a skill to track down a development site and particularly so for the smaller local contractors who thrive on say one or two projects of this budget and scale every year just to keep their income and workers ticking over.

There is always the competition from the big regional and national house builders who, on the projected cash flow generated by multiple sales, can afford to pay top dollar for even the most mediocre of sites and locations.

In the intervening period the house in question had emerged to quite an advanced stage.

At today's inspection it was roofed in, the brushed aluminium finished triple glazed windows and doors were fitted and so being watertight and weatherproof the internal works could speed ahead. The couple who had commissioned the house were frequent visitors to check on the progress and discuss any finer detail with the builder. At least they were assured of a good quality of materials and workmanship. I would tend to discourage proud prospective owners on the large multi unit estates from carrying out an out of hours recce of their house when being built as many have expressed shock at the sight of discarded packed lunches stuffed into the wall cavity or, in a particularly bad case, the same gap filled with human excrement where, obviously, toilet facilities for the contractors were lacking somewhat.

Such incidents are, thankfully, pretty rare but do tend to polarise the difference being high volume and bespoke housing.

I walked around the echoing shell accompanied by the builder and was pleasantly surprised by the layout and natural lighting. That transition from an A1 sheet drawing to a three dimensional form always fascinates and thrills me. Even when footings are laid out it is hard to imagine that such a space can become a well loved home.

The plasterwork through the new build was a sight to behold in its sheer smoothness and evenness. I have not seen such a high standard for a long time. The plasterer responsible for this high skilled work was, understandably one of the most valued member of the team.

I was just about to leave via the angled plank leading down from the front door threshold when I saw the trail of large pad paw marks in the otherwise glass-smooth concrete floor. They led all of the way through what would be the reception hall and through to a side entrance and the intended utility room.

The culprit animal had obviously got into the property just an hour or so after the concrete screed had been pumped in and levelled and made its way carefully through the cavernous rooms.

I thought that a fox was probable given that the local environment provided ample cover and foraging to support a family unit. The house could realistically have been built over an ancient route, the equivalent of an elephant walk for local wildlife from fox to badger, roe deer to rabbit.

The paws were large in span and the imprints in the concrete suggested a fully grown animal.

The traces would take a bit of work to conceal, usually in a self levelling compound prior to laying the final floor finish in tiling or wood.


The plasterer, whose work I had admired, made an appearance as I was concluding my visit and noticed my interest in the trail.


He then admitted that his own dog had made the pattern having got loose from its daily observation post on the passenger seat in his works van.


I would think that on the larger building sites this will have been a sackable offence but where superbly skilled artisans are involved they could just about get away with anything at all.

Scunthorpe

I do not usually get emotional where strategic industries are concerned. However, in the matter of today's news of Scunthorpe Steel Works going into Receivership as part of the ongoing saga around British Steel I do feel a strong affinity.

This is mainly because in my teenage years we, as a family, lived just a few miles away from that town.

Every evening and in clear view from our house there was a pulsating orange glow over the near horizon.

This was from the flare stacks and blast furnace operations on the vast Steel Works site.

At the age of 15 I was aware that I had a difficult decision to make.

That illumination in the night sky was a constant reminder of this. I should explain.

There were two options at that age for my future working life.

These were very eloquently explained to myself and my fellow classmates by one of the teaching staff at secondary school level. In those days of full employment and the assurance of a job for life there was a real and life changing choice available.

Those leaving senior school after 5 years of education could walk into a well paid Apprenticeship in British Steel in Scunthorpe who were recruiting for every type of skill.

As that schoolmaster said the prospect of a steady wage packet during training and then upon becoming qualified in the Steel sector could easily pay for a nice car, a house and set you up for a good and rewarding life.

In contrast those who elected to stay on for the Sixth Form would still be living with their parents, relying on a bicycle to get about, exist on pocket money and perhaps as more of an insult have to wear short trousers as school uniform for the duration.

To many of my contemporaries there was no agonising over the choice. It was the industrial route for them. They didn't look back. They went willingly on to the great treadmill of a working life, able to pay their way, taxes and be in a good position to support a family and their dependants.

In contrast I was scared at the choices. I took the cowards way and kept on at school.

In a couple of years I would go to a modern Polytechnic and the vocational route to employment.

I would see my former pals regularly about the small town where we all lived. They appeared somehow older and more worldly wise. Instead of my two spoked wheels they were driving around in a new Ford Escort or Vauxhall Firenza as though they were millionaires.

For all of that show and swank they were in a dangerous working environment amongst molten metal and white hot coals.

One thing I often did after my studying had been done was a regular cycle ride along the line of hills flanking the eastern side of the Steelworks. From this elevated viewpoint it was possible to see the processes in motion from the movement of train pulled wagons of raw materials, the intermittently violent release of fumes and smoke, periodic high decibel noise and overpowering odours.

There were infrequent incidents and accidents involving men and machines on the site. I remember the press coverage of fatalities when a large cylinder shaped vessel used to transport the molten steel exploded. The names of the victims did not include anyone that I knew although you could feel the impact of this tragedy in our town which continued to provide a good proportion of the workforce.

British Steel gave the impression of being a thriving and developing business in the 1970's and the Scunthorpe site was a hive of activity. The largest building, a matt grey shed the size of a block of flats dominated the approach to Steel Town whenever we went past it to go to the new shopping precinct or the cinema. It had a ski-slope of a covered conveyor and I convinced my younger brothers that it was used to load freshly made Shredded Wheat biscuits onto the delivery lorries. That tall tale lasted for some years.

Scunthorpe, often the butt of jokes over the unfortunate obscenity it its lettering, had all of the trappings of a population in full employment but as with many of the traditional heavy industries in the UK there were hard times in waiting. Nationalisation gave way to Privatisation. There were labour disputes and striking action. Closures and redundancies.

The news today followed an all too brief sense of renewal and resurgence in the Steelworks, a centre of excellence for special products primarily railway track.  .

I moved away from the area in my late teens and lost contact with my friends. I hope that they were employed in the industry right through to natural retirement age although that is a prospect that is so very rare in the modern world in any type of work.

If the Steel Plant does close its furnaces permanently, which I truly hope is not the case, I will still look towards the near horizon remembering what that orange glow symbolised all those years ago.

Scottish Jumper

Donald McBean may not have had time to weigh up the sheer folly of his circumstance in relation to his adrenalin levels and that feeling of self preservation which ultimately led to a fortunate escape from his enemies and pursuers back in July 1689.

Nowadays, his feat under extreme duress, would not be attempted without a very rigorous Risk Assessment likely to extend into quite a lengthy document in conjunction with, perhaps, computer modelling to determine such factors as optimum speed for take-off, co-efficient drag factors, air speed, ambient temperature and all that pseudo scientific mumbo-jumbo. Imagine the time scale required to apply for permission from the relevant authorities to undertake what was ultimately a desperate flight from, at best capture but a more likely grisly death.

Donald McBean was, way back then, also very alone and outnumbered.

In a modern scenario the support staff, Safety Marshalls, physio, back room officials and press entourage would be equivalent to a small encampment and would make that location a very crowded place. The subject of sponsorship and marketing opportunities would open up a vast range of possibilities. I could quite well see a commemorative key ring, ceramic mug, tea towel and Nike branded winged effect trainers amongst the glossy gift catalogue. The after event round of speaking at dinners, product endorsements and appearances on chat shows or walk on parts in movies would be most lucrative.

I suspect that Donald McBean was only hoping that his reward would be to get away from that place and die in old age attended by his family under his own roof.

Scotland in 1689 was a war zone.

James the Seventh had been deposed in the Spring of that year in favour of an open invitation from the rest , but predominantly English part, of the British Isles to William of Orange to take the throne. James' supporters from the Highland Clans, under the unifying title of Jacobites rose up in direct conflict with the Redcoat Government Forces. There were a series of running and pitch battles throughout the central part of the country.

Donald McBean was a Government Trooper and on the 27th July he was involved in a violent skirmish with the Jacobites who had startled the regular army with a ferocious and surprising assault. The location was the valley of the River Garry where it passed through, in peacetime, some beautiful and idyllic countryside of wooded slopes , broader vales and steep rocky gorges.

It was perfect ground, home territory for the Jacobites.

The Government Forces were easily routed and any formal and organised resistance disintegrated rapidly. It became a case of every Redcoat for himself. It is difficult to appreciate the terror experienced by Donald McBean as he was being pursued by kilt clad and fired up Scots down to the base of the valley.

The river was wider and slower for a short section. It was the height of summer but in the still typically predictably wet Scottish weather even for that time of year there was a good strong flow over the rock strewn river bed. The river bank was flat and passable and will have offered a good prospect of outrunning the Jacobite rampagers.

However, just ahead the river plummeted into a narrow trench through massive granite boulders which significantly increased the speed and noise into a torrent. The change in the valley profile from flat and broad to tight and sheer turned the escape route into a dead end. Perhaps Donald McBean was preparing for his flight by discarding his weapons, any webbing or uniform that was bulky or a hindrance as he ran. There will have been no time at all for a reasoned train of thought as he came up against the wall of rocks and boulders.

A single route to safety presented itself in a 'once in a lifetime' only opportunity.

Hesitation would lose him the critical forward motion and he would plummet into the deep, dark precipice and a watery grave. He did not slow down as his feet passed from the soft vegetation of the riverbank onto a flat, rain and wind worn slab of granite which projected out into the space above the white water rapids.

It must have felt like an eternity to Donald McBean from take-off through the spray misted air to a crumpled but welcome landfall on the far side.

He kept going and was reported by his enemy to have disappeared up and into the tree-line. They did not attempt to follow.

There is a small information board at the gorge for curious tourists and visitors all about what is known as Soldiers Leap at Killiecrankie.

The measured distance of the exploit of Donald McBean is stated as 5.5 metres or in Imperial terms about 18 and a half feet.

I have stood on that very spot as a visitor and can appreciate the depth and breadth of that void above the water. The coach load of school children who surrounded me showed excitement and a willingness to get as close to the edge, out of the sight of those in loco parentis, as possible. A couple of the larger lads got into a mock tustle over who should be the first to attempt a leap and with some egging on from the girls in the group.

A call went out to return to the bus. The bravado is forgotten in the departing crowd and I am left alone with my thoughts and the spirit of Donald McBean.

I cannot help but see the scene through his eyes.

For a very brief moment I feel out of breathe and exhilarated from fear. I sense my left leg lifting as my right leg takes my full weight ready to launch.

In my cagoule and walking boots and with no blood thirsty pursuers at my tail I relax and think about whether a tea towel or a mug would be a more appropriate purchase from the Gift Shop.

Volte Face

Electric vehicles are a very topical subject at the present time.

They are seen as an alternative to those powered by fossil fuels in terms of lower emissions which can only be good for the global environment as well as for the quality of the air in our towns and cities on a more local scale.

Of course there is a debate about the Green and Eco credentials of an electric vehicle as inevitably the production process and composition, specifically the elements in the batteries themselves  have a potentially damaging carbon footprint notwithstanding the depleting effect on natural resources such as nickel, lithium and zinc.

You get the impression that electric is the future where motoring is concerned but in fact the Halcyon Era of electric propulsion vehicles took place in the last few years of the 19th century.

Simultaneously in 1897 in London and New York although with no apparent collusion or collaboration between the respective parties hire-taxi services started up using pioneering electric power.

The English version of which 12 entered into that initial service was the invention of Walter C Bersey. They were the first self propelled vehicles for hire in the Capital.

Bersey was understandably a great advocate for electric power or as he called it the natural power which was "one the most intimate and effective of all of the assets of Mankind".

What he referred to as "Electric Artisans"were in effect just horseless Mulliner Coachwork bodies harnessed to a 40 cell battery running a three and a half horse power motor of a Lundell generator or alternator type.

A main catalyst to the development of such vehicles was the repeal of the Law in 1896 which had required a person with a red flag to walk in front of any powered means of transport which was obviously a major restriction and inconvenience.

New Regulations under the overseeing eye of Scotland Yard applied to what was anticipated to be the rapid increase in vehicles of unrestricted speed included the stipulation of a Driver, that the vehicle was able to be brought to a stop on demand, had a small turning circle and could get up the steepest slope in London, Savoy Hill.

The Bersey Cabs were by no means nimble and manouevrable. 

The taxi cab body work when fully fitted out to the standard expected for traditional horse drawn carriages weighed a hefty few tons and although a range of 30 miles was achievable on a single charge and with a upper speed of between 9 and 12 miles per hour they were very expensive to run on a commercial basis.

There was no premium fare to be charged for the new cabs with the same tariff applying as for the main horse drawn contingent in London. As with a Hansom Cab there were just two passenger places. The electrical illumination of the interior and exterior of the Bersey Cabs was not at all popular with complaints from hirers about feeling very much in the limelight. Those Victorians did so like a bit of secretive and subversive existence when travelling in pairs.

Under propulsion the cabs must have sounded like the modern electric milk floats of today as they became known as Hummingbirds and sported a distinctive black and yellow livery.

Soon some inherent disadvantages of the miraculous natural power source became obvious.

The batteries were bulky and when requiring recharging had to be lifted out using a hydraulic system that took around 3 minutes. Add to this that there was only a single charging station in London and smooth and effortless operation could never be attained. The cost of the electricity was exorbitant and even following the move to generating their own power this still proved to be uneconomic.

A cab, manufactured in Coventry by Bersey's Company and later with a larger model by The Gloucester Railway Waggon Company also had a very short period of operation as the level of noise and vibration caused the machines to fall apart with common symptoms being excessive wear to tyres and vibration damage to the bodywork that included delicate glass plates.

Under a basic Cost Benefit Analysis or as per that era a few calculations on the back of a cigarette packet the amount of breakdowns and wear and tear drove many initial enthusiastic operators back to horse drawn cabs.

The New York experiment of 1897 was a little more enduring and successful in terms of numbers of vehicles.

There were 100 electric cabs on the streets by 1899 and this increased to around 1000 vehicles by 1905. Consequences of the increase in the volume were  two infamous milestones being the first speeding charge and an unfortunate fatality.

However, a fire at a Taxi Depot in 1907 destroyed nearly a third of the fleet of vehicles and with the economic panic that engulfed the United States in the same year all confidence in the new fangled invention evaporated and there was a regression to horse drawn cabs.

Shortly after the importing of gasoline powered cars from France for taxi use sounded the death knell for electric power. So began the dominance of the internal combustion engine in motorised transport.

It has taken more than a century to put electric power for vehicles back on the agenda. The technology is certainly better for it.

The Last Model Shop

It did not matter at all if you did not have any money in your duffle coat pockets.

There was no need to skulk about hoping your parents would buy you something. Times were hard and a tight 1970's family budget did not stretch to fripperies.

For these and many other reasons the display window in the Toy Shop in our town was the best thing in the world and it cost nowt to stand and stare.

At one time every High Street would have its own Toy Shop, perhaps more than one. Gradually they have been squeezed out by the huge retail sheds of bland names and a policy of stack them high and sell them cheap. Perhaps the imagination of children at their play has also changed radically.

The place of my strongest childhood memories was called Moyses. It was set back from the marketplace in the town down a narrow walkway. The building was weathered old stone, higgledy-piggledy from some centuries of water softened foundations. At street level there was a large shallow bow window, almost fully down to pavement level and so therefore ideal for small children to have an excellent vantage point of what was being displayed. The cill of the window was just about the right height to sort of rest one knee whilst balancing on the leading leg and allowing a snotty nose to press up against the egg-shell brittle glass.

Each of the panes, of which there were 60, was different. Varying amounts of small air bubbles set in the transparent sand formed material, a few streaks, lots of flaws and impurities to distort the image. If there was a sizeable group of children crowded around the window some poor soul would find themselves directly in front of and having to look through a bulls-eye pane, an infinity swirl of mottled glass.

The centrepiece and principal attraction of the Toy Shop window was a railway set. A scene set in a busy station but with everything you could imagine in terms of activities and topography just around the corner. Small scale model vehicles waited on a taxi rank, there were lorries , trucks and buses acting out a typical day in model railway land. Even smaller human figures stood around, were set in working poses or just idling away the time behind a newspaper. The steep hillside was covered with a coarse green layer and with authentic trees and foliage competing for a foothold on, an otherwise, grey painted rocky effect papier mache strata. In any period of attention by the waiting children a black steam train, electric powered, would emerge from a hole in the hillside, carriages and wagons behind and career through the station with no intention to stop and pick up the pile of waiting post, a few milk churns, straw bales and, of course, passengers. This loop continued all day although I liked to think they had switched it on just for me.

The rest of the display area on the same level as the train set was taken up by model cars, a Ford Escort in police colours, red mini's, pale green Morris Minors, a Ford Tipper lorry, buses and coaches. These sat on top of their bright cardboard boxes with the logo's of Corgi, Matchbox by Lesney and Hotwheels by Mattel. I was never able to resist just ripping open the boxes upon purchase but I have no regrets upon seeing the prices asked now for mint and pristine packaged vehicles. I just feel a bit sad that full play potential was never acheived, evidently.

On an upper level were the boxed plastic kits of planes, ships, cars and even a limited run of historical figures. The best job in the world, to my young mind, would be that of  the model maker for the display window. A free airfix kit, glue, paints and the skill to produce a very authentic scaled down version of a tank or a battle scene diorama. My efforts were usually abandoned in a vapour  induced spiders web of polystyrene cement and haphazard camouflage painting on a vehicle where the wheels would not turn or always fell off.

Highest up in the window were the aircraft suspended on fine thread so as to be seen flying unassisted. I tried this as well with poor results and a few holes in my bedroom ceiling. In the spotlit display a slight breeze from the operation of the shop door would cast a shadow of wings and fuselage over the model railway and I half expected the scaled figures to run and dive for cover from the Stuka or Focke Wulf rather than wait for the arrival of the Spitfire and Hurricane.

It is funny but even now after some forty years I can visualise that wondrous free show complete with my own in-head soundtrack of engines and the noises of commerce and commotion. The magical window certainly made up for my own disappointing efforts at model making. There are not many traditional Toy and Model shops left but you can guarantee a good crowd at the window especially those of my age group with no chance for the children to get a look in.

Doppelgangers and Fixies

I firmly believe that I have a double, as in someone who so closely resembles me in physical characteristics that they have on a few occasions obviously been mistaken for me or at least caused others to remark that they have met me before when no such meeting has taken place.

I do not think that it is anything intentional or sinister.

There are of course the Conspiracy Theorists who would claim this to be part of a global cloning exercise by foreign governments, megalithic Corporations, aliens or on a smaller scale a natural development in what we are led to believe is the widespread criminal activity of identity theft.

Yes, I have seen such story lines in movies such as Face Off and read about them as the main plot lines in all sorts of novels from the classics such as Jean de Floret to Science Fiction portrayals of cyborgs and humanoids.

The last couple of incidences of the strange familiarity towards me from complete strangers have taken place within a week of each other.

The first was as I was walking past a KFC Restaurant just close to my house.

A small, middle aged guy muttered as I strode past "Do you remember me?"

I am very much a people person and my daily work brings me into direct contact with I would say an above average number of the public at large. Statistically therefore I get about a bit and chances are either myself or the other party, in a crowd or other situation might have a degree of deja-vu type recognition.

In this instance I had no recollection whatsoever of the man or where we might have met before.

If way back from my school days it might have been possible to add on a few decades of life's wear and stress to the current facial features.

Mannerisms can give a clue, similarly any unfortunate afflictions such as a twitch, squint or stammer.

I was still no closer to an identification. I asked where we might have met before. He replied "in the pub". I knew then that it was a case of mistaken identity on his part as I just do not frequent such places and never really have unless a special event or just meeting up with friends or associates.

He still seemed to be under the impression that he knew me but I threw in enough elements of doubt to halt the street side interrogation and politely but decisively walked on.

The other situation was just yesterday.

I was some 50 miles up country in a large seaside town, already crowded in its main shopping area with residents and visitors taking in the warm Spring sunshine even at 11am in the morning.

In the middle part of the pedestrianised area was a group of suit clad men and women whose smart attire differentiated them from the otherwise casually or seasonally inappropriately dressed populus. Such an incongruous gathering, to my mind, throws up the possibility of Jehovah's Witnesses, Political canvassers or those canvassing or hawking products such as double glazing and life insurance. I got ready to deflect any approach with a flippant or casual remark but didn't get an opportunity as one of the suited and booted broke off and headed for me only to hold back with the comment "oh, sorry I've already spoken to you".

That was strange but actually quite a welcome outcome.

Both of the above cases of mis-identification were, I accept, harmless and not too intrusive.

I was reminded of a newspaper story with potentially more significant implications for privacy and personal liberty involving identity.

It involved a male Hipster character; you will easily recognise the type whose natural territory is the modern built up environs of a city or large town, the trendy parts only of course immersed in cafe and bistro culture. They have  beards, wear beany hats, drainpipe trousers at half mast and walk about pushing a very expensive pedal cycle with no gears.

He expressed fury and indignation at the use of his photographic image, without his knowledge or consent in an article in the media which argued that all hipster types look the same.

In his indignant letter to the publication in which the photo had featured he stated;

"Your lack of basic journalistic ethics in both the manner of which you reported this uncredited nonsense and the slanderous unnecessary use of my picture without permission demands a response and I am of course pursuing legal action". 

He didn't get very far.

On closer scrutiny of the photograph it turned out that it wasn't him at all.

Winston and Climate Change

I tripped over something in the aisle of the British Rail carriage and cursed but more from surprise than annoyance.

The object had been concealed alongside the row of seats, resting on the floor.

It was, from the part that I could see, a wooden pole. It's owner apologised for the inconvenience and I accepted without a grumble. That took a double take as the voice had come from someone dressed in full English Civil War outfit.

He looked the part from buckle up shoes to leggings, moleskin plus fours, tunic and steel breastplate.A good beard growth added to the authenticity as did the grey metal bucket shaped helmet which, for now, I noticed was wedged into the overhead shelf alongside a well worn khaki coloured cloth kit bag.

The wooden obstruction was a 16 foot long sharpened Pike.

How he got it on the train in the first place was baffling in that it did not appear to be in sections or otherwise flexible. It must have been fed through one of the small opening windows of the carriage which would have required the co-operation and assistance of  a few passengers to man-handle it to the central aisle resting place.

As for how the Pikeman smuggled the sapling sized object into the railway station and onto the platform I can only imagine the subterfuge that was required to elude staff and train crew.

There could of course be a Special Regulation for the transportation of weapons harking back to the days of military use of the railways in times of war but a Pike, well that would be a completely different category in that their use pre-dated rail travel by some 200 years.

That Roundhead infantryman is one of many Re-enacters that I have come across in recent years.

I admire all of them for their dedication to what must be quite an obsessive fascination that must take up a good proportion of their spare time notwithstanding the cost to achieve such realism and the travel to venues all over the country. At the same time the whole thing is a little bit weird.

At an Air Show a couple of years ago there was a large display by World War Two re-enacters. They occupied a large camping site just next to the runway and represented just about every nationality of fighting troops from drab clad British to the stylish American Forces and even, to my amazement, an enclave of Nazi's including a full rank Field Marshall who was driven around, standing up, in a large staff car.

The level of role playing is astounding and that is not just the uniforms and equipment but hairstyles and attitudes. A sepia tint effect photograph of the scene could easily be construed as having been taken in the black and white era of the Second World War had it not been for the backdrop of modern Jets, T shirt clad onlookers and the Funfair.

It can be a hazardous experience for the part timers in their chosen roles amongst all of the armaments and vehicles but perhaps contributing to the excitement of an event.

Just a couple of days ago I went to a local Air Museum as a day out with the twin boys aged 7 of some friends just to give them a bit of a break.

The visit coincided with an event to remember the fast approaching 75th Anniversary of D Day, the start of the Allied liberation of Europe. The day featured some of the exhibits of WW2 aircraft out on the tarmac with re-enacters in air crew uniform milling about or taking part in mission briefings in the well preserved and restored buildings including Nissen huts and the Control Tower.

Music was provided by a trio of singers in WRAF uniforms harmonising the hits of the ‘40’s.
Then around the corner of the NAAFI block came a Winston Churchill lookalike resplendent in a characteristic pincstripe suit, shiny shoes and bowler hat.

Just about to the very day of Churchill’s motivational speech to Parliament on the iconic “Blood,Toil, Tears and Sweat” theme the imitator paused in front of us and took off his tight fitting hat.

  “Problem is”he said in a very un-Winston-like regional accent “that on these hot event days I get a good bit of sun on my face but a terrible tan line around the brim of the bowler.”

 It was an interesting insight into the toil and mostly sweat of a weekend Prime Minister.

A New Leaf

Our perception of the world around us has altered over the millenia as our means of travelling through it has changed.

For example, our earliest ancestors had to go everywhere on foot.

Add to that the mainly inhospitable terrain and the risks to life imposed by large predatory creatures and other adversaries and the contemplation of even the shortest of treks to seek out food, fuel and shelter will have taken on epic proportions.

It is not surprising therefore that those in pre-history confined themselves to a very small geographical area.

This situation persisted well into the Middle Ages and beyond with villagers and town dwellers alike staying put within the territory and amongst the population that they knew and felt safe and secure with.

It was not, for the majority , an entirely satisfactory situation with poor living conditions, poverty and the expectation of a very short life down to the combination of these factors.

With hindsight a modern day psychologist would also attribute the miserable existence to mental anguish, depression and post traumatic syndrome.

So, in effect the world for those only able to travel a daily distance on foot was about 25 miles wide which in reality was about as far as the horizon and rarely beyond unless conflict or enslavement descended as yet more misfortune. Adopting a measure of time rather than distance and the typical known world was encompassed in the hours before dawn and dusk.

What came to be the more common use of horses in everyday life added a bit more scope to travel although such a means was largely restricted to the nobility, privileged classes and those of independent means.

At a steady pace on the four legs of a fit horse the radius of the known world expanded to around 40 to 50 miles in a day. Although there will have been tracks, trails and early by-ways the same dangers existed to the travellers from flora, fauna and felons.

The Pony Express in the Wild West of the United States worked on the basis that a fast galloping steed and rider could last for 10 miles at peak pace and so placed their Relay Stations at these intervals to ensure the swiftest of journeys across the prairies and through the unconquered wilderness of the New World.

Hitch up a wagon and more people and possessions could be transported albeit slowly and surely. On a low cumulative daily mileage basis the settlers and pioneers traversed a whole continent.

Science and technology developed rapidly in the 18th and 19th centuries and one of the greatest inventions adapted from an industrial application to the transportation of humans, the steam engine further extended the daily travelling parameters.

Slow at first it was not long before a few hundred miles was a regular excursion by steam train for those able to afford the expense and time. This was a major factor behind the mass movement of population from a rural to an urban and metropolitan existence.

It was through the development of the internal combustion engine that freedom to travel became established as an entitlement rather than a luxury. Cheaper mass produced motor vehicles and of much enhanced reliability and driving range soon caught on as an expression of personal freedom.

As long as there was a good network of places to refuel then it was easy to take on large distances and by definition even more ambitious trips for leisure or necessity such as employment and commerce.

So to the present incarnations of  fossil fuel engines and on a full tank an entirely possible range of 500 to 700 miles in a day.

Our ancestors would be astounded by the thought of such personal travel.

Ironically in our time the average speed even with a technologically advanced powertrain is not really much more than it was at the advent of motoring, this being a consequence of overcrowded roads, roadworks and other contributing factors.

The death knell has however sounded for petrol and diesel engines as we have known them which is inevitable as we battle with climate change.

The Climate Emergency which is of our own doing and to a large extent from our worship of things chucking out emissions demands that we rethink our lifestyles and practices.

I have contemplated for some time the acquisition of an electric vehicle.

The model I have in mind, of zero emissions when driven, has a current range capability of up to 168 miles on a full single charge.

This suggests, does it not, a backward and regressive trend?

After all, my existing vehicle from a disgraced continental manufacturer has supposedly been re-engineered to produce lower emissions and particulates and provides me with a range some 4 times greater than the glorified milk float being considered.

I should not prevented from taking on long and extended journeys if opting for electric propulsion but like my ancestors in the past I will have to plan carefully for any elected route.

The traveller of yore on foot required a place to shelter and to be fed to achieve that daily radius. A horse and rider needed stabling and rooms. Steam trains required periodic replenishment of coal and water: modern cars the same in the form of fuel and consumables.

Any electric means of transport that I look to rely upon will just mean a reliance on public charging stations and the time required to take up a sufficient amount of power to continue on to the eventual destination.

It could be quite an experience in a pioneering sort of way.

Go Up North our Lad

Today is the start of the Tour of Italy Cycle Race, the Giro D'Italia which is the first in the annual calendar of the Grand Tours which continues in the Summer as the showcase for France and in the early Autumn the sights, sounds and atmospheres of Spain.

The TV coverage of these three events gives the impression that there is nothing else in the cycling year but even before that first turn of the pedals, today in Bologna, the superstars of the sport have already been in action in the early Spring Classics which include the One Day Races or Monuments which in name as well as through the passage of time have a unique legendary status.

These are typically run between great European Cities with the best known being Paris Roubaix, Milan San Remo and Liege Bastogne Liege.

In my pursuit of cycling facts and trivia I have only just come across another place to place race and this took place quite close to my own doorstep in Yorkshire, England.

It says something about the secondary or even tertiary status of the sport of cycling in the UK in the 1970's and 80's compared to its popularity it has attained today that the London to Bradford professional cycle race has been relegated  to the archives with little even basic information other than the results from its three successive runnings and a short reminiscence from the winner of the inaugural event in 1979.

It was certainly an ambitious undertaking by the organisers although under the principal sponsorship of Empire Stores, the UK's first home shopping brand whose Head Office was in Bradford, the level of prize money attracted a good field of riders.

The winner could take home £1000 and there was a further £1500 up for grabs at intermediate sprints, ten of them in various towns on the way.

Crucially it was enough to lure some of the Continental based amongst them to take part and to rub shoulders with what was quite an insular Pro-scene on these shores.

The profile of the race was epic.

The 260 mile or 416 kilometres from London to Bradford made the distances of the Monuments resemble a short ride around the block.

The inaugural race started at the Post House Hotel in Hampstead, a well to do suburb of the Capital with a neutralised zone to Elstree, well known for its Film Studio before making for the A5 Trunk Road in a northerly direction.

I have not been able to find any information on the exact route other than the mention of passing through Banbury in Oxfordshire and nothing else until the Lancashire town of Oldham, the topographical feature of Standedge in the Pennine Hills, Marsden, the regional city of Leeds and the finish at the Odsal Stadium a Rugby League venue in Bradford, West Yorkshire.

First across the line in that initial 1979 event was Barry Hoban who for some years held the record for most wins by a Brit in the Tour de France amongst an illustrious career in Europe at elite level.

His fitness and stamina was just too much for the rest of the field and remarkably, compared to current race management, he operated as a lone rider without a team and relying on the food and water he could carry between official replenishment zones. He worked on the basis of 200km worth of supplies until he could take on new nourishment.

A professional rider can cruise effortlessly all day well in excess of 20mph over a mixture of all terrains and climates and Hoban's time for the London Bradford excursion at 11 hours 15 minutes and 12 seconds represented an average speed of around 24mph.

Those placing second and third were nearly seven minutes behind.

There was financial support from Empire Stores for two further races with the respective winners being Jean Marie Michel of La Redoute Motobecane in 1980 and the Dutch Raleigh Team Rider Ludo Peeters in 1981.

That last edition of the race saw the great Sean Kelly get to Odsal in third position. This in itself was an endorsement of the status of London Bradford as Kelly has already established himself on the continent and as we all know went on to assemble the most impressive of major race wins and placings.

It is indeed a pity that London Bradford only survived three episodes as in terms of its severity of endurance and stamina it was poised to stake its claim to a regular date on the global cycling calendar.

Like a Bucket of Mud

I have little experience and knowledge of the literary style and skills of the author Raymond Chandler on a first hand basis.

That is to say that I have never read any of his iconic and of-a-time novels but nevertheless his words and the invariably thick, menacing atmosphere that they project are very real to me through the dramatisation of his books on the big screen and through the medium of radio plays.

Just take any of Chandler's many one liners and even if just said to yourself silently you find the words issuing forth in the drawled, gravelly and bourbon infused tones of the great actors who have made a good living out of, in particular, his main character of the Private Detective Philip Marlowe.

The list is unparalleled I would say in quality and pedigree apart from perhaps Shakespearean thespians.

Amongst the Hollywood 'A' Listers  are Bogart and Mitchum, Gould, Powell, R Montgomery,Garner, Boothe, Gambon, Caan, Carey and G Montgomery not to mention those on the airwaves recruited no doubt willingly for the prestige of the role.

In the last couple of days, whilst driving about between work appointments I have been enthralled by a BBC production of Chandler's "Playback" with British Actor, Toby Stephens giving a passable rendition of Marlowe.

The classic one liners and put downs in the dialogue of Playback were cleverly put together and beautifully delivered.

"Her eyes went down to the paper very, very slowly. Her eyes held on to it. Her hand moved to take it, but his was quicker"

"Common sense says go home and forget it, no money coming in. Common sense always speaks too late. Common sense is the guy who tells you you ought to have your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end this week. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But never is. He's high up in the stands with a hip flask. Common sense is the little man in a grey suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always someone else's money he's adding up."

"There was something Mongolian about his face, something south-of-the-border, something Indian, and something darker than that"

"One of the women had enough ice on her to cool the Mojave desert and enough make-up to paint a steam yacht"

"The walls around here were as thin as a Hoofer's wallet"

"I recall when this town was so quiet dogs slept in the middle of the boulevard and you had to stop your car, if you had a car, and get out and push them out of the way. Sundays it was like you was already buried. Everything shut up as tight as a bank vault. You couldn't walk down Grand Street and have as much fun as a stiff in a morgue. You couldn't even buy a pack of cigarettes. It was so quiet you could of heard a mouse combin' his whiskers"

"She had a pair of legs - so far as I could determine - that were not painful to look at" (Playback)
"I moved to the door. I wouldn't say she looked exactly wistful, but neither did she look as hard to get as a controlling interest in General Motors"

"'This is a rich town, friend,' he said slowly. 'I've studied it. I've boned up on it. I've talked to guys about it'"

"Wherever I went, whatever I did, this was what I would come back to. A blank wall in a meaningless room in a meaningless house"

Having enjoyed these in the context of a really good detective story I found myself researching other similar witty and biting phrases within the wider body of work of Chandler.

"It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name" (The Little Sister)

"Thirty feet away she looked like a lot of class.  From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away" (The High Window)

"I'm an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard." (The King In Yellow)

"He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor" (Pearls Are A Nuisance)

"The big foreign car drove itself, but I held the wheel for the sake of appearances" (Farewell, My Lovely)

"She's a charming middle age lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she's washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all" (Farewell, My Lovely)

"It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills" (The Big Sleep)

"The house itself was not so much. It was smaller than Buckingham Palace, rather gray for California, and probably had fewer windows than the Chrysler Building." (Farewell My Lovely)

"He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck" (Farewell My Lovely)

"Across the street somebody had delirium tremens in the front yard and a mixed quartet tore what was left of the night into small strips and did what they could to make the strips miserable. While this was going on the exotic brunette didn't move more that one eyelash." (Red Wind)

"Ok, Marlowe," I said between my teeth. "You’re a tough guy. Six feet of iron man. One hundred and ninety pounds stripped and with your face washed. Hard muscles and no glass jaw. You can take it" (Farewell My Lovely)

"All right," I yelled. "I’ll go up with you. Just lay off carrying me. Let me walk. I’m fine. I’m all grown up. I go to the bathroom and everything. Just don’t carry me" (Farewell My Lovely)

"You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that, oil and water were the same as wind and air to you" (The Big Sleep)

"I. . . just sat, not smoking, not even thinking. I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name. I didn't want to eat. I didn't even want a drink. I was the page from yesterday's calendar crumpled at the bottom of the waste basket " (The Little Sister)

"The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work show-girl uses her last good pair of stockings." (The Big Sleep)

"His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish." (The Man Who Liked Dogs)

"There were two hundred and eighty steps up to Cabrillo Street.  They were drifted over with windblown sand and the handrail was as cold and wet as a toad's belly." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I called him from a phone booth. The voice that answered was fat. It wheezed softly, like the voice of a man who had just won a pie-eating contest." (Trouble Is My Business)

"I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split" (The Long Goodbye)

"Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel cake" (The Big Sleep)

"'Please don't get up,' she said in a voice like the stuff they use to line summer clouds with" (The Long Goodbye)

"It jarred me. It was like watching the veneer peel off and leave a tough kid in an alley. Or like hearing an apparently refined woman start expressing herself in four- letter words" (The Lady In The Lake)

"She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight" (Little Sister)

My ultimate favourite is the one liner that produces that strong image of a senior member of the clergy getting a bit carried away. 

Curiosity did for the kitty

I will say straight up that I am not a Cat Person.

That is not say that I have been in the past.

As a youngster I did have my own Tabby and for a short time we were quite inseparable. It used to sleep under the covers at my feet and I was very responsible in seeing to all of its basic needs.

The cat died ahead of its allotted years and still with most of its lives in the bank and that hit me quite hard.

It was probably no coincidence that subsequently and to the present day I have the most allergic reaction to cats.

I think they call that psychosomatic or something like that.

For all of their character and traits that endear them to a good proportion of  humans the cat as a species has retained an element of mystery, intrigue and above all an attitude that gives the impression that they could exist easily without our patronage.

These things are well known and documented but yet at the height of the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union in the 1960's the Central Intelligence Agency had the madcap idea to recruit the domestic cat into their espionage operations.

It was on reflection a bit of a gamble.

We all know that cats are their own masters and have a tendency to wander off, become distracted and hungry. They are not known for their loyalty and do not acknowledge exclusivity in relations with their owners.

However, the CIA invested some US$20 million into a project to use cats to eavesdrop on Russian Diplomats by using them as feline microphones.

The mechanic of this can only be described as a bit gruesome.

An anesthetised kitty was spreadeagled on the veterinary operating table and a transmitter embedded in its skull along with the smallest of power packs.

A microphone was inserted into the ear canal and an antennae run along the cartiledge of the sweeping tail as a purrfect receiver.

This will have involved a lot of cutting and stitching and those involved likened their first creation, when it had returned to consciousness, to a Frankenkitty.

The same inaugural animal was unfortunately, although this is disputed by those involved in the Project, let out on a test mission only to be run over by a Taxi as it dodged across a road.

That tragic accident only served to highlight the sheer unpredictability and unmanageable nature of a cat which severely questioned the thinking behind the CIA and their quest.

The Project just seems to have slunk away into the far recesses of the archives but remains as an example of Man's folly and assumed dominion over animals.

Scrabbling For Words

Amazingly another 2862 words have just been added to the dictionary for Scrabble players as a reaction to the dynamic nature of language and particularly to acknowledge the influence of popular culture, slang, youth and modern lifestyles. 

I am just thrilled that "OK" is now allowed as that inclusion will certainly useful to me in my ham-fisted efforts in the game. To date I have never won a game against my wife of 30 years.

Agender – of a person who does not identify with a gender (9 points)

Antifa – anti-fascist organisation (9 points)

Antivaxxer – person opposed to vaccination (19 points)

Aquafaba- Vegan substitute for egg whites (22 points)

Bae – sweetheart or lover (5 points)

Bizjet- small aeroplane used by business people (24 points)

Blockchain- system for storing digital currency transactions (23 points)

Blud – friend (7 points)

Burquini – swimming costume covering the whole body apart from the face, hands and feet (19 points)

Cisgender – having an assigned birth gender and gender identity that are the same (13 points)

Ew – expression of disgust (5 points)

Fatberg – large mass of fat in a sewer (13 points)

Fleek – as in “on fleek”, stylish (12 points)

Genderqueer – person with a non-traditional gender identity (22 points)

Hackerazzo – person who hacks a celebrity’s personal computer (27 points)

Hench – fit and muscular (13 points)

Incel – involuntary celibate (7 points)

Jambuster- jam filled doughnut (20 points)

Kompromat – potentially damaging documents, photographs, etc kept for blackmail (19 points)

Mansplaining – of a man explaining something to a woman in a condescending way (13 points)

Manspreading – when a male passenger spreads his legs into the seats beside him (18 points)

Misgender – refer to a person as the wrong gender (13 points)

Ok – okay (6 points)

Omnishambles- thoroughly mismanaged situation (21 points)

Plogging- picking up litter whilst jogging (13 points)

Remainer – person who remains (10 points)

Qapik – monetary unit of Azerbaijan (20 points)

Sammie- a sandwich (10 points)

Sharenting- helping out with other peoples children (14 points)

Shebagging – when a female passenger places her bag on the seat beside her (18 points)

Transphobia – hatred or fear of transgender people (18 points)

Upskirting – taking photographs under a woman’s skirt or dress without consent (17 points)

Ze – gender-neutral pronoun (11 points)

Zomboid- resembling a zombie (21 points)

Yowza – used to express enthusiasm or excitement (20 points)

English Lesson 7

So, already we are at the letter "G" in the compilation of definitions of English Words from the BBC Radio Series "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" which has been producing such nonsense since 1972. The definitive list has been the labour of love of Kevin Hale, a Superfan of the show and I have dipped in and out of it shamefully exploiting his hard work.

The words and definitions are confusing enough but I apologise, again, to any Students of the English Language amongst my readers for adding mayhem and misdirection to their struggle.

There is, understandably, some political incorrectness present but please remember that the words and meanings do date back some considerable years to an era when people just spoke their mind with no sympathy or empathy for the offence that may have been caused at the time and subsequently.

I like to think that we are better for the experience of such things and much more in tune with others.

Here goes;

Gravy- close to death

Gurgle- the theft of a Ventriloquist Dummy

Guacamole- Mexican Visitor to Toad Hall *

Gross Behaviour- doing something 144 times *

Genealogy- allergic reaction to wearing denim

Game Warden- a traffic enforcement officer playing hide and seek

Granary- Old Folks Home

Geranium- the shout of a Gardener getting excited about starting the day

Geriatric- 3 goals by Gerd Muller *

Garden Gate- scandal involving Alan Titchmarsh

Grandee- the old lady between Gran C and Gran E

Gullible- stupid seabird

Gigolo- the sight of Jennifer Lopez running

Gripe- what Australian Wine is made from

Guy Fawkes Night- the period from September to December

Gentry- the way in to a Male Toilet

Gargoyle- Olive flavoured mouthwash

Gazette- baby antelope

Geiger Counter- device for measuring the performance of Ventriloquists

Gonorrhoea- getting behind with the rent

Gastronome- a flatulent Elf

Goatherd- exclamation on flushing the toilet

Groin- the Go signal on a traffic light in Birmingham

Goblet- small mouth

Giggle- a very small music event

Gastric- lighting a fart

Gondolier- something you can catch from a Boatman

Gringo- Mexican drummer in a Beatles Tribute Band

Gyroscope- equipment to locate a lost Benefit Cheque

Greenbelt- goes well with green trousers

Global- the sensation after sitting too close to an open fire

Glitch- irritation felt by a celebrity

Glockenspiel- a conversation about military sidearms

Grounds- angry dogs

Gibbet- a small piece of Great Britain

Geography- a chart depicting men called George

Geocentric- selfish men called George

Galaxy- a female with tendency to chop down trees

Gastroenteritis- the way into a fancy food pub

Gallbladder- what the French use to climb up things

Gazpacho- where Paul Gascoigne calls home

Gelatin- getting friendly with South Americans