Rhubarb, Rhubarb

There are many new technologies being marketed to homeowners or those, in particular thinking of building their own house on the unique selling points of being Ecological, Environmentally Friendly and Ethical. The magazine displays at WH Smiths are crammed full of such publications under titles appealing to  architectural uniqueness, green and enviro homes, use of re-cycled materials, building with straw, barn conversions and the key element, admit it, making a big stack of money upon resale. I do get the feeling from watching TV's Grand Designs that the featured couples are undertaking a back breaking and potentially financially ruinous project because their lives are unfulfilled in so many other areas. I cite the Eastern European model where young and in love partners build a house during their courting years, finish it, get married and then upon immediate divorce they split the reasonable accrued proceeds and start again. Human Society mimics the birds and the bees.....discuss. Solar Panels are beginning to sprout on south facing roof slopes in my area. A very obvious commitment is expressed, by the array of smoked glass rectangular frames, to benefitting the environment but again the best intentions come down to money issues. Currently there are very significant incentives to turn a perfectly good roof into a power plant. Free electricity to the homeowner and a financial return over the long term from selling surplus to the National Grid. Anyone north of Nottingham may struggle to meet the marketing claims for the benefits of photo-voltaic cells. There are organisations who will consider paying rent for your roof to mount panels to exploit for commercial gain the subsidies and grants for solar installations, that is if you live south of Nottingham. I have also come across heat source and air source heat pumps in new build housing. The former involves drilling into and tapping the natural heat in the ground to provide a warmer inflow of water requiring less energy from normal gas, electricty or oil fuels to boost to conventional temperature. The latter can be likened to a windmill in a box and absorbs heat from the outside air. People north of Nottingham, again, do not get too excited by this alternative technology. Under floor heating is in fashion again after 1500 years of limited uptake. I am not convinced of it's longer term acceptance by the English who really like radiators as bum-warmers and impromptu clothes dryers. All of these innovations relate to heating. Perhaps the greatest benefit to the environment would come from a similar level of sales and marketing for disposal of waste and effluent. The Chinese have a very healthy approach to disposal of human waste. It is spread on the fields to fertilise crops and enrich the soils.Historically, the night soil from our own towns and cities was removed by cart to be deposited beyond the built up area. Muck Garth is frequently shown on old maps. In this country, the first whiff in the air of anything less than the fragrance of rose petals causes uproar and complaint whether originating from farming activities or a freak wind blown odour from the local sewage works. A truly ecological approach would be for every house to have a reed bed system for cleansing and dissipation of effluent into the environment. However, this will never happen. Density of new housing is increasing as is an exponential growth in the number of toilets in each house. I must get around to buying shares in Kimberley Clark, the worlds largest loo paper manufacture particularly as even the smallest 2 bed new house has three WC's- cloakroom, bathroom and en suite. This can increase easily to 6 WC's in a bog-standard 4 bed executive calibre detached house if all are en suite.Homeowners also have some firm views on not shitting in their own back yards.  Alternative foul disposal includes a worm based system. Basically, the poop is done into an organic mulch inhabited by worms who naturally degrade the waste leaving an aerated residue. If this can then be put on the garden I am all for it. If the worms are then useable for fishing I will sign up immediately to this system. Perhaps commercial companies will rent out the worms to you and then farm them for sale to angling shops, even if you do live north of Nottingham.

My global answer to the problem of the disposal of human effleunt is borrowed with little or no requirement for tweaking or technological change from an old farmstead way out in the rural areas between Hull and the coast. The two seater earth closet meets all requirements for eco and environmental criteria. The twin holed seat is fashioned from one plank of wood, renewable and sustainable. The compartment is externally housed with ventilated space above and below the door so very healthy and naturally heated. The soil in the bottom of the closet is just soil , nothing fancy and naturally soil fragranced. The closet, being 2 seated can be shared with economies of scale for time spent in the dunny. I could imagine two farmworkers passing many hours of the day in close conversation and shared humility from the experience. After the business is done a fresh spadeful of soil covers the waste. Newspaper sheets, draped over a piece of string on the back of the door will satisfy a recycling ethic. When the closet is close to capacity the contents can be shovelled out and by the late summer there will be a fantastic crop of rhubarb in the garden. It is a win, win proposal on all counts. Of course the well tried and tested operation will have to be sugar-coated for wider acceptance today. The 2 seater could be housed in a small, tasteful shed like structure in the garden or with a link corridor from a conservatory. Dwellers in high rise flats could have the same secured to the outside wall with a shute arrangement down to a ground level collection point. House-boat occupiers would require a small floating dinghy. Of course, those living alone by choice or circumstance can opt for a single seater version. I can see endless possibilities and distinct advantages for the environment through these measures. Of course, there is always the chance that the Intellectual Rights for this innovation may be purchased by those with vested interests in seeing it fail. I fear a backlash, in particular from rhubarb growers faced with a plummeting unit price when everyone grows their own.

Home Brew

The teenage years of 16 to 18 are the most rewarding but also the most dangerous. That two year period can make, break or just finish you off altogether.It is a rite of passage as a luxury in a modern economy and society thankfully spared the tragic exposure of that age group otherwise to disease, famine, war or natural disaster. At 16 there usually begins the experimentation with alcohol. Up until midnight on the last day of your 15th birthday anything alcoholic tastes, frankly, revolting. There were public gatherings where parents permitted a small sip of champagne (weddings), sherry (funerals), beer (christening) or babycham (anything else) and that usually resulted in a grimace, nausea and an intention never to let the same ever pass your lips.  At one minute into your 16th year the same liquids suddenly assume a mystical and forbidden taste. My own exposure to this temptation was fairly mild, not bitter, but mild. Older brothers of friends, themselves still under the legal drinking age of 18 would be partying usually accompanied by 'Freebird' or 'Stairway to Heaven' and we could usually sneak in and partake in the dregs of the party cans or discarded cans without being noticed and ridiculed. It did not take much to make me feel a bit tipsy. More by suggestion than actual ingestion. On a carol singing outing on Christmas Eve ,with a social group, at the age of 16 I was well under the influence. I remember, to this day with shame, stashing my collection of unopened beer cans in the porch of the church having arranged to meet up with my family for Midnight Mass. I got there after the service had begun and with all eyes on my late arrival I staggered in, waved dumbly and leered at all those there congregated. My mother and sisters made up half the choir. My father and younger brothers looked on. The church was full. Nothing was ever said to me about the whole sorry affair although disapproving looks continued for much of the following year. It was a moment for contemplation between me and God. With a family move, not because of my drinking I hasten to add,  there was another peer group and resultant pressures. At the age of 17 I attended a party, host and occasion unknown. After meeting at The Oddfellows public house, a sympathetic hostelry to the under-aged, I was able to buy a share of a four pack of McEwans Special Brew. A bit like alcoholic Marmite in texture and not far off in taste. I drank my cans on the way to the party. In the hosts house things were well under way.Parents out, gatecrashers in and then the inevitable sound of breaking glass, a girls scream and then mention of The Police. My combined survival and homing instinct in the face of trouble or conflict immediately kicked in. Later, I learnt that the glass was a toppled beer glass, the girl screaming was just an excitable girl and The Police were the emerging pop band of Sting, Summers and Copeland. By all accounts it was a great party. I was however on my way home. It was dark. Pedestrians seemed to loom out of the darkness, take a look at me, mutter and then stride off. I made out the town centre, the end of my street and then my house. I found it unusual that the front door was unlocked but crept in and sat down on the bottom stair, head in hands, the mosaic tiled floor spinning uncontrollably. I sensed a presence. Through my intertwined fingers I saw the blurry outline of a child. My 11 year old brother asked me if I was alright. I asked him what the time was, thinking he was up very late. He told me it was only half past eight.I had only been out of the house for 90 minutes. The rest of the family gathered round, with genuine concern but bordering on amusement. I was spared the indignity of trying to walk a straight line, touch my nose with thumb and forefinger or recite 'The Leith Police Seizeth Me", all apparently stock tests for intoxication prior to the introduction of the breathalyser. I spent the whole night with my head out of the attic window trying to steady and revive myself in readiness for my sunday morning paper round commencing at 5am. I survived that particular ordeal and I had learnt a valuable and sobering lesson which has stayed with me ever since. DO NOT DRINK SPECIAL BREW-OTHER DRINKS ARE MORE AGREEABLE. I am, however, regularly reminded of the whole affair whenever I happen to visit the old family home and stand anywhere near to the bottom of the stairs or unwittingly sit on the lowest step to tie a shoe lace or talk to the dog.

Pork Pie

For many years my younger brother believed that the huge grey mass of buildings that operated as one of the largest steel factories in Europe at that time, with its multi storey edifice, architectural functionality, frequent emissions of industrial scale steam and, at night, the glow of a dying celestial star was in fact where they made Shredded Wheat breakfast cereal. The things that young children believe, really. I was a few years older and was amazed at how this tall tale had been accepted without question. After all, why would the makers of the best breakfast cereal ever choose to be based in Scunthorpe when there were plenty of other and arguably better locations. I think this myth may have come from my parents. I later, when a parent myself, continued the tradition.
My youngest daughter was heart-broken when her favourite toy, a small ,pink fur covered pig became, in her eyes irreparably damaged by a tragic accident involving a staircase. (Fall or deliberate push is still debatable) There was no consoling the small child until, as parents only can do, a massive lie and drama was acted out. I was charged with contacting the nearest A&E at the D&T (Dolly and Toy Hospital) by accessing a special Directory of Services for Good and Beautiful children. I am not sure, by definition if there is a complimentary volume for bad and ugly offspring. My mock conversation with the fictitious Dolly and Toy Hospital receptionist was, according to my wife, quite a performance involving a bit of small talk, some general comments on the weather, a mutual dislike of lawyers and, this I dispute, not a little bit of flirting. Anyway, I managed to charm my way into getting an appointment with the equally elusive chief physician for that very afternoon. My daughter and I sat on her bed with, and briefed, the listless pink pig on the pre-operation procedure but tried to keep up beat. Neither of us were  sure if the little animal was even tolerant of pigicillin. Foolishly, and in retrospect downright asking for a legal action, as we knew not what we were doing, we bound up the middle of the pig with a crepe bandage finished with a neatly tied bow. There were tears as I drove away but after wiping my eyes I could see the road a lot better. My daughter waved me off, her face trusting and expectant. A few minutes later, as I left the Municipal Tip minus a pink pig, I had already planned the next stage of the deception. The toy was a couple of years old but due to a massive overstocking following wildly optimistic estimates of potential sales the large catalogue store in town had plenty of surplus stock, still. I was pleased and relieved initially but then a bit annoyed. The economic laws of over supply and minimal demand  meant that the price had now fallen by a massive 60% from the panic fuelled purchase a couple of years before. We had fallen for the massive hype and very persuasive advertising campaign for the pink pig. We had been suckered into believing that if we had failed to purchase that product that year, our child would be forever scarred with emotional stress through the lack toy based affirmation of parental love. We vowed never to fall into that parental trap again. In successive years however, we were tricked into purchasing the so-called top toys every time. At the back of the garage lies a pile of micro-scooters, Toy Story action figures, Talking Elmo's and other discarded scrap heap playthings. My daughter demanded regular updates on the progress of the patient. She was understandably upset that she could not visit in person but as I further explained, the location had to be kept ultra-secret. I forget now why that was so.The receptionist at the Dolly and Toy Hospital was most helpful although was becoming a bit too familiar and I had to get my wife to make the calls subsequently. Sooner than expected we got the great news that the patient was being released. I speculated to my daughter that there must have been a  shortage of hospital beds on account of a massive upsurge in brittle plastic problems with early Barbie Dolls and Action Man's horse. I set off to collect the patient. The "order by phone and collect in store" function worked perfectly.Following completion of the purchase I discarded the packaging for the replacement pig in the bins at the multi storey car park in town. The crepe bandage, removed at the rubbish skip at the internment of the old pig was carefully re-attached. They could have been identical twins. As a nice touch, I attached a small, unused corn plaster to its left foot.The homecoming was marvellous to behold. Child and pink pig reunited and ecstatic. There was calm again in the cosmos. Some years later we, as parents, did admit to our deviousness but our daughter was quite nonchalant about the whole thing. I think she had suspected this ruse all along but was appreciative of the effort we had put in on her behalf. The new pink pig resides in the attic with successive 'Toys of the Year' and dines out regularly on the story of its miraculous recovery and the unconditional love of a small girl.

When it rains on Skye...it rains

The approach of a holiday involves some serious thought on what reading matter to take along. Those who have fallen for electronic book formats have no need to browse their bookselves for a new or familiar creased spine or distinctive and friendly sleeve artwork. That is a terrible shame. In support of real books in texture and substance and the thrill of their actual volume, weight and density I tell the following tale. The book; A Summer in Skye. The Grid Reference 57.149464N, 5.940463W

It was a strange experience to actually sit and read a book in the very house in which it had been written back in the 1860's.We had rented Ord House, a fine 1750's built gentrified farmhouse for two full weeks in August much to the dismay of our three children.  It was very remote in the lap of 20% inclines out of the loch shoreline and with, it is argued, one of the best sites for a private house in all of Scotland. The nearest mobile phone signal involved an 8 mile round trip on a poorly geared city bike across bleak moors under the constant disapproving gaze of sheep and Highland cattle who had no sense of the highway code and would loom or skit across your path oblivious of  impending impact risk. The nearest bright red telephone box was only about 100 feet away from the front door but of course that would never be considered for communication purposes. Under wet weather holiday house arrest for just about the full fortnight I retreated into the world of books. I had some inclination that I was close to one of the main settings for the book from Alexander Smiths superb detail on the physical landscape but it was not until a brief conversation with an islander in a gift shop that the true fact emerged. An impulse bid on-line for this hefty work left me with a copy withdrawn from a municipal library stock with hard cover and an ominous message on the inside cover not to return the book to the lending library if there was a contagious illness in the household. Perhaps a standard sticky insert for the 1950's library service. The text starts in Edinburgh with highly descriptive scenes of a bustling city and some not very complimentary remarks about the rougher residents of what are now the prime tourist spots. Well worth a read if you are in Edinburgh for any period of time.The journey across Scotland has some general interest mainly reliance on horse and carriage and frequent stopovers at Inns. I was shocked by the bleak and poverty stricken life of the Skye islanders whose reliance on the produce of land and sea was regularly interrupted by the inevitable rain..around seven feet over one extended and persistently wet period (in excess of 200 days continous). Alexander Smith was confined to his hosts house through much of his stay on Skye because of the rain and there are some excellent narratives on the experience of watching the incessant influence of moisture and its power in shaping life on the island. The book is very broad in its coverage of the history of Skye and a few chapters comment on the many legends and superstitions from a race of giant warriors to witches with stories of local fatalities amongst fishermen and the crofters. This sort of deep rooted folklore is very believable on a dark and stormy night in a holiday cottage miles from anywhere and with no points of reference or the comfort of streetlights or traffic noises. Any slight rattling of slates or rustling of trees is very foreboding in such a location. Anyone looking to actively walk in the Cuillin Mountains would be interested in relevant parts of the book as long as they are not travelling alone as some of the valleys and remote spots are evidently full of lost souls or the dispossessed. Some of the chapters are a bit tediuos and heavy going very much in the style of Fennimore Cooper (who is mentioned) and can be speed-read without spoiling the best bits of the book. After my two week stay on Skye and faced with the prospect of a long motoring journey home I really enjoyed the description of Alexander Smiths own journey by slow boat which operated like a local bus service carrying boozy passengers, freight and livestock. An epic journey in itself. The man himself was deeply moved by his time on the island and this is infectious. It was a good holiday for relaxing with a book.

Wheelie, Wheelie Free

I have made the decision not to become an airline pilot. I do have some aptitude for the job in that I can read a map, even upside down, and I look pretty good in a uniform with a hat. I used to buy my work trousers from a large manufacturer's factory shop and they were rejected stock from a large order with British Airways. I felt at home in them. I developed a Pilots attitude and swagger. I could not afford the obligatory sunglasses.The absolutely decisive factor in my thought process has been my long term dedication to the improper use of the 'Miles to Zero' function on the trip computer in my car. I could see myself getting into some bother if I applied this same sorry practice to a career in the flying seat. I have not, as yet, run out of fuel through my reckless gambling on the accuracy of the range function but could well imagine the havoc, upset and carnage arising from an airborne first for running on empty. It was just today that my computer showed that I had a 10 mile window of opportunity to find a petrol station. Unfortunately, I was well aware that the nearest re-fuelling stop on this occasion was at least 12 to 13 miles away over quite a remote and undulating rural area. I was forced to adopt my contingency practice of getting up to cruising speed and then knocking the car into neutral and freewheeling for as long as possible before dropping down to a speed to cause distress, inconvenience and annoyance to fellow road users. On a hilly route this is quite viable and with no significant broadcasting of the fact to other motorists that the car is technically out of mechanical control and not adhered to the road by traction and drive. I did manage a few full cycles of  freewheeling through a downward slope and up the other side before engaging fourth gear to get back to the national speed limit ready for the next obstacle. Over a keenly measured 8 miles further, on the separate analog trip computer, my critical range figure did not change from the 10 miles to go. Something economical, frugal and therefore, by definition of lower environmental impact was taking shape. On a nice straight road with minimal perceived gradient I actually bowled along surprisingly well without using up my scarce fossil based fuel. I thought that I had discovered the secret of perpetual motion when in fact, I was driving very, very close to the car in front and getting a good slipstreaming effect. This, in effect, fuel saving or fuel conservation measure caused me to speculate on the engineering that would be required to make this available to all motor vehicles in order to increase the timescale for the inevitable depletion of the world's resource of oil. My car has a Bluemotion technology badge and set-up giving very good fuel consumption indeed. There is a rather annoying display prompting me to change gear for maximum efficiency so how difficult would it be to have a similar display to indicate when to disengage the engine and indulge in a bit of freewheeling? The physics would involve computerised correlation between speed and resistance which are already programmed into modern cars. It may be necessary to design in an inclinomter or gyroscope but I am sure that these are lying around NASA workshops like popcorn on a cinema floor.The theory is that the motorist would not have to do anything apart from apply common sense and use an overide button or ejector seat when freewheeling became a hazard or a bit anti-social. It may be that fen dwellers or those who very rarely stray out of their deep valley homes would benefit from my proposals but they must rely on other oil based products and would enjoy a spin-off advantage on that basis. The more I contemplate my proposal the more achievable  it certainly appears. I can envisage the Readers Digest Book of the Road having colour coded route planners showing the most suitable freewheeling routes between the major towns and cities. This rationale may make it superbly fuel-wise to travel from Hull to London via the Pennines, Welsh Mountains and Malvern Hills before sweeping in to the capital from Highgate Hill. Unfortunately the prolonging of the worlds oil supply would be at the cost of taking about 2 days for the journey which would normally take just about three hours. Whilst not likely to be acceptable as a consideration today or even tomorrow I will put my idea on ice for about a decade then wheel, or free wheel it out to a very grateful human race.I do therefore have plenty of time to apply a fancy scientific name to my theory. Currently, 'Pulse Technology' is in pole position although I am warming to 'Pump and Run' or the abbreviated "MiSER" which stands for the ever so ecological "Miles Saving Earth Resources". I may negotiate a share of royalties for any other name suggestions if forwarded to me over the next, say, 5 to 8 years.

I  have yet to calculate the value to humanity of my speculative genius but at least 1 million Nectar points, a collection of wine glasses, a coin collection of the history of flight , an incomplete collection of plastic figures of the England football team or the equivalent in Green Shield Stamps would appear to be a good starting offer.

Romans

What have the Romans ever done for us? Well, for my family they have certainly provided a lot of free stuff over the years and to my parents with five children and my own three wonderful youngsters that has been, on many days-out, a deity send. I am a firm believer that there is some educational content and value in everything. This could be a strong material fact, an anecdote or just, my speciality, an unverifiable piece of urban mythology. It is little wonder that my children, when growing up, became a bit confused when, on what they thought was just an enjoyable day trip out they would be bombarded with some useful and some not so useful fact about things we drove past. That could be a building, a type of tree, a funny shop name, a rare car, a very distant aircraft or even a strange or suspicious looking pedestrian. In most instances, through the speed we were travelling or the lateness of my actual noticing of the interesting item, the children would have nothing to see as the essential illustration of my fact or statement. This would involve some complex explanations for the ensuing 10 minutes involving frequent hands off the steering wheel. Everything was, without the visual explanation, totally out of any context. Roman things are, by design, the perfect free educational resource. A Roman road, wonderfully straight and some good miles long provides the opportunity for me to have a rolling brief on its engineering, logistics and purpose. I will intentionally plan a long journey to include a stretch of Roman road. Sometimes I may be surprised by an arrow straight trunk road which just appears after a particularly car-sickness inducing series of bends, rises and falls. This starts my contention with the children or indeed any passengers at the time as to whether we are on a true Roman road or just a concession to a modern by-pass or much needed overtaking opportunity to clear a backlog behind labouring juggernauts and caravans. Gradually, by such subversive indoctrination my children, now all adults, have come to recognise the trademarks of a Roman road and I swell with pride if they identify such before I have had a chance to remark. I will pay the often extortionate entry fee to visit te best surviving artefacts of the Romans. Vindolanda in Northumberland is well worth the large amount of denarius' that are handed over to the youth dressed most unsuitably for the chill of the north-east in sandles and body armour. Actually, the latter is very useful for a night out in Newcastle. Hadrians Wall is also a good free resource but any educational content has to be paid for by a bit of a hard long walk across rough terrain and we have only tended to do this on the way back from a holiday in Scotland or well out of season if we have managed to get away for autumn half term or a spring break. We are very regular visitors to the City of York which has an abundance of free stuff from the walls and defensive buildings to fragments of stone pilfered after the Roman abandonment and then used in later construction. Unwittingly, the period may well have been remembered not so much for the architecture, engineering and culture as the greatest for the supply of hardcore, rubble and dressed stone for Anglo-Saxon housing and patios. My favourite feature in York is the incongrous pillar of very mixed materials which stands close to the Minster. It was found in flat pack kit form in an early excavation and subsequently re-assembled. If you get to see it you will understand that there were no actual instructions provided. It may even be upside down which, from my own experience of self assembly, can easily happen. I spent a year of an internship in Lincoln, another great Roman garrison and cultural centre. More free stuff around the Cathedral and Castle, a stone gateway,some spa baths. One of the partners in the firm I worked for had a house built on Roman foundations and I was invited to see them having expressed an interest in such things. The stonework was perfectly preserved and accessible from the cellar. The craftsmanship was beautiful to behold. Of course the labouring will have been done by slaves with their Roman Masters getting all the glory. My strongest memory of Roman artefacts also emphasised to me the cruelty and hardship of that period of, lets face it, occupation by a mighty foreign power. In the mid 1970's my father took me to the site of an archaeological dig in a field just adjacent to the busy A15 or better known Ermine Street, the M1 of the invaders. Maps of the locality between Lincoln and the Humber crossings on the way up to York showed many villa sites. Prime real estate for those qualifying for freedom from military or civil service. Early retirement at 35 but with a life expectancy of not much more. The field was quiet after the working party had left. The site had been throwing up bits of mosaic tile and pantile fragments for many years under the farmers plough or from treasure seekers. A large rectangular shape had been revealed after careful removal of tons of topsoil. I could make out detail from my school projects on villas, some hypercaust pieces from the underfloor heating, labelled pieces of pottery still partly embedded in the ground and short stretches of partly intact but largely jumbled up tessera (Resource book; The Romans in Britain for ages 8 to 11. Published in 1970). Then, in the four outer corners of the excavation I saw four metal collection trays, upturned as though to protect or hide something being worked on. Ever curious and a bit nosy I lifted up one of the trays. Huddled in the corner was the skeletal remains of a small baby. This was the same for the other three corners. I was shocked but also a bit morbidly fascinated by this discovery. My father explained that the babies would have been sacrificed for a favourable blessing for the villa by the deities. I was already following the train of thought about who would supply babies for this barbaric practice. The field was soon returned to the farmer after meticulous recording and removal to a local musuem of the most important items. I hoped that the babies had received a suitable and respectful memorial if they had been left where they had been put to the sword.

Spud

I have not met anyone who does not like them.

At the same time I would not want to spend any time with someone who expressed indifference or only a vague interest in a baked potato. 

They are the ultimate in comfort and economy food. Fully self contained in their raw state. Easy to prepare if you are certain on a cross scoring or skewering method to speed up the cooking process. Requiring little or no supervision for the duration of the internment in the oven. No real dramas if you completely forget that you put them in to bake for, say, three to four times over their planned time. They are equally acceptable as a dinner for one or as food for the masses.

Unfortunately the baked potato has suffered at the oven-gloved hands of commercial interests with, in particular, the soggy servings of Spud-U-Like and similar bland and jokey named companies. There is nothing worse than a cooked but then persistently cooled and re-heated offering from the food concession of a Department Store or a streetside vendor working out of a portable incinerator. In the interests of maximising profits, which must anyway be massive, the typical baking potato is a distant relative of first choice Desiree's and King Edwards. The pecking order would be something like best boiled for posh restaurants, candidates for roasting, mashers and chippers then the oversized and freakish examples destined to be shrink-wrapped in pairs for up-market supermarkets or mixed and matched for budget labelling. I actually prefer to have a personal choice and many of the larger supermarkets do have displays of loose potatoes of baking calibre allowing handling, comparison and selection. This allows avoidance of the poor battered and blind spuds which are destined to be palmed off on the buying public at the mildewy bottom of a sack.

Towards the end of the cooking process comes the excitement of choosing a topping. First however is the dilemna of to butter or not to butter or in the current climate of healthier options whether to low fat spread or olive dollop. My personal favourite is the classic grated cheese. Nothing else, well perhaps some piccallilli or Branston. A quick survey amongst the family gives votes to tuna, coronation chicken and chilli beans.

The potato skin must be crusty and crispy but not burnt. The innards soft and steaming hot. A poke with a fork confirms the perfection of the bake then on with the savoury stuff. The further attraction is the one plate serving which places the baked potato at the forefront of the modern requirement for a TV or lap dinner.

Eating practices and fashions for such a simple food vary greatly. Some scoop out and save the skin to finish off. Others just want a well cooked mash. I cannot understand why some people hollow out and then abandon the skins which are the most nourishing part by popular opinion. The baked potato has sustained me through my childhood, provided reassurance for me as a confused teenager, supported me as an impoverished student and supplemented the diet of my young family in times of austerity.

Yet, the baked potato has not received the recognition it deserves or attained the heady heights of other staple foods. I am determined to address this great injustice and will continue to promote its wholesome and homely qualities. I pledge to eat a baked potato at least once a week. My quest is well under way. I have already started to closely resemble one in my physical appearance but of that I am exceptionally proud.