As the leader of a nation intent on invasion and suppression he was correct in saying that his target, Britain, was a nation of shopkeepers.
Of course it was not intended as a sentimental testimony nor a compliment on the versatility of the retail sector in a time of war.
It was however wholly misguided because the corner shops in particular were the very foundations of family life in our densely populated towns and cities.
It is sad now to come across what had been a corner shop. The characteristics are still there with the brickwork by which the large display frontage was enclosed standing out in sharp contrast to the remainder of the weathered and soot infused masonry from thousands of domestic hearths.
The scrollwork of the shop front usually survives and perhaps the faint traces of a proudly etched proprietors name can just be discerned in a certain light or from a defined angle. If converted to a house there is usually a door and window with the appearance of being out of scale and alien to the street frontage.
There is no mistaking the old shop forecourt around which a fence or boundary is attempted but it has been a short cut and right of way for a century and that is a difficult momentum to curtail, like an ancient elephant walk.
The four corners of the junctions of old urban streets would be occupied by shops. Typically, a greengrocers, newsagent/tobacconist, butcher and baker. Their shop lights in the darker seasonal mornings and closing in nights would guide the local population to their places of work or home again. The resonance of the bell atop the heavy panelled doors giving reassurance and comfort to those still under the covers.
The customers would be personally known to the shop keepers and the regular purchases prepared for collection such was the routine and regularity of visits and acquisitions. In hard economic times the proprietors would provide a credit system to be settled on the next pay day and would be understanding of family problems and hardships. This was engendered by the fact that they were also local residents living behind and above the shop.
Small children would be handed the cigarettes, tobacco and roll-ups for their parents or older siblings with no questions asked. This would invariably extend to beer, paraffin for heaters and all manner of what we would regard today as prohibited goods or hazards to the young.
The display windows would appear to be magical in the eyes of the children. Many play and idling hours would be spent around the shop front and the goods on show would become a strong memory well into the adult years so that a mock-up in a street-life museum evokes strong emotions and nostalgia.
The nicknames of shop keepers would also persist whether reflecting some character trait, temperament or just a rhyme concocted around their christian or surnames. They were a hub for the streets which intersected and helped to make sure that everyones' circumstances and business were known, not in a bad or gloating way but out of genuine concern even if whispered as a hearsay or rumour.
Gradually the arrival of the motor car and the development of High Streets threatened the status and viability of the corner shop. The upwardly mobile local population moved on to the newer housing in the suburbs and strong ties and loyalties to the shops became inevitably diminished.
A few battled on but could not compete with the Discount Stores and large Supermarket chains. The display windows became dull and sparse. Clear glass became shrouded in the self adhesive livery of smaller independent shop chains. Graffiti and litter collected on the previously proudly kept brickwork and forecourt. Conversion to housing soon followed but not so as to eradicate the origins of the commerce and philanthropy that had been conducted there for decades.
Sterilised and impersonal In-Store counters killed off the butcher and baker from the terraced streets. Aisles and aisles of fresh and varied but genetically uniform fruit and veg made the corner shop produce look shabby and ugly. Newspapers and tobacco were being sold just about anywhere.
It is rare now to see any surviving corner shops. If any have lasted they are likely to be operating as a Ladies Hairdressers but as a mere shadow of their former bustling use. Still, even these neighbourhood salons could be at risk if Tesco decide to do cut price haircuts.
Sunday, 5 May 2019
Friday, 3 May 2019
Over Thinking Something
Scientists seem to have a lot of spare time.
I do not belittle their contributions to furthering our collective health, advancing technology and enhancing our lives but really, when they start to apply theoretical physics to fairy tales and legends that just is a bit too far.
The most recent investigation and study has claimed to have proved that the fictional characters of The Borrowers, published in 1952 by Mary Norton and much loved by children and adults alike could never exist in physiological terms. This is based on their small size which creates a large surface area on a proportional basis and the likelihood of them suffering debilitating freezing. They would also have sensory deprivation because of their small ears and eyes so any lifestyle from scavenging would be near impossible.
In fact theirs would be an intolerable and miserable existence, a far cry from the happy, scrappy literary creations that have been so endearing.
What other much loved characters have received the same analytical treatment?
Pinocchio, that wooden marionette striving to be a real boy was not able to tell a lie without his nose extending. Scientists, resting between inventions and innovations, have calculated that it would only take 13 consecutive lies for Pinocchio to experience a fatal snapping of his grainy neck.
The Brothers Grimm fairy tale of Rapunzel, the blond haired princess in the tower also comes under scrutiny. She let down her hair to allow her handsome prince to climb up and as we all know, there was a happy ending. If one or more of the Grimm's had insisted on strict adherence to physical laws the story will have been a bit different. One strand of human hair can support about 100 grams. Rapunzel, as a blond would have an inferior hair count to a brunette (140,000 hairs) and may have had difficulty in wooing her royal suitor. There would anyway be a high risk of the hair ripping out of the scalp unless first wrapped around something close by such as the four poster bed, bible lecturne or other piece of chunky furniture.
In another Grimm tale there was the transformation of a frog into a human. Such a change in mass would require a considerable amount of energy, in theory, but Scientists have considered this to be possible just from the kinetic energy of air alone. Sounds a bit far fetched.
There is a general trend for science to read far too much into fictional characters and intentionally fantastical situations.
Take Winnie the Pooh, the 1958 creation of A.A. Milne and a childhood favourite of mine.
His physical appearance is bumbling, joyous and endearing but yet being of yellowish skin tincture, with an awkward bipedal motion, memory loss and fatigue there could be a diagnosis of vitamin B12 deficiency. That seems a long winded appraisal as everyone knows that a diet of just honey would play havoc with the immune system.
The focus of underemployed or poorly motivated scientists extends even further into popular myths, legends and cultures.
Not one but three scientists published a learned paper on whether the flying carpets in 1001 Arabian Nights were actually a viable form of transport. It was thought that specific conditions would have to be in play for a carpet to fly. A small and thin floor covering, if agitated in a vibrating air stream could become airborne as in the case of tissue paper when released into the air. A heavy Arabian carpet, thickly woven and tassled would require a huge engine to achieve flight, so why not just invent the aeroplane?
As well as mechanical things there has been a methodical approach to fairy tale plants and animals.
In an experiment using toilet roll tubes it was demonstrated that a tower capable of sustaining the weight of a small boy called Jack was possible giving credence to a vegetable beanstalk. Less likely, the scientists conceded, was the ability of a hen to lay a golden egg from the same much loved story. Applying Newton's 3rd Law of Motion that every action has an equal and opposite reaction would cause a hen, in ejecting a golden egg, to be propelled violently away upon laying the said article.
In modern fables and comic book stories it has been calculated that Spiderman would have to have hands of 110cm span just to be able to clamber up a wall with his sticky web.
As for the presence of The Clangers on the moon, well it is widely thought that their landings on earth's satellite were probably faked.
Mrs Rabbit, in the Tales of Beatrix Potter, could not have fastened up the buttons on her son Peter's waistcoat because she had no opposable thumbs.
As for the singer and performer Miley Cyrus, one scientist with time to spare has worked through the logical outcome of one of her hit records. It appears that if she were to "come in like a wrecking ball" it is highly unlikely that she would survive the impact without serious injury.
I do not belittle their contributions to furthering our collective health, advancing technology and enhancing our lives but really, when they start to apply theoretical physics to fairy tales and legends that just is a bit too far.
The most recent investigation and study has claimed to have proved that the fictional characters of The Borrowers, published in 1952 by Mary Norton and much loved by children and adults alike could never exist in physiological terms. This is based on their small size which creates a large surface area on a proportional basis and the likelihood of them suffering debilitating freezing. They would also have sensory deprivation because of their small ears and eyes so any lifestyle from scavenging would be near impossible.
In fact theirs would be an intolerable and miserable existence, a far cry from the happy, scrappy literary creations that have been so endearing.
What other much loved characters have received the same analytical treatment?
Pinocchio, that wooden marionette striving to be a real boy was not able to tell a lie without his nose extending. Scientists, resting between inventions and innovations, have calculated that it would only take 13 consecutive lies for Pinocchio to experience a fatal snapping of his grainy neck.
The Brothers Grimm fairy tale of Rapunzel, the blond haired princess in the tower also comes under scrutiny. She let down her hair to allow her handsome prince to climb up and as we all know, there was a happy ending. If one or more of the Grimm's had insisted on strict adherence to physical laws the story will have been a bit different. One strand of human hair can support about 100 grams. Rapunzel, as a blond would have an inferior hair count to a brunette (140,000 hairs) and may have had difficulty in wooing her royal suitor. There would anyway be a high risk of the hair ripping out of the scalp unless first wrapped around something close by such as the four poster bed, bible lecturne or other piece of chunky furniture.
In another Grimm tale there was the transformation of a frog into a human. Such a change in mass would require a considerable amount of energy, in theory, but Scientists have considered this to be possible just from the kinetic energy of air alone. Sounds a bit far fetched.
There is a general trend for science to read far too much into fictional characters and intentionally fantastical situations.
Take Winnie the Pooh, the 1958 creation of A.A. Milne and a childhood favourite of mine.
His physical appearance is bumbling, joyous and endearing but yet being of yellowish skin tincture, with an awkward bipedal motion, memory loss and fatigue there could be a diagnosis of vitamin B12 deficiency. That seems a long winded appraisal as everyone knows that a diet of just honey would play havoc with the immune system.
The focus of underemployed or poorly motivated scientists extends even further into popular myths, legends and cultures.
Not one but three scientists published a learned paper on whether the flying carpets in 1001 Arabian Nights were actually a viable form of transport. It was thought that specific conditions would have to be in play for a carpet to fly. A small and thin floor covering, if agitated in a vibrating air stream could become airborne as in the case of tissue paper when released into the air. A heavy Arabian carpet, thickly woven and tassled would require a huge engine to achieve flight, so why not just invent the aeroplane?
As well as mechanical things there has been a methodical approach to fairy tale plants and animals.
In an experiment using toilet roll tubes it was demonstrated that a tower capable of sustaining the weight of a small boy called Jack was possible giving credence to a vegetable beanstalk. Less likely, the scientists conceded, was the ability of a hen to lay a golden egg from the same much loved story. Applying Newton's 3rd Law of Motion that every action has an equal and opposite reaction would cause a hen, in ejecting a golden egg, to be propelled violently away upon laying the said article.
In modern fables and comic book stories it has been calculated that Spiderman would have to have hands of 110cm span just to be able to clamber up a wall with his sticky web.
As for the presence of The Clangers on the moon, well it is widely thought that their landings on earth's satellite were probably faked.
Mrs Rabbit, in the Tales of Beatrix Potter, could not have fastened up the buttons on her son Peter's waistcoat because she had no opposable thumbs.
As for the singer and performer Miley Cyrus, one scientist with time to spare has worked through the logical outcome of one of her hit records. It appears that if she were to "come in like a wrecking ball" it is highly unlikely that she would survive the impact without serious injury.
Wednesday, 1 May 2019
Frack Addict
Mother Earth really tries to keep things in balance but we, Mankind, as her tenants are an unruly, selfish lot who insist on regularly exploiting the terms of our tenancy agreement and to the very point of mutual destruction.
We would certainly have been evicted a few centuries ago if I really push the landlord-tenant analogy. Various plunderings have gone on in the past. Individual nations or a concerted effort by successive affluent and influential world powers have stolen the silver, washed and filtered or chipped and blasted out the gold nuggets, prised out the prized precious gemstones, extracted the fossil fuels, drained the oil, eroded the goodness from the soil, pillaged the fruit of the seas, barbecued the forests, bottled the fresh waters from the depths of filtering rock, punched holes in the ozone layer and altogether have caused a bit of annoyance and thereby provoking an increasing regularity in violent reactions from a reasonably co-operative and generous benefactor.
As resources become rapidly depleted there is an ever more frantic search for more rich seams of energy and wealth .No area of the world is now safe from what is innocently called preliminary and non invasive investigation .Thanks to satellite technology, ultrasound and sonar it is not necessary to puncture, excavate or blow up the ice caps, scour and degrade areas of great unspoiled natural beauty or poke about on the sea bed. This is however just the first step in a determination to go and get any pockets of oil, gas or valuable minerals and at any cost to the topology and environment.
It is common knowledge that there are actual and potentially vast amounts of resources to be had but mankind has used all of these up in the, by contrast, easily accessible locations and only the inhospitable or sacred areas of the planet are left. The cost to extract everything from the previously disregarded areas of the globe will be wholly disproportionate even with the possibility of premium prices to the end user. It would appear cheaper and technically more feasible to go to the moon and dig about on that barren landscape to find resources to burn.
It is now the situation, in the corporate quest for wealth, that old and what were thought to be economically unviable deposits of coal, oil, gas, metals are being re-visited and like a dry sponge found at the back of the cupboard given another mighty squeeze to extract a few drops more. Take the escalation of the price of tin on the world markets. This has led to a renewal of activity in the Cornish mines even allowing for a century or more of neglect, collapse and flood. Open cast mining is back on the agenda and causing a great dilemma with destruction of a landscape mitigated by the potential for employment in some areas. That makes for a difficult moral choice amongst hard pressed communities who will never have recovered from the decline of their traditional industrial base.
There are ever increasing technically challenging procedures for the extraction of the last drop of goodness from the earth. One of these which has caused concern is Fracking. A morsel of business speak and a throw away piece of terminology, not too offensive and even quite benign, sounding a bit like Fraggle Rock, that loveable institution.
The practice of Fracking is already well established. Hydraulic Fracturing is as aggressive as it sounds and is used to persuade Mother Earth to relinquish her deposits of gas trapped in the beds of shale. It is a bit like using a water cannon to rob an old lady of her life savings but only after her home and possessions have been ransacked.
In the United States there has been an noted increase in seismic disturbances linked to the Fracking activities in certain areas. In the UK a number of locations have been considered for the practice including beneath the Pennines, mountainous areas of Wales and Scotland and even in the genteel Home Counties although it is fairly safe to predict the order in which any determined effort will take, farthest away from London first.
Out of sight, out of mind is a good business mantra and selling point but Fracking is one move too far. The use of water at high pressure is something most householders do regularly with their Karcher products on the pathways and decking surfaces but in the confined compressed subterranean parts of the planet it is infinitely more sinister. It is not just water as we would be led to understand but a cocktail of chemicals as well to drug up and dull down the sensitivities of Mother Earth so that her handbag of goodies can be pilfered.
There is a sufficient difference in opinion amongst engineers and seismologists over whether Fracking is safe or not to cause me plenty of concern as a co-tenant of planet earth. Any mention of the word 'risk' in a press release about anything is enough for me to err on the side of caution. Fracking is certainly a risky process.
However, people want plentiful and cheap energy to heat their rooms and cook their meals and may not actually be that interested in where that nice blue tinted burning flame on the pilot light or the hob comes from. That is until we are sat, head in hands, in our ruptured gardens watching our beloved homes crumble and fall in a massive and indignant earthquake from a previously patient and forgiving Landlord.
Notice to Quit was served a while ago.
We would certainly have been evicted a few centuries ago if I really push the landlord-tenant analogy. Various plunderings have gone on in the past. Individual nations or a concerted effort by successive affluent and influential world powers have stolen the silver, washed and filtered or chipped and blasted out the gold nuggets, prised out the prized precious gemstones, extracted the fossil fuels, drained the oil, eroded the goodness from the soil, pillaged the fruit of the seas, barbecued the forests, bottled the fresh waters from the depths of filtering rock, punched holes in the ozone layer and altogether have caused a bit of annoyance and thereby provoking an increasing regularity in violent reactions from a reasonably co-operative and generous benefactor.
As resources become rapidly depleted there is an ever more frantic search for more rich seams of energy and wealth .No area of the world is now safe from what is innocently called preliminary and non invasive investigation .Thanks to satellite technology, ultrasound and sonar it is not necessary to puncture, excavate or blow up the ice caps, scour and degrade areas of great unspoiled natural beauty or poke about on the sea bed. This is however just the first step in a determination to go and get any pockets of oil, gas or valuable minerals and at any cost to the topology and environment.
It is common knowledge that there are actual and potentially vast amounts of resources to be had but mankind has used all of these up in the, by contrast, easily accessible locations and only the inhospitable or sacred areas of the planet are left. The cost to extract everything from the previously disregarded areas of the globe will be wholly disproportionate even with the possibility of premium prices to the end user. It would appear cheaper and technically more feasible to go to the moon and dig about on that barren landscape to find resources to burn.
It is now the situation, in the corporate quest for wealth, that old and what were thought to be economically unviable deposits of coal, oil, gas, metals are being re-visited and like a dry sponge found at the back of the cupboard given another mighty squeeze to extract a few drops more. Take the escalation of the price of tin on the world markets. This has led to a renewal of activity in the Cornish mines even allowing for a century or more of neglect, collapse and flood. Open cast mining is back on the agenda and causing a great dilemma with destruction of a landscape mitigated by the potential for employment in some areas. That makes for a difficult moral choice amongst hard pressed communities who will never have recovered from the decline of their traditional industrial base.
There are ever increasing technically challenging procedures for the extraction of the last drop of goodness from the earth. One of these which has caused concern is Fracking. A morsel of business speak and a throw away piece of terminology, not too offensive and even quite benign, sounding a bit like Fraggle Rock, that loveable institution.
The practice of Fracking is already well established. Hydraulic Fracturing is as aggressive as it sounds and is used to persuade Mother Earth to relinquish her deposits of gas trapped in the beds of shale. It is a bit like using a water cannon to rob an old lady of her life savings but only after her home and possessions have been ransacked.
In the United States there has been an noted increase in seismic disturbances linked to the Fracking activities in certain areas. In the UK a number of locations have been considered for the practice including beneath the Pennines, mountainous areas of Wales and Scotland and even in the genteel Home Counties although it is fairly safe to predict the order in which any determined effort will take, farthest away from London first.
Out of sight, out of mind is a good business mantra and selling point but Fracking is one move too far. The use of water at high pressure is something most householders do regularly with their Karcher products on the pathways and decking surfaces but in the confined compressed subterranean parts of the planet it is infinitely more sinister. It is not just water as we would be led to understand but a cocktail of chemicals as well to drug up and dull down the sensitivities of Mother Earth so that her handbag of goodies can be pilfered.
There is a sufficient difference in opinion amongst engineers and seismologists over whether Fracking is safe or not to cause me plenty of concern as a co-tenant of planet earth. Any mention of the word 'risk' in a press release about anything is enough for me to err on the side of caution. Fracking is certainly a risky process.
However, people want plentiful and cheap energy to heat their rooms and cook their meals and may not actually be that interested in where that nice blue tinted burning flame on the pilot light or the hob comes from. That is until we are sat, head in hands, in our ruptured gardens watching our beloved homes crumble and fall in a massive and indignant earthquake from a previously patient and forgiving Landlord.
Notice to Quit was served a while ago.
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
Reds in the Hedge
There was a lot of activity at the end of the street.
In fact, I tend to think that what I could see was actually a Police cordon.
That was definitely a first for the area. Not just one officer on duty but three, edgy and nervously glancing at the cars and pedestrians as they either passed by as a matter of fact or were just a bit inquisitive about the unusual goings on. A few brave persons on foot were poised to ask that inevitable question about what was up but a stiffening and bristling of those on guard duty was enough to deter them.
The reason for the formal roadblock was not, obviously, down to a leaking gas or water main. I could not see a glow nor smell the distinctive odour attributable to an outbreak of fire. I suppose it could have been a murder or a domestic incident.
The traffic had slowed enough for me to glance past the street end. In the cul de sac beyond there was a fleet of squad cars and those big black, unmarked vans often referred to as Marias (mer-rye -ers) used to cart off the naughty boys and girls to the nearest police station.
More of the local constabulary could be seen chatting with some quite ominous looking para-military types in full combat gear and casually swinging machine pistols on their hips as they hung down from heavy duty canvas straps slung over their padded shoulders.
It was a couple of days before the local paper realised the newsworthiness of the event. They speculated wildly on the first front page account out of desperation to beat the free weeklies to the story.
Gradually some semblance of professional journalism emerged and in the following days an incredible tale was recounted.
The target of the attention of the authorities had been a single semi detached house in that quiet suburban road, Kirkham Drive, Hull, HU5.
It was just an ordinary red brick built place with a rosemary tile roof, tidy woodwork and a neat front garden. In the windows hung those detestable net curtains giving just enough privacy and an implied message of 'there's nothing worth looking at or to be bothered about here, thank you very much'.
After the initial assault on the house and whoever its occupant was a good proportion of its contents had been removed by the task force. The local newspaper had published some grainy internal photographs to pad out its now top running feature.
The source of the pictures was not clear. They may have been acquired in a plain brown envelope from a person in an official capacity. In fact, one of the neighbours trusted with a key for those emergencies that always occur when the owner is away on a trip was responsible either willingly for a cash consideration or had been duped by a young, attentive reporter type.
Again, there was nothing remarkable about the house. A bit plain and drab to the décor and furnishings but nevertheless functional and comfortable. There were, however, a lot of shelves packed with weighty books in every room, lavatory included.
This was not the norm from my experience of the typical residents of the street. They usually had a small collection of those thick volumes produced with regular monotony by Reader's Digest on such subjects as Heritage, General Knowledge, The Royal Family and of course the Book of The Road. These themes were all that was required to answer the persistent queries of small children or settle a dispute after a Pub Quiz Night.
The shelving was stout and wall to wall, firmly fixed to the masonry and not flat pack or unstable if overloaded. Most of the horizontal surfaces of tables, window cills, kitchen worktops and even either side of the staircase treads were covered with files and loose papers and more were protruding out of a great variety of cardboard boxes distributed under and around the furniture.
I had seen similar ordered chaos in the homes of academics and those of respectable and apparently harmless eccentricity.
The former was applicable in this instance.
The owner occupier was a lecturer at the city University. One of those small columns on an inner page of the local paper gave a potted biography of the man. Born up North, State School educated but bright, earned a Scholarship to a prestigious southern place of learning, excellent First Class Degree , a gap year of letting rip on a global circumnavigation, a stop off in the Soviet Union, post graduate studies to Doctorate level, teaching posts at a number of worthy establishments, then what to me appeared to be a bit of a breakdown in that he ended up here in a good, steady but lower league of academia.
The high flyer appeared to have hit one of those glass ceilings.
His subject had always been Economics and Social History. In his first Uni year he had joined the Communist Party. It was a small branch of disaffected sons and daughters of the wealthy. His motivation was primarily to meet the volatile female members who were like nothing else he had encountered in his previous life. They were an active group, mainly because being of limited numbers they only required the hire of one mini-bus for a campaign outing to attend picket lines, support striking comrades or attend regional and national conferences and gatherings.
The highlight of each successive year of being a Card Carrying Communist was a visit to the Motherland. These were officially received and he had built up quite a network of contacts in a number of State Departments in the USSR.
His profile in the newspaper column all pointed to one outcome.
He was eventually recruited as a Spy.
It was not at all glamorous or hazardous. A job in London had enabled him to mix and fraternise with women working in Ministry positions. His handlers seemed pleased with the non-specific information that he was able to gather.
It was then a period of upheaval and political activity in the eastern states of the Soviet Bloc. Solidarity Trade Union in Poland had begun the process of dismantling and then collapsing the Russian Empire. Their man in our city provided information of the level of support both collectively and from powerful individuals on his side of the North Sea.
A few in influential positions in UK Universities were exiles from behind the Iron Curtain and were befriended and quietly relieved of any matters of potential interest from their ongoing involvement with their beloved but imprisoned colleagues in the Old Country.
All of this was done with skill and diligence.
To the neighbours he was just someone clever who worked at the University and was away a lot.
His career in espionage had lasted for 12 years being curtailed only by the change in outlook and Regime brought about by the events around the fall of the Berlin Wall and the ensuing domino effect.
I still glance up that street whenever I drive past the road end but nothing has come anywhere near to that series of events in terms of intrigue and excitement.
In fact, I tend to think that what I could see was actually a Police cordon.
That was definitely a first for the area. Not just one officer on duty but three, edgy and nervously glancing at the cars and pedestrians as they either passed by as a matter of fact or were just a bit inquisitive about the unusual goings on. A few brave persons on foot were poised to ask that inevitable question about what was up but a stiffening and bristling of those on guard duty was enough to deter them.
The reason for the formal roadblock was not, obviously, down to a leaking gas or water main. I could not see a glow nor smell the distinctive odour attributable to an outbreak of fire. I suppose it could have been a murder or a domestic incident.
The traffic had slowed enough for me to glance past the street end. In the cul de sac beyond there was a fleet of squad cars and those big black, unmarked vans often referred to as Marias (mer-rye -ers) used to cart off the naughty boys and girls to the nearest police station.
More of the local constabulary could be seen chatting with some quite ominous looking para-military types in full combat gear and casually swinging machine pistols on their hips as they hung down from heavy duty canvas straps slung over their padded shoulders.
It was a couple of days before the local paper realised the newsworthiness of the event. They speculated wildly on the first front page account out of desperation to beat the free weeklies to the story.
Gradually some semblance of professional journalism emerged and in the following days an incredible tale was recounted.
The target of the attention of the authorities had been a single semi detached house in that quiet suburban road, Kirkham Drive, Hull, HU5.
It was just an ordinary red brick built place with a rosemary tile roof, tidy woodwork and a neat front garden. In the windows hung those detestable net curtains giving just enough privacy and an implied message of 'there's nothing worth looking at or to be bothered about here, thank you very much'.
After the initial assault on the house and whoever its occupant was a good proportion of its contents had been removed by the task force. The local newspaper had published some grainy internal photographs to pad out its now top running feature.
The source of the pictures was not clear. They may have been acquired in a plain brown envelope from a person in an official capacity. In fact, one of the neighbours trusted with a key for those emergencies that always occur when the owner is away on a trip was responsible either willingly for a cash consideration or had been duped by a young, attentive reporter type.
Again, there was nothing remarkable about the house. A bit plain and drab to the décor and furnishings but nevertheless functional and comfortable. There were, however, a lot of shelves packed with weighty books in every room, lavatory included.
This was not the norm from my experience of the typical residents of the street. They usually had a small collection of those thick volumes produced with regular monotony by Reader's Digest on such subjects as Heritage, General Knowledge, The Royal Family and of course the Book of The Road. These themes were all that was required to answer the persistent queries of small children or settle a dispute after a Pub Quiz Night.
The shelving was stout and wall to wall, firmly fixed to the masonry and not flat pack or unstable if overloaded. Most of the horizontal surfaces of tables, window cills, kitchen worktops and even either side of the staircase treads were covered with files and loose papers and more were protruding out of a great variety of cardboard boxes distributed under and around the furniture.
I had seen similar ordered chaos in the homes of academics and those of respectable and apparently harmless eccentricity.
The former was applicable in this instance.
The owner occupier was a lecturer at the city University. One of those small columns on an inner page of the local paper gave a potted biography of the man. Born up North, State School educated but bright, earned a Scholarship to a prestigious southern place of learning, excellent First Class Degree , a gap year of letting rip on a global circumnavigation, a stop off in the Soviet Union, post graduate studies to Doctorate level, teaching posts at a number of worthy establishments, then what to me appeared to be a bit of a breakdown in that he ended up here in a good, steady but lower league of academia.
The high flyer appeared to have hit one of those glass ceilings.
His subject had always been Economics and Social History. In his first Uni year he had joined the Communist Party. It was a small branch of disaffected sons and daughters of the wealthy. His motivation was primarily to meet the volatile female members who were like nothing else he had encountered in his previous life. They were an active group, mainly because being of limited numbers they only required the hire of one mini-bus for a campaign outing to attend picket lines, support striking comrades or attend regional and national conferences and gatherings.
The highlight of each successive year of being a Card Carrying Communist was a visit to the Motherland. These were officially received and he had built up quite a network of contacts in a number of State Departments in the USSR.
His profile in the newspaper column all pointed to one outcome.
He was eventually recruited as a Spy.
It was not at all glamorous or hazardous. A job in London had enabled him to mix and fraternise with women working in Ministry positions. His handlers seemed pleased with the non-specific information that he was able to gather.
It was then a period of upheaval and political activity in the eastern states of the Soviet Bloc. Solidarity Trade Union in Poland had begun the process of dismantling and then collapsing the Russian Empire. Their man in our city provided information of the level of support both collectively and from powerful individuals on his side of the North Sea.
A few in influential positions in UK Universities were exiles from behind the Iron Curtain and were befriended and quietly relieved of any matters of potential interest from their ongoing involvement with their beloved but imprisoned colleagues in the Old Country.
All of this was done with skill and diligence.
To the neighbours he was just someone clever who worked at the University and was away a lot.
His career in espionage had lasted for 12 years being curtailed only by the change in outlook and Regime brought about by the events around the fall of the Berlin Wall and the ensuing domino effect.
I still glance up that street whenever I drive past the road end but nothing has come anywhere near to that series of events in terms of intrigue and excitement.
Monday, 29 April 2019
Science for Boys
It was, first and foremost a test.
If you, as the proud recipient of a childrens' chemistry set, survived the experience of playing with it relatively unscathed then there was really nothing left in the world to cause you trouble for the rest of your growing years.
The reason for parents to put their offspring in harms way and at risk of injury to life and limb in such a way was perhaps to arouse an interest in science and that this may perhaps lead to a career path and livelihood.
Science in the 1970's when I was young was a new frontier. The Moon landings spawned many technologies which gradually filtered down as commercial products into everyday life. A computer in the home was still some way off unless you could spare a large room for the hardware suitably insulated against the heat generated by its operation and the noise from the cumbersome spinning drives and mechanical connections. The breakneck speed of computer development would soon mean that the best equipment in their day would soon be superceded by something as small and portable as a mobile phone.
A boxed chemistry set was a good introduction to all things scientific.
I got one for Christmas when I was about 10 years old. It came in a very large, rectangular but shallow box, wrapped in cellophane and with images of goggle-clad youngsters marvelling at the contents of a test tube.
The opening of the box lid revealed a wondrous sight. In vacuum formed polystyrene lay phials of crystals and powders. These were coarse granular or very fine in size and of a range of colours from the distinctive blue of copper sulphate to reddish manganese and back to bright white alum and chlorides.
In other smaller containers were pieces of magnesium ribbon, petrified wood and charcoal. Amongst the regular shapes was the contrasting bulbous glass burner with a rope wick projecting through the top. When filled with meths or white spirit (not included) and ignited it would spew forth a noxious black smoke and apparently with no actual production of meaningful heat.
A few tools were included consisting of spatulas, scoops, measuring spoons and wooden tapers. A plastic rack could be extracted from the packaging and be loaded up with sparkling test tubes. It was very tempting just to open up all the chemicals and expose them to a flame or other forms of stress and pressure but a condition of receiving the chemistry set was to sit patiently and read through, thoroughly and fully understand and appreciate the safety manual and instruction booklet. It was not fair. If I had been given a bike as a present instead I could have been riding about on it immediately, but no. The contents of the box demanded respect and caution. After all, some of the substances were poisonous or at best highly combustible.
After a few hours of tedious attention to guidelines and practice notes the only initiation into the wonderful world of chemistry now possible with my bedtime imminent was dipping a strip of litmus paper into my mug of drinking chocolate to see what PH level it recorded. The box was firmly closed by my parents and could not be opened until the next day.
That night I dreamed of explosions, toxic gas clouds and mayhem, all created by my sharp scientific mind and the cocktail of substances now at my disposal. In reality the range of experiments possible was quite tame.
Holding a strip of magnesium in Mother's best eyebrow tweezers I ignited it and marvelled at its intense white radiance. That image must have burned onto my retina as I continued to see the same light in everything for the remainder of the day. That did seem to be the most exciting thing out of the whole assembly.
In the proceeding days I misused all of the contents. Test tubes, pristine when new, became blackened with soot from being held with forceps in the pungent flame of the meths burner. The chemicals with the lowest melting points did just that - melted and solidified to such an extent that I had to throw away the spoiled test tube and residues. There was some interest in the fizzing expansion of bicarbonate of soda but to be honest I had seen a better reaction from a teaspoon of Andrew's Liver Salts stirred into orange squash.
I did try to grow some crystals in the recommended solution of Waterglass which my grandparents told me had been used in the war to preserve eggs. This entailed trying to find the stuff in the local shops. The tin of Waterglass that was eventually found in Liptons Stores in town looked as though it had indeed sat at the back of a shelf since the early 1940's. The first step in crystal growing was making a concentrate with the blue copper sulphate and boiling it down until small crystalline shapes could be seen. The best ones were then meticulously tied up in a length of cotton and suspended in the Waterglass in a jam jar. Talk about watching paint dry. That would have been positively dynamic compared to the slow development of anything resembling a classic crystal shape in that jam jar.
It was not long before the inside of the chemistry set box resembled a complete mess of broken and stained glass , scattered or missing items, It was a complete mess.
I lost any interest in a career in chemistry at that point.
A few of my fellow pupils persisted in their home experiments and a couple of them went on to much greater things.
It was not too much of an advance for one particularly bright lad to start to develop a line in hallucinogenic drugs which was never going to end well for him.
Another of my contemporaries used his Father's credit card to purchase large amounts of seemingly random ingredients which arrived by post and carrier on an almost daily basis to his house. When combined and refined in exact quantities in his garden shed they became a most potent explosive. His persistence in encouraging chemical reactions displayed itself in his frequent late arrival for classes with a pockmarked, scabby or freshly blooded face and minus his eyebrows as a consequence of the timber shed being blown apart with him in it. I am not sure what he eventually went on to do with his life, if indeed he actually survived his dangerous adolescent years at all.
If you, as the proud recipient of a childrens' chemistry set, survived the experience of playing with it relatively unscathed then there was really nothing left in the world to cause you trouble for the rest of your growing years.
The reason for parents to put their offspring in harms way and at risk of injury to life and limb in such a way was perhaps to arouse an interest in science and that this may perhaps lead to a career path and livelihood.
Science in the 1970's when I was young was a new frontier. The Moon landings spawned many technologies which gradually filtered down as commercial products into everyday life. A computer in the home was still some way off unless you could spare a large room for the hardware suitably insulated against the heat generated by its operation and the noise from the cumbersome spinning drives and mechanical connections. The breakneck speed of computer development would soon mean that the best equipment in their day would soon be superceded by something as small and portable as a mobile phone.
A boxed chemistry set was a good introduction to all things scientific.
I got one for Christmas when I was about 10 years old. It came in a very large, rectangular but shallow box, wrapped in cellophane and with images of goggle-clad youngsters marvelling at the contents of a test tube.
The opening of the box lid revealed a wondrous sight. In vacuum formed polystyrene lay phials of crystals and powders. These were coarse granular or very fine in size and of a range of colours from the distinctive blue of copper sulphate to reddish manganese and back to bright white alum and chlorides.
In other smaller containers were pieces of magnesium ribbon, petrified wood and charcoal. Amongst the regular shapes was the contrasting bulbous glass burner with a rope wick projecting through the top. When filled with meths or white spirit (not included) and ignited it would spew forth a noxious black smoke and apparently with no actual production of meaningful heat.
A few tools were included consisting of spatulas, scoops, measuring spoons and wooden tapers. A plastic rack could be extracted from the packaging and be loaded up with sparkling test tubes. It was very tempting just to open up all the chemicals and expose them to a flame or other forms of stress and pressure but a condition of receiving the chemistry set was to sit patiently and read through, thoroughly and fully understand and appreciate the safety manual and instruction booklet. It was not fair. If I had been given a bike as a present instead I could have been riding about on it immediately, but no. The contents of the box demanded respect and caution. After all, some of the substances were poisonous or at best highly combustible.
After a few hours of tedious attention to guidelines and practice notes the only initiation into the wonderful world of chemistry now possible with my bedtime imminent was dipping a strip of litmus paper into my mug of drinking chocolate to see what PH level it recorded. The box was firmly closed by my parents and could not be opened until the next day.
That night I dreamed of explosions, toxic gas clouds and mayhem, all created by my sharp scientific mind and the cocktail of substances now at my disposal. In reality the range of experiments possible was quite tame.
Holding a strip of magnesium in Mother's best eyebrow tweezers I ignited it and marvelled at its intense white radiance. That image must have burned onto my retina as I continued to see the same light in everything for the remainder of the day. That did seem to be the most exciting thing out of the whole assembly.
In the proceeding days I misused all of the contents. Test tubes, pristine when new, became blackened with soot from being held with forceps in the pungent flame of the meths burner. The chemicals with the lowest melting points did just that - melted and solidified to such an extent that I had to throw away the spoiled test tube and residues. There was some interest in the fizzing expansion of bicarbonate of soda but to be honest I had seen a better reaction from a teaspoon of Andrew's Liver Salts stirred into orange squash.
I did try to grow some crystals in the recommended solution of Waterglass which my grandparents told me had been used in the war to preserve eggs. This entailed trying to find the stuff in the local shops. The tin of Waterglass that was eventually found in Liptons Stores in town looked as though it had indeed sat at the back of a shelf since the early 1940's. The first step in crystal growing was making a concentrate with the blue copper sulphate and boiling it down until small crystalline shapes could be seen. The best ones were then meticulously tied up in a length of cotton and suspended in the Waterglass in a jam jar. Talk about watching paint dry. That would have been positively dynamic compared to the slow development of anything resembling a classic crystal shape in that jam jar.
It was not long before the inside of the chemistry set box resembled a complete mess of broken and stained glass , scattered or missing items, It was a complete mess.
I lost any interest in a career in chemistry at that point.
A few of my fellow pupils persisted in their home experiments and a couple of them went on to much greater things.
It was not too much of an advance for one particularly bright lad to start to develop a line in hallucinogenic drugs which was never going to end well for him.
Another of my contemporaries used his Father's credit card to purchase large amounts of seemingly random ingredients which arrived by post and carrier on an almost daily basis to his house. When combined and refined in exact quantities in his garden shed they became a most potent explosive. His persistence in encouraging chemical reactions displayed itself in his frequent late arrival for classes with a pockmarked, scabby or freshly blooded face and minus his eyebrows as a consequence of the timber shed being blown apart with him in it. I am not sure what he eventually went on to do with his life, if indeed he actually survived his dangerous adolescent years at all.
Sunday, 28 April 2019
Coasting
It was a dull April morning in town.
Dull from the point of view of the weather and my job list which was less than inspiring in that it comprised;
9.00am, a visit to a house to advise its occupants on measures to combat their chronic dampness,
9.45am, tip-toeing through a vandalised property avoiding holes in the floor and booby traps,
10.30am, dodging freshly painted surfaces in a new-build project, and 11.30am sneaking a photo over a garden fence without alerting the neighbourhood watch to my rather dodgy behaviour.
The motivation to get through the first part of the day was the tantalising prospect of a drive up into North Yorkshire to the evocatively sounding address of "Sea View Gardens, Scarborough".
Most great road trips are exciting enough but if there is the prospect of a panoramic view or breathtaking vista at journey's end then that excursion is elevated to classic status.
The misty and moist low cloud was held firmly in the tight city environment and the usual landmarks of industrial smoke stacks and wind turbines only loomed into sight at the last moment in ghostly silhouette. It was not until I had turned westwards onto the by-pass that the density of the vapour shroud began to thin out with watery sunlight and I could make out the residential tower blocks on a large estate in my rear view mirror. Within a couple of miles I realised that beyond the city boundary it was actually a bright and increasingly pleasant spring day. My standard issue company jumper in which I had earlier been mistaken for a Prison Warder and/or Tesco Security Guard began to feel a bit over-warm although I had welcomed its 100% wool mix earlier on in the day.
The daffodils were resplendent on the verge and embankments of the busy trunk road although their previously dazzling radiance was now a bit speckled with exhaust particles and spray from HGV's. Most of the traffic headed off, at the main roundabout junction towards York, and I was left heading up coast with just a few straggler caravans and fast paced, chubby leather clad motorcyclists. The route is one of the most notorious for causing the demise of the 40 to 50 years age group of menopausal bikers and every couple of miles is marked with signage warning of the perils of speed and unrestrained behaviour through tight bends. These appear to have caused no pangs of conscience whatsoever although there was a slight slowing as a mark of respect at each of the flower bestooned shrines marking the accident sites from the early part of the years run outs..
The countryside above Beverley is open and rolling between the large cultivated fields and dispersed hamlets and villages. If not in a hurry and savouring the prospect of Sea View Gardens it is nice to idle along listening to drama or comedy on the car radio. However, I am not complacent in my driving as I well recall my momentary dozing behind the wheel and the ensuing surprise of finding, upon stirring awake, that I was on the opposite side of the road heading into oncoming traffic. I have ever since avoided any programming involving The Archer's. Just too soporific even at 10am in the morning on that potentially fatal morning.
The road climbs gradually north of Driffield over the chalky Wolds and with views either side to sweeping and dry valleys. The radio reception ebbs and flows through the deep set and sleepy settlements of Langtoft and Foxholes usually at a critical moment of the reveal in the murder mystery. Never mind, BBC4 Extra do repeat the schedule at least four times in a day and I can catch up and assess my own powers of deduction on the return leg of the trip. I am almost word perfect on some of the episodes of Steptoe and Son, Dad's Army and Flywheel, Schyster and Flywheel from the saturation coverage on a day of particularly long driving distances. Yes, I know there are other channels available but fiddling with the tuner is also, I understand, a common contributory factor to road crashes.
Staxton Hill is a twisting descent of 1 in 6 gradient. Engaging a low gear, as advised by the warning notices, is painfully noisy and cumbersome but essential to comply with to avoid the very public spectacle of losing control and ploughing through the deep sand of the escape lane at its base. I have never witnessed a runaway vehicle although it still surprises me to see fresh tyre ruts as though the very crude speed retarding measure gets regular use.
After the ups and downs of the previous 20 miles the flat plain from Staxton into the suburbs of Scarborough is depressing. People must like it on the evidence of the large static caravan parks although I attribute this to the close proximity to a Morrisons Supermarket and a McDonalds restaurant, both important considerations for a vacation stay in the UK.
Scarborough itself, I liken to Rome. They could be candidates for twinning with both being built on a series of hills, some quite steep and imposing with housing clinging on against gravity and resisting the Scarborough-centric phenomenum of soil creep. This is where, usually following heavy and persistent rain, the natural stickiness and amalgam of the clay soils usually good factors for foundation stability just gives up and the consequence of buildings making their way down hill unaccompanied makes the newpapers and national TV coverage.
I skirt around the large natural feature of Olivers Mount, sometime motorsports race circuit but everyday panoramic viewpoint to get onto the Filey Road which leads to my appointment. There are some tremendous properties along this prestigious axis ranging from large Victorian and Edwardian villas to inter war red tiled detached in expansive landscaped gardens, again hugging close to the closely packed contours. Scarborough follows a typical urban expansion plan and the age of housing becomes progressively younger the farther from its centre. My destination is part of the 1960's growth of by now rather plain and boring dwellings. predominantly retirement bungalows and semi-chalet style houses.
I turn into the series of cul de sacs that make up Sea View Road, Sea View Grove, Sea View Avenue and Sea View Gardens. I feel sorry for the postal service on the basis of potential mayhem and confusion over any vaguely addressed items. Still, they have a one in four chance of delivering to the correct residence. The community spirit amongst the locals must be good if they are for ever popping around the estate making sure the mis-delivered correspondence reaches its rightful recipients.
My destination is one of the uninspiring semi detached houses.
The only potential feature to salvage a bit of character would be that promise of a sea view.
From the driveway the only aspect is onto other properties with no distant azure haze. Slightly elevated in the ground floor living room the prospect of an outlook onto clear ocean and the horizon balanced profile of a large vessel plying the lanes to and from Teesport or any of the world's great shipping nations is still thwarted by the rest of the cul de sac.
I make my way up the 1960's open tread, almost ladder like, staircase and peer out of the landing window. I am now looking out onto the ridges of rooftops and a few aerial festooned chimney stacks. Still no joy of white caps and sea swell.
There is a large double glazed window at the back or the house, facing north and therefore back towards the main Scarborough Town.
Just as I am about to give up ever spying the ocean I come across a rooflight set up high and paralell to the roof slope in the bathroom, obviously a modern alteration to improve natural light and ventilation. I do have a set of ladders in the boot of my car but on I just couldn't be bothered to trail down to get them.
Rather recklessly I moved a bit of the furniture from one of the bedrooms and constructed a platform from a single bed base, a wicker backed chair and an upholstered foot rest or as they used to be called, a pouffe. They sat well onto each other and provided a stable enough pyramid for me to climb up and ease open the pivoting Velux.
At full tip toe stretch and with my head protruding at an uncomfortable and unnatural angle I at last caught a glimpse of the North Sea in all of its murky glory.
The day had promised much but had then threatened to be a huge anti-climax but I am happy not to have to report the road naming committee of the Local Council to Trading Standards for gross misrepresentation.
Dull from the point of view of the weather and my job list which was less than inspiring in that it comprised;
9.00am, a visit to a house to advise its occupants on measures to combat their chronic dampness,
9.45am, tip-toeing through a vandalised property avoiding holes in the floor and booby traps,
10.30am, dodging freshly painted surfaces in a new-build project, and 11.30am sneaking a photo over a garden fence without alerting the neighbourhood watch to my rather dodgy behaviour.
The motivation to get through the first part of the day was the tantalising prospect of a drive up into North Yorkshire to the evocatively sounding address of "Sea View Gardens, Scarborough".
Most great road trips are exciting enough but if there is the prospect of a panoramic view or breathtaking vista at journey's end then that excursion is elevated to classic status.
The misty and moist low cloud was held firmly in the tight city environment and the usual landmarks of industrial smoke stacks and wind turbines only loomed into sight at the last moment in ghostly silhouette. It was not until I had turned westwards onto the by-pass that the density of the vapour shroud began to thin out with watery sunlight and I could make out the residential tower blocks on a large estate in my rear view mirror. Within a couple of miles I realised that beyond the city boundary it was actually a bright and increasingly pleasant spring day. My standard issue company jumper in which I had earlier been mistaken for a Prison Warder and/or Tesco Security Guard began to feel a bit over-warm although I had welcomed its 100% wool mix earlier on in the day.
The daffodils were resplendent on the verge and embankments of the busy trunk road although their previously dazzling radiance was now a bit speckled with exhaust particles and spray from HGV's. Most of the traffic headed off, at the main roundabout junction towards York, and I was left heading up coast with just a few straggler caravans and fast paced, chubby leather clad motorcyclists. The route is one of the most notorious for causing the demise of the 40 to 50 years age group of menopausal bikers and every couple of miles is marked with signage warning of the perils of speed and unrestrained behaviour through tight bends. These appear to have caused no pangs of conscience whatsoever although there was a slight slowing as a mark of respect at each of the flower bestooned shrines marking the accident sites from the early part of the years run outs..
The countryside above Beverley is open and rolling between the large cultivated fields and dispersed hamlets and villages. If not in a hurry and savouring the prospect of Sea View Gardens it is nice to idle along listening to drama or comedy on the car radio. However, I am not complacent in my driving as I well recall my momentary dozing behind the wheel and the ensuing surprise of finding, upon stirring awake, that I was on the opposite side of the road heading into oncoming traffic. I have ever since avoided any programming involving The Archer's. Just too soporific even at 10am in the morning on that potentially fatal morning.
The road climbs gradually north of Driffield over the chalky Wolds and with views either side to sweeping and dry valleys. The radio reception ebbs and flows through the deep set and sleepy settlements of Langtoft and Foxholes usually at a critical moment of the reveal in the murder mystery. Never mind, BBC4 Extra do repeat the schedule at least four times in a day and I can catch up and assess my own powers of deduction on the return leg of the trip. I am almost word perfect on some of the episodes of Steptoe and Son, Dad's Army and Flywheel, Schyster and Flywheel from the saturation coverage on a day of particularly long driving distances. Yes, I know there are other channels available but fiddling with the tuner is also, I understand, a common contributory factor to road crashes.
Staxton Hill is a twisting descent of 1 in 6 gradient. Engaging a low gear, as advised by the warning notices, is painfully noisy and cumbersome but essential to comply with to avoid the very public spectacle of losing control and ploughing through the deep sand of the escape lane at its base. I have never witnessed a runaway vehicle although it still surprises me to see fresh tyre ruts as though the very crude speed retarding measure gets regular use.
After the ups and downs of the previous 20 miles the flat plain from Staxton into the suburbs of Scarborough is depressing. People must like it on the evidence of the large static caravan parks although I attribute this to the close proximity to a Morrisons Supermarket and a McDonalds restaurant, both important considerations for a vacation stay in the UK.
Scarborough itself, I liken to Rome. They could be candidates for twinning with both being built on a series of hills, some quite steep and imposing with housing clinging on against gravity and resisting the Scarborough-centric phenomenum of soil creep. This is where, usually following heavy and persistent rain, the natural stickiness and amalgam of the clay soils usually good factors for foundation stability just gives up and the consequence of buildings making their way down hill unaccompanied makes the newpapers and national TV coverage.
I skirt around the large natural feature of Olivers Mount, sometime motorsports race circuit but everyday panoramic viewpoint to get onto the Filey Road which leads to my appointment. There are some tremendous properties along this prestigious axis ranging from large Victorian and Edwardian villas to inter war red tiled detached in expansive landscaped gardens, again hugging close to the closely packed contours. Scarborough follows a typical urban expansion plan and the age of housing becomes progressively younger the farther from its centre. My destination is part of the 1960's growth of by now rather plain and boring dwellings. predominantly retirement bungalows and semi-chalet style houses.
I turn into the series of cul de sacs that make up Sea View Road, Sea View Grove, Sea View Avenue and Sea View Gardens. I feel sorry for the postal service on the basis of potential mayhem and confusion over any vaguely addressed items. Still, they have a one in four chance of delivering to the correct residence. The community spirit amongst the locals must be good if they are for ever popping around the estate making sure the mis-delivered correspondence reaches its rightful recipients.
My destination is one of the uninspiring semi detached houses.
The only potential feature to salvage a bit of character would be that promise of a sea view.
From the driveway the only aspect is onto other properties with no distant azure haze. Slightly elevated in the ground floor living room the prospect of an outlook onto clear ocean and the horizon balanced profile of a large vessel plying the lanes to and from Teesport or any of the world's great shipping nations is still thwarted by the rest of the cul de sac.
I make my way up the 1960's open tread, almost ladder like, staircase and peer out of the landing window. I am now looking out onto the ridges of rooftops and a few aerial festooned chimney stacks. Still no joy of white caps and sea swell.
There is a large double glazed window at the back or the house, facing north and therefore back towards the main Scarborough Town.
Just as I am about to give up ever spying the ocean I come across a rooflight set up high and paralell to the roof slope in the bathroom, obviously a modern alteration to improve natural light and ventilation. I do have a set of ladders in the boot of my car but on I just couldn't be bothered to trail down to get them.
Rather recklessly I moved a bit of the furniture from one of the bedrooms and constructed a platform from a single bed base, a wicker backed chair and an upholstered foot rest or as they used to be called, a pouffe. They sat well onto each other and provided a stable enough pyramid for me to climb up and ease open the pivoting Velux.
At full tip toe stretch and with my head protruding at an uncomfortable and unnatural angle I at last caught a glimpse of the North Sea in all of its murky glory.
The day had promised much but had then threatened to be a huge anti-climax but I am happy not to have to report the road naming committee of the Local Council to Trading Standards for gross misrepresentation.
Saturday, 27 April 2019
Bagatelle
I wrote this before the introduction of the 10p charge for a re-useable carrier bag. The urgent need to reduce the use of plastics in eveyday use and the environment makes the multiple use of shopping bags more important than ever.
Choosing the perfect accessory to go shopping is a critical issue nowadays. I have been all ready to set off but have been thwarted by indecision and angst about the finishing touch to my attire.
I am talking about the selection process over what plastic carrier bag to take along.
I have a good collection of the things, always have but then that stems from the days of dog owning when a few bags squirrelled away in coat pockets were invaluable.Habits honed over 18 years of poop scooping do not get dropped overnight. On one very wet expedition with my two daughters, when they were very small we all ended up, dogs included, huddled in a steamed up telephone box awaiting the arrival of my wife in the car. In the mad dash through the storm to the place of refuge the girls had made good use of an extra waterproof layer in sporting fetching tabards made from Sainsbury plastic bags retrieved from the darkest depths of my Helly Hansen cagoule.
The big weekly shop was the opportunity to replenish the bag supply and the children were well trained in packing as few items as possible in each bag to maximise numbers. We were awash with the things briefly but they were soon used up and off we would soon be off again to restock under the guise of structured shopping.
We were regular customers at the local Sainsbury Supermarket but only because it was convenient and after a while we knew our way around the aisles which ultimately saved a lot of time in filling up the trolley.
It appears that there is quite an element of snobbery in the UK over where you shop and research in recent years has shown that more than half of Britons felt that their choice of supermarket was a reflection of their place on the social ladder. Just over 10% of those partaking in the same survey expressed a belief that you could appear more affluent by frequenting certain stores and to back this up the average UK citizen actually spends an extra £260 a year just to be seen amongst their aspirational peers.
Top of the tree in prestige is of course Waitrose with the distinctive green carrier bag displaying to casual observers that you are potentially a career professional, discerning shopper and one who places high priority on price as an indicator of quality.
Second in the league table of supermarket snobbery comes Sainsbury's in the orange bag corner followed by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. The store whose mantra is "every little helps" is regarded as being of very broad appeal attracting families with large discounted quantities of everyday household goods, OAP's with frequent rotation of useful bargains and the price conscious which, under inflationary conditions in the economy, includes just about everyone else.
Tesco pride themselves on a store in every postcode district and it is said that every one pound in eight spent in the UK is through their tills.
Asda are the champions of hard working families originating from the former coalfields and heavy industry areas of the country and have also recently moved into developing smaller local stores to match the Tesco saturation tactics.
Morrisons in their yellow bags attract more close knit community types and since their integration with Safeway there is a widening of appeal to those defined as rural isolationists.
Of all the main supermarkets perhaps only the Co-Operative maintain an ethical and equitable image in their distinctive logo embossed bags.
After the big six come the pretenders who struggled initially to get recognition and acceptance mainly because of their European style and product ranges in spite of Brits not hesitating to go to a Lidl or Aldi whilst on their summer hols abroad to get those chocolate sandwich biscuits, Ritter Sports and strangely named crisps and savouries. Netto, the Danish supermarket, is regarded as being at the bottom of the pecking order and has suffered from many stereotypical misrepresentations. How much has changed in the last five years in the people's league table of preferred places to shop.
It is an undeniable fact that in our choice of regular supermarket we may argue the case for frugality, economy, ecological ethics and convenience when we, ion reality, base it on the desire to mix and match with "nice people just like us".
So next time you reach for a plastic carrier bag on your way out to the shops just give a thought as to how you want to be perceived by the public at large.
Choosing the perfect accessory to go shopping is a critical issue nowadays. I have been all ready to set off but have been thwarted by indecision and angst about the finishing touch to my attire.
I am talking about the selection process over what plastic carrier bag to take along.
I have a good collection of the things, always have but then that stems from the days of dog owning when a few bags squirrelled away in coat pockets were invaluable.Habits honed over 18 years of poop scooping do not get dropped overnight. On one very wet expedition with my two daughters, when they were very small we all ended up, dogs included, huddled in a steamed up telephone box awaiting the arrival of my wife in the car. In the mad dash through the storm to the place of refuge the girls had made good use of an extra waterproof layer in sporting fetching tabards made from Sainsbury plastic bags retrieved from the darkest depths of my Helly Hansen cagoule.
The big weekly shop was the opportunity to replenish the bag supply and the children were well trained in packing as few items as possible in each bag to maximise numbers. We were awash with the things briefly but they were soon used up and off we would soon be off again to restock under the guise of structured shopping.
We were regular customers at the local Sainsbury Supermarket but only because it was convenient and after a while we knew our way around the aisles which ultimately saved a lot of time in filling up the trolley.
It appears that there is quite an element of snobbery in the UK over where you shop and research in recent years has shown that more than half of Britons felt that their choice of supermarket was a reflection of their place on the social ladder. Just over 10% of those partaking in the same survey expressed a belief that you could appear more affluent by frequenting certain stores and to back this up the average UK citizen actually spends an extra £260 a year just to be seen amongst their aspirational peers.
Top of the tree in prestige is of course Waitrose with the distinctive green carrier bag displaying to casual observers that you are potentially a career professional, discerning shopper and one who places high priority on price as an indicator of quality.
Second in the league table of supermarket snobbery comes Sainsbury's in the orange bag corner followed by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. The store whose mantra is "every little helps" is regarded as being of very broad appeal attracting families with large discounted quantities of everyday household goods, OAP's with frequent rotation of useful bargains and the price conscious which, under inflationary conditions in the economy, includes just about everyone else.
Tesco pride themselves on a store in every postcode district and it is said that every one pound in eight spent in the UK is through their tills.
Asda are the champions of hard working families originating from the former coalfields and heavy industry areas of the country and have also recently moved into developing smaller local stores to match the Tesco saturation tactics.
Morrisons in their yellow bags attract more close knit community types and since their integration with Safeway there is a widening of appeal to those defined as rural isolationists.
Of all the main supermarkets perhaps only the Co-Operative maintain an ethical and equitable image in their distinctive logo embossed bags.
After the big six come the pretenders who struggled initially to get recognition and acceptance mainly because of their European style and product ranges in spite of Brits not hesitating to go to a Lidl or Aldi whilst on their summer hols abroad to get those chocolate sandwich biscuits, Ritter Sports and strangely named crisps and savouries. Netto, the Danish supermarket, is regarded as being at the bottom of the pecking order and has suffered from many stereotypical misrepresentations. How much has changed in the last five years in the people's league table of preferred places to shop.
It is an undeniable fact that in our choice of regular supermarket we may argue the case for frugality, economy, ecological ethics and convenience when we, ion reality, base it on the desire to mix and match with "nice people just like us".
So next time you reach for a plastic carrier bag on your way out to the shops just give a thought as to how you want to be perceived by the public at large.
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