There seems to be an endless stream of major anniversaries and centenaries in this current year covering all manner of historic events and happenings in society and science.
One that has not really received much recognition and justifiable celebration is the marking of the milestone 100 years of the Women's Institute.
The organisation was quite prominent in my early years through the involvement in local branches by my Nanna, Nelly Janes. She was most active in the arranging and running of meetings and an abiding memory is, of course, whenever the WI is mentioned, an abundance of home made jam and home baked cakes.
It is however, a gross misunderstatement and injustice to stereo-type the organisation in such a way because the WI has, since its humble beginnings in Anglesey, Wales firmly staked a claim to independence and relevance through the decades and today is receiving around 1000 new enquiries about membership from a broad spectrum of women in terms of background and age.
When Prime Minister, in 2000, Tony Blair experienced a taste of the fiercely non political stance in a speech at that years National Conference in which he dared to use the opportunity as a platform for his own agenda. You could say that he was well and truly handbagged by the assembly members who heckled and jeered him for his misjudgement of his message relevant to those present.
He was aware of the power of the WI as his opening words, before his downfall, were that he had never been before such a terrifying audience.
Back to the harsh years of the First World War the idea of an organisation for women in rural areas had been adopted from a Canadian model with the emphasis on growing and preserving food to counter shortages and to give company to those whose menfolk were away on active duty.
The importance of this role was recognised by Government who through the Board of Agriculture gave subsidies to enable more local branches to be established.
Women in often remote rural areas had not had much by way of sisterhood and activities other than though local churches and so the offer of something with a difference was hugely welcomed.
As well as the trademark jam and cakes there was a strong ethical focus on taking on and championing campaigns.
In the inter war years Women's Rights were fought for including more female police personnel, pain relief in childbirth, mental health and, ahead of its time, equal pay for equal work.
This progressive thought did characterise the WI and successive decades saw a strong campaign to educate about Aids with speakers encouraging branch organisations to become blood donors and to practice safe sex.
In the 1970's the WI took on the causes of battered wives, rape in marriage and refuge accommodation for victims of domestic violence.
All of this became part and parcel of the WI who remained committed to womens fellowship, equality amongst members and furthering education in crafts and cookery. I was present at many Jumble Sales organised by my Nanna and these were often as not very interesting and entertaining events.
The image of a rather elderly, middle class and conservative membership could be no farther from the reality.
The current 250,000 strong members do not lack confidence in their lobbying power and have shown that they have had the attention of respective Governments but remain self funding and still non-political.
Yes, in the second world war the WI did produce around twelve million pounds weight of home made jam and the opening of local meetings by singing the stirring Jerusalem anthem persists but the centenary this year is truly a time for recognition and respect.
Nelly certainly got a lot out of her long and fruitful association and British Society has been the better for it. Hurrah, Three Cheers, Hip, Hip.....pass the jam and scones please.
Tuesday, 9 June 2015
Monday, 8 June 2015
Diet Coke, The Truth behind the Lawnmowing Man
It was my turn.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had almost ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and dispose of the rubbish.
This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. To onlookers it may have seemed like one of those dramatic, slow motion eruptions so favoured in film and television but it was actually just an unpleasant experience.
Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of an honest and hard working man.
I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower.
It was , to me better than sex.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had almost ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and dispose of the rubbish.
This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. To onlookers it may have seemed like one of those dramatic, slow motion eruptions so favoured in film and television but it was actually just an unpleasant experience.
Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of an honest and hard working man.
I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower.
It was , to me better than sex.
Sunday, 7 June 2015
Wiggins and 60 minutes
Any cyclist who looks serious will be asked one or more of the following three questions by a curious member of the public.
1) How much does your bike weigh?
2) What would a bike like that cost?
3)What is the top speed that you can go on it?.
Most keen sporting riders would be more than happy to answer particularly if they are riding a very lightweight, expensive and fast bike and just to see the jaw dropping reaction of the person making the enquries.
In my case, I am still riding a racing machine for which I was measured back in 1982. At that time, how long ago?, it cost £1000 which was wholly justified for the custom make by a frame builder at a local shop in Nottingham plus top of the range Campagnolo running gear, a good pair of wheels and the best components that my budget could stretch to. In today's money and on a like for like basis you are talking about three times that cost.
The frame was in 531 tubing, a light, strong material from Reynolds and the total completed weight was about, in old imperial terms, eighteen pounds or so. As for speed, well the best that I achieved over 10 miles and 25 miles in competition were times of under 22 minutes and just over the hour respectively. I do, however, like to recall being clocked by a motorist at 55 mph (he shouted it out to me as he passed) downhill in a bus lane in a Nottingham suburb breaking all sorts of local restrictions and being fully relieved of fear and common sense for once in my life.
Those markers of velocity have given me much comfort on those much more frequent occasions when I have averaged 10mph or less on an uphill gradient or into a howling gale force and rain spattered wind.
As I get older those moments of peak speed seem to get less and less, also tempered by a feeling of caution to not get injured in a fall or collision which could result in missing work and mortgage payments.
My old bike is still with me and I ride out on it as many times a week as physically and logistically possible given prolonged recovery periods from previous exertion and a busy working diary. In a moment of unusual energy last year I did jump on my mountain bike and tear off on a route out of my home city, along the by pass to the nearby commuter town and then back thorough the suburbs and all in under the hour.
I was very pleased and not a little surprised in my efforts at an average of 15mph which is pretty good on a large, heavy bike with chunky off road tyres and a narrow gear ratio intended for varied terrain rather than a tarmac dual carriageway.
Cyclists and 60 minutes as a unit of time do have a long, historic affinity for each other.
There can be an obsession with personal best times in an hour with the first recorded, timed effort being back in 1876 when a Penny Farthing rider achieved a distance of 16.5 miles.
There followed over the proceeding decades a steady stream of record attempts with the list of those taking on the challenge soon reading like a who's who of the greatest cyclists from the grand European Tours. In the 1950's Fausto Coppi and Jacques Anquetil both held the hour record followed in the 1970's by Ole Ritter and perhaps the most well known rider ever, Eddy Merckx who at altitide in the Mexico City Velodrome reached 31.784 miles. This, claimed by Merckx to have been his toughest exploit on the bike became, with hindsight, the definitive performance in terms of the actual specification of the machine as in succeeding years technology and science dominated. Francesco Moser claimed the hour record in 1984 .
In 1993 Graeme Obree and Chris Boardman took on each others records in a much publicised battle especially as Obree built his own bike including washing machine bearings in direct contrast to the money no object campaign of Boardman and his carbon fibre mount. Both were relegated by new record rides by Miguel Indurain and Tony Rominger in 1994 until Boardman recaptured it in the Millenium year. The governing body of world cycling sought to standardise the regulations for the hour attempt and reverted in the year 2000 to the Merckx standard bike and equipment of 1972 which meant that the high tech rides on the roll of honour were disallowed.
This did not deter those wanting to take on the hour either as a crowning glory for an illustrious road racing career or just to get their name in the record books. In the last twelve months up until today the record has passed between a number of riders with Alex Dowsett at the top of the leader board at 32.89 miles from multiple laps of the Manchester Velodrome. The UCI again changed the regulations in 2014 stating that all technologies could now be used and by doing so the record became unified.
As I write, the British rider Sir Bradley Wiggins is setting off on his hour attempt hoping to well exceed Dowsett's impressive distance. The countdown begins..............................................................................................................
Bradley Wiggins has just pushed the world hour record to 33 miles (54.526km).
1) How much does your bike weigh?
2) What would a bike like that cost?
3)What is the top speed that you can go on it?.
Most keen sporting riders would be more than happy to answer particularly if they are riding a very lightweight, expensive and fast bike and just to see the jaw dropping reaction of the person making the enquries.
In my case, I am still riding a racing machine for which I was measured back in 1982. At that time, how long ago?, it cost £1000 which was wholly justified for the custom make by a frame builder at a local shop in Nottingham plus top of the range Campagnolo running gear, a good pair of wheels and the best components that my budget could stretch to. In today's money and on a like for like basis you are talking about three times that cost.
The frame was in 531 tubing, a light, strong material from Reynolds and the total completed weight was about, in old imperial terms, eighteen pounds or so. As for speed, well the best that I achieved over 10 miles and 25 miles in competition were times of under 22 minutes and just over the hour respectively. I do, however, like to recall being clocked by a motorist at 55 mph (he shouted it out to me as he passed) downhill in a bus lane in a Nottingham suburb breaking all sorts of local restrictions and being fully relieved of fear and common sense for once in my life.
Those markers of velocity have given me much comfort on those much more frequent occasions when I have averaged 10mph or less on an uphill gradient or into a howling gale force and rain spattered wind.
As I get older those moments of peak speed seem to get less and less, also tempered by a feeling of caution to not get injured in a fall or collision which could result in missing work and mortgage payments.
My old bike is still with me and I ride out on it as many times a week as physically and logistically possible given prolonged recovery periods from previous exertion and a busy working diary. In a moment of unusual energy last year I did jump on my mountain bike and tear off on a route out of my home city, along the by pass to the nearby commuter town and then back thorough the suburbs and all in under the hour.
I was very pleased and not a little surprised in my efforts at an average of 15mph which is pretty good on a large, heavy bike with chunky off road tyres and a narrow gear ratio intended for varied terrain rather than a tarmac dual carriageway.
Cyclists and 60 minutes as a unit of time do have a long, historic affinity for each other.
There can be an obsession with personal best times in an hour with the first recorded, timed effort being back in 1876 when a Penny Farthing rider achieved a distance of 16.5 miles.
There followed over the proceeding decades a steady stream of record attempts with the list of those taking on the challenge soon reading like a who's who of the greatest cyclists from the grand European Tours. In the 1950's Fausto Coppi and Jacques Anquetil both held the hour record followed in the 1970's by Ole Ritter and perhaps the most well known rider ever, Eddy Merckx who at altitide in the Mexico City Velodrome reached 31.784 miles. This, claimed by Merckx to have been his toughest exploit on the bike became, with hindsight, the definitive performance in terms of the actual specification of the machine as in succeeding years technology and science dominated. Francesco Moser claimed the hour record in 1984 .
In 1993 Graeme Obree and Chris Boardman took on each others records in a much publicised battle especially as Obree built his own bike including washing machine bearings in direct contrast to the money no object campaign of Boardman and his carbon fibre mount. Both were relegated by new record rides by Miguel Indurain and Tony Rominger in 1994 until Boardman recaptured it in the Millenium year. The governing body of world cycling sought to standardise the regulations for the hour attempt and reverted in the year 2000 to the Merckx standard bike and equipment of 1972 which meant that the high tech rides on the roll of honour were disallowed.
This did not deter those wanting to take on the hour either as a crowning glory for an illustrious road racing career or just to get their name in the record books. In the last twelve months up until today the record has passed between a number of riders with Alex Dowsett at the top of the leader board at 32.89 miles from multiple laps of the Manchester Velodrome. The UCI again changed the regulations in 2014 stating that all technologies could now be used and by doing so the record became unified.
As I write, the British rider Sir Bradley Wiggins is setting off on his hour attempt hoping to well exceed Dowsett's impressive distance. The countdown begins..............................................................................................................
Bradley Wiggins has just pushed the world hour record to 33 miles (54.526km).
Friday, 5 June 2015
Cats Eyes
Cats find their own entertainment during the long daylight hours.
If it is at the expense of a human being then even better although their natural aloofness and inscrutability mean that any glee and joy is well concealed from their victims .
I come across cats on a regular basis in my working day, a lot of them. Most are just lounging about luxuriously on beds, sofa's or in a shaft of sunlight as it crosses a carpeted floor. Some are lurking about in backyards and gardens and I am never sure if they actually belong at that address and so always ask the home-owner if it is indeed their animal.
If I am at an empty house I do make sure that there is no chance of a cat sneaking in behind me. I have heard tales of neighbours reporting seeing a distressed feline face at a window of just such a vacated property and this has usually triggered all sorts of panic involving the police, RSPCA and other charitable organisations in a frantic rescue bid.
There has also been the odd case of a cat being found in a closed-up loft space with no apparent clues as to how it got there. The invitation of a fully deployed access ladder is just too much to bare for an inquisitive cat.
I do like cats although they do not agree with me and I have a strange allergy that developed after my own tabby died when I was young. This was my first experience of pet mortality and I took it quite badly. Any exposure to or contact with fine hairs, whether on a carpet, fabric furnishing or just airborne causes my eyes and nose to stream uncontrollably.
Psychologists would have many volumes to write on my symptons given that the cat, Bonnie, and I were inseparable for her short, fateful life. She would even sleep at my feet under the bed covers.
In my adult years we took in a cat from a family who could no longer cope. After a couple of weeks I was prescribed a Ventolin Inhaler because of a very adverse reaction. Under the ultimatum of "it is the cat, or me", I surprisingly won out for once, yeah!
There is something of a stand-off now, an unwritten agreement to co-exist, live and let live and all of that between me and the cat empire.
We do still have a bit of fun at each others expense.
The intense red beam of my laser measure is tantalising if noticed by kittens or even their seniors and it is quite entertaining, although perhaps a bit cruel to tease in this way.
I was however exposed to the full treatment by way of revenge just a couple of days ago.
I had just opened up the patio doors to the rear of a house when I saw a ginger haired cat spying on me over a boundary fence. It was one of those comedy moments that can be found on a hourly basis posted on the internet and receiving millions of views. I just managed to take a photo.
Retreating back into the kitchen I heard the distinctive "flick-flack" from a cat flat in the wall and there at my feet sat the ginger cat.
In order to maintain my health I ignored this approach and looked back out to the garden. There, sat on the paving slabs, preening itself was the ginger cat.
I had not heard the flap and was amazed at the ground speed of the creature to enable it to be some 5 metres away in no more than a millisecond or so it seemed.
I had, after all, a job to do and turned to make my way into another room. Something caught my eye in the doorway to the lounge, a ginger cat.
This was getting weird.
To be in that position was an impossibility given the distance, time elapsed and with no noise emitted from the only access in- that flap.
I was getting a bit freaked out at this stage.
I made my way upstairs only to find a ginger cat looking down at me from the step on the landing. It was a case of having to hide my incredulity and shock.
After inspecting the upstairs rooms I descended the stairs to fetch my ladders to access the loft space. There, in the garden again was the ginger cat. Thoughts of time travel, Star Trek type transportation and plain voodoo magic crossed my mind at the sight of yet another manifestation.
The cat flap announced the arrival of the animal into the house and when I turned to look at the visitor all became clear.
Sat together on the kitchen vinyl floor were two identical ginger cats. We looked at each other and I sensed a bit of a wry upturn in the stout, fine set whiskers of the pair as though they were savouring a scheming victory over those darned humans.
If it is at the expense of a human being then even better although their natural aloofness and inscrutability mean that any glee and joy is well concealed from their victims .
I come across cats on a regular basis in my working day, a lot of them. Most are just lounging about luxuriously on beds, sofa's or in a shaft of sunlight as it crosses a carpeted floor. Some are lurking about in backyards and gardens and I am never sure if they actually belong at that address and so always ask the home-owner if it is indeed their animal.
If I am at an empty house I do make sure that there is no chance of a cat sneaking in behind me. I have heard tales of neighbours reporting seeing a distressed feline face at a window of just such a vacated property and this has usually triggered all sorts of panic involving the police, RSPCA and other charitable organisations in a frantic rescue bid.
There has also been the odd case of a cat being found in a closed-up loft space with no apparent clues as to how it got there. The invitation of a fully deployed access ladder is just too much to bare for an inquisitive cat.
I do like cats although they do not agree with me and I have a strange allergy that developed after my own tabby died when I was young. This was my first experience of pet mortality and I took it quite badly. Any exposure to or contact with fine hairs, whether on a carpet, fabric furnishing or just airborne causes my eyes and nose to stream uncontrollably.
Psychologists would have many volumes to write on my symptons given that the cat, Bonnie, and I were inseparable for her short, fateful life. She would even sleep at my feet under the bed covers.
In my adult years we took in a cat from a family who could no longer cope. After a couple of weeks I was prescribed a Ventolin Inhaler because of a very adverse reaction. Under the ultimatum of "it is the cat, or me", I surprisingly won out for once, yeah!
There is something of a stand-off now, an unwritten agreement to co-exist, live and let live and all of that between me and the cat empire.
We do still have a bit of fun at each others expense.
The intense red beam of my laser measure is tantalising if noticed by kittens or even their seniors and it is quite entertaining, although perhaps a bit cruel to tease in this way.
I was however exposed to the full treatment by way of revenge just a couple of days ago.
I had just opened up the patio doors to the rear of a house when I saw a ginger haired cat spying on me over a boundary fence. It was one of those comedy moments that can be found on a hourly basis posted on the internet and receiving millions of views. I just managed to take a photo.
Retreating back into the kitchen I heard the distinctive "flick-flack" from a cat flat in the wall and there at my feet sat the ginger cat.
In order to maintain my health I ignored this approach and looked back out to the garden. There, sat on the paving slabs, preening itself was the ginger cat.
I had not heard the flap and was amazed at the ground speed of the creature to enable it to be some 5 metres away in no more than a millisecond or so it seemed.
I had, after all, a job to do and turned to make my way into another room. Something caught my eye in the doorway to the lounge, a ginger cat.
This was getting weird.
To be in that position was an impossibility given the distance, time elapsed and with no noise emitted from the only access in- that flap.
I was getting a bit freaked out at this stage.
I made my way upstairs only to find a ginger cat looking down at me from the step on the landing. It was a case of having to hide my incredulity and shock.
After inspecting the upstairs rooms I descended the stairs to fetch my ladders to access the loft space. There, in the garden again was the ginger cat. Thoughts of time travel, Star Trek type transportation and plain voodoo magic crossed my mind at the sight of yet another manifestation.
The cat flap announced the arrival of the animal into the house and when I turned to look at the visitor all became clear.
Sat together on the kitchen vinyl floor were two identical ginger cats. We looked at each other and I sensed a bit of a wry upturn in the stout, fine set whiskers of the pair as though they were savouring a scheming victory over those darned humans.
Thursday, 4 June 2015
Bridge over Troubled Water
Heights and me just do not get on.
I can sometimes surprise myself by crawling to the precipice, holding onto something firmly rooted or grounded and timidly peering over but that is certainly an exception.
I may have acheived it a couple of times just for the sake of standing next to my children when they were mere fledgling toddlers, strictly for the purposes of parental supervision of course.
This rather irrational fear is a mystery to me.
I think that I can track it back to when I was not at all a good swimmer. Most large drops that I encountered on family holidays on clifftops or looking into deep valleys or just going to the shops in a town with 2 rivers and a number of crossings did feature water as the eventual recipient for a plummeting body. Worst fears would be compounded by a low parapet wall over a bridge, the type where it only comes up to your knees even when a small child.
Even if there was a good sturdy, timber slatted walkway over the mildest of watercourses this instilled great angst if the calm, shallow and millpond demeanour was actually visible through the gaps. They were after all the sort of gaps where something precious could be dropped through and lost forever. For this reason I would keep my hands firmly in my pockets tightly grasping car keys, loose change and the inevitable collection of interesting pebbles and stones. Perhaps I was also not very good at loading up my pockets in a balanced way as well.
This was, I hesitate to admit, at its absolute worst on a suspended bridge, high up over a narrow gorge in Scotland. The thin structure, exposed to the wind could be sensed both vibrating and swaying and only with two persons on board. The cascading torrent of a mountain stream had been audible even when parking the car some distance away but with the heightened sensory experience of seeing it through the planking deck plus the lateral and oscillating movement I was fixed to the spot in rigid terror. My wife found this quite hilarious and I can accept that in a grown man, a former scout for goodness sakes, this was a ridiculous predicament to be in. I did not cross the bridge and would not have done so even if resident Troll had made demands of me.
Steep slopes with narrow, terraced paths are also a problem and torment to me. In most cases the width of the track suggests it was made by procession of sheep rather than a team of dedicated volunteers working for the National Parks and adopting a good wide size 10 walking boot as the model for safety and passability.
One particularly terrifying example is embedded in that part of my brain reserved for bad experiences. The north side of Trevone Bay in Cornwall has an interesting feature in a deep chasm, a blow-hole. I was told it was about 80 feet deep but I did not personally verify this. In its visible depths there is an opening in the adjacent cliff base and under certain stormy high seas or tidal conditions the hole is seen to live up to its geographical description.
The large and to my mind, very unstable feature, was on the route for one of my Wife's all time favourite coastal paths from Trevone to Padstow. This is amongst some of the most magnificent scenery overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and unfortunately for me, includes the steepest sheer face cliffs and sharp rock strewn potential watery graves ever.
I started the walk accompanied by our three very young children and friends but did not find it even remotely fun or inspiring as the rest of the group were intent on making it. Other peoples dogs were cavorting about as if in complete oblivion or denial of the very real dangers that I was perhaps the only person on the cliff to appreciate. I tried to warn the others about what they were getting into but with no success whatsoever.
If I feel in mortal danger on a gradient I just sit down and thereafter find it very difficult to find the momentum or spirit to get up again. The others continued merrily on their way leaving me behind and by all accounts had a marvellous, safe, carefree and scare-free time as they revelled in telling me later that day.
I seem to remember that, as Johnny no-mates I spent the rest of the day at the very reassuring sea-level.
It was great.
I can sometimes surprise myself by crawling to the precipice, holding onto something firmly rooted or grounded and timidly peering over but that is certainly an exception.
I may have acheived it a couple of times just for the sake of standing next to my children when they were mere fledgling toddlers, strictly for the purposes of parental supervision of course.
This rather irrational fear is a mystery to me.
I think that I can track it back to when I was not at all a good swimmer. Most large drops that I encountered on family holidays on clifftops or looking into deep valleys or just going to the shops in a town with 2 rivers and a number of crossings did feature water as the eventual recipient for a plummeting body. Worst fears would be compounded by a low parapet wall over a bridge, the type where it only comes up to your knees even when a small child.
Even if there was a good sturdy, timber slatted walkway over the mildest of watercourses this instilled great angst if the calm, shallow and millpond demeanour was actually visible through the gaps. They were after all the sort of gaps where something precious could be dropped through and lost forever. For this reason I would keep my hands firmly in my pockets tightly grasping car keys, loose change and the inevitable collection of interesting pebbles and stones. Perhaps I was also not very good at loading up my pockets in a balanced way as well.
This was, I hesitate to admit, at its absolute worst on a suspended bridge, high up over a narrow gorge in Scotland. The thin structure, exposed to the wind could be sensed both vibrating and swaying and only with two persons on board. The cascading torrent of a mountain stream had been audible even when parking the car some distance away but with the heightened sensory experience of seeing it through the planking deck plus the lateral and oscillating movement I was fixed to the spot in rigid terror. My wife found this quite hilarious and I can accept that in a grown man, a former scout for goodness sakes, this was a ridiculous predicament to be in. I did not cross the bridge and would not have done so even if resident Troll had made demands of me.
Steep slopes with narrow, terraced paths are also a problem and torment to me. In most cases the width of the track suggests it was made by procession of sheep rather than a team of dedicated volunteers working for the National Parks and adopting a good wide size 10 walking boot as the model for safety and passability.
One particularly terrifying example is embedded in that part of my brain reserved for bad experiences. The north side of Trevone Bay in Cornwall has an interesting feature in a deep chasm, a blow-hole. I was told it was about 80 feet deep but I did not personally verify this. In its visible depths there is an opening in the adjacent cliff base and under certain stormy high seas or tidal conditions the hole is seen to live up to its geographical description.
The large and to my mind, very unstable feature, was on the route for one of my Wife's all time favourite coastal paths from Trevone to Padstow. This is amongst some of the most magnificent scenery overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and unfortunately for me, includes the steepest sheer face cliffs and sharp rock strewn potential watery graves ever.
I started the walk accompanied by our three very young children and friends but did not find it even remotely fun or inspiring as the rest of the group were intent on making it. Other peoples dogs were cavorting about as if in complete oblivion or denial of the very real dangers that I was perhaps the only person on the cliff to appreciate. I tried to warn the others about what they were getting into but with no success whatsoever.
If I feel in mortal danger on a gradient I just sit down and thereafter find it very difficult to find the momentum or spirit to get up again. The others continued merrily on their way leaving me behind and by all accounts had a marvellous, safe, carefree and scare-free time as they revelled in telling me later that day.
I seem to remember that, as Johnny no-mates I spent the rest of the day at the very reassuring sea-level.
It was great.
Wednesday, 3 June 2015
Zombie Runaround
It is very important to have a contingency plan for just about any scenario or predicament.
In the past I have considered a suitable course of action for the explosion of the sun and obliteration of our galaxy thanks to a bit of scaremongering in the Star Trek Annual of 1974. It arose because I took at face value the shattering implications of this for the 11 year old that I was but omitted to carry on reading over onto the next page which indicated that this event was not expected for something like a zillion years.
In the 1980's every household in the UK received a booklet about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was a case of taping up windows against a blast wave, sitting under the kitchen table after draping it with white sheets and stockpiling essential goods. The precautions recommended by the Civil Defence authorities at that time did not vary much from those shown in the grainy black and white Public Information films from a couple of decades earlier.
In the 1990's I suppose it was fear of terrorism from dissident domestic groups and in the early years of the 21st Century more of the same but upscaled to overseas factions adopting aircraft assaults and the threat of dirty bombs plus of course the doctrinally neutral climate change.
More recently there has been the damage and anxiety exerted by flood and storms with many having to take a crash course in filling up sandbags or barricading their homes against tidal or river surge.
On a mundane day to day basis a contingency plan is just good practice to cover escape from fire and to generally keep out of harms way.
However, at the moment my primary concern relates to Zombie Apocalypse.
This has been hammered home in my psyche by watching, back to back, the first two series of "The Walking Dead" which is set in the uncertain and desperate days following a non-specific combination of global catastrophes resulting in most of the world's population dressing down, drooling and snarling and a few brave souls trying to make sense of it all and survive within the tatters of a moral code of decency and compassion.
The drama is accentuated by no real explanation of what transpired but yet the disintegration of society and mankind is rapid and very, very violent.
In successive scenes in the TV series I have placed myself in the role of some of the main non-Zombie-fied characters and really soul searched as to what I would do in the reality of the situations portrayed. It is plain to see that things would not pan out well for me. I do not possess currently what could be described as a ruthless or selfish trait but such qualities would be paramount in the decision making process when confronted by one or worst case, a whole herd of Zombies.
This was illustrated by my walk back from a football match last evening. It is quite rare to get a large mass of bodies all moving in the same direction and at the same speed unless exiting from a stadium venue. We collectively lumbered along, a bit stiff limbed from sitting on hard seats and with limited legroom. The sensible amongst us were well wrapped up on a cold February night and this further influenced restricted movement. Our team had won and so there was an upbeat tone in the conversations but interspersed with grumbles about how laboured the performance had been. It was not a great stretch of the imagination to liken the exodus to the incoherent mutterings and random, erratic motions of Zombies. (No disrespect meant or implied to supporters of Hull City).
I took it on as a practice session.
If I kept towards the outer edge of the populus this would give me enough time to formulate that contingency plan. It was important not to draw attention to myself, make eye contact or even draw out of my coat pockets the last of the Extra Strong Mints that had got me through the tedious second half of the game. At least Zombies are a bit slow and I was confident of being able to outrun them unless they overran me or I got legged up by someone else trying to evade being eaten alive. I would be confident in being able to make my way home through the inevitable half chewed bodies, burnt out smouldering cars and abandoned military vehicles using all of the guile from a Cub Scout training that I have never forgotten.
I broke clear of the crowd just by the gates of the bread factory. Most Zombie movies feature a cohesive and attentive group of survivors, heavily armed and motivated. I was however on my own and fearful for other Johnny No-Mates in the post apocalyptic environment.
Reaching home I sneaked in under the electric door to the integral garage and closed it again before a full operating cycle. I calculated what would be required to blockade the stairwell up to the first floor which would be the main living area and from which to keep a look out over the street for marauding hordes. Behind closed blinds I felt that I could at last relax, safe for the time being from carnivorous neighbours and friends.
Of course, my daughter shattered my contingency plan by mentioning in passing that there were actually many different types of Zombie. Fast ones, bullet-proof ones, those able to spring and leap large obstacles, intelligent and reasoning ones, scheming and cantankerous ones. I would have to review my contingency for the Zombie Apocalypse or else I was at risk from being stuffed........and savoured as the main course.
In the past I have considered a suitable course of action for the explosion of the sun and obliteration of our galaxy thanks to a bit of scaremongering in the Star Trek Annual of 1974. It arose because I took at face value the shattering implications of this for the 11 year old that I was but omitted to carry on reading over onto the next page which indicated that this event was not expected for something like a zillion years.
In the 1980's every household in the UK received a booklet about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was a case of taping up windows against a blast wave, sitting under the kitchen table after draping it with white sheets and stockpiling essential goods. The precautions recommended by the Civil Defence authorities at that time did not vary much from those shown in the grainy black and white Public Information films from a couple of decades earlier.
In the 1990's I suppose it was fear of terrorism from dissident domestic groups and in the early years of the 21st Century more of the same but upscaled to overseas factions adopting aircraft assaults and the threat of dirty bombs plus of course the doctrinally neutral climate change.
More recently there has been the damage and anxiety exerted by flood and storms with many having to take a crash course in filling up sandbags or barricading their homes against tidal or river surge.
On a mundane day to day basis a contingency plan is just good practice to cover escape from fire and to generally keep out of harms way.
However, at the moment my primary concern relates to Zombie Apocalypse.
This has been hammered home in my psyche by watching, back to back, the first two series of "The Walking Dead" which is set in the uncertain and desperate days following a non-specific combination of global catastrophes resulting in most of the world's population dressing down, drooling and snarling and a few brave souls trying to make sense of it all and survive within the tatters of a moral code of decency and compassion.
The drama is accentuated by no real explanation of what transpired but yet the disintegration of society and mankind is rapid and very, very violent.
In successive scenes in the TV series I have placed myself in the role of some of the main non-Zombie-fied characters and really soul searched as to what I would do in the reality of the situations portrayed. It is plain to see that things would not pan out well for me. I do not possess currently what could be described as a ruthless or selfish trait but such qualities would be paramount in the decision making process when confronted by one or worst case, a whole herd of Zombies.
This was illustrated by my walk back from a football match last evening. It is quite rare to get a large mass of bodies all moving in the same direction and at the same speed unless exiting from a stadium venue. We collectively lumbered along, a bit stiff limbed from sitting on hard seats and with limited legroom. The sensible amongst us were well wrapped up on a cold February night and this further influenced restricted movement. Our team had won and so there was an upbeat tone in the conversations but interspersed with grumbles about how laboured the performance had been. It was not a great stretch of the imagination to liken the exodus to the incoherent mutterings and random, erratic motions of Zombies. (No disrespect meant or implied to supporters of Hull City).
I took it on as a practice session.
If I kept towards the outer edge of the populus this would give me enough time to formulate that contingency plan. It was important not to draw attention to myself, make eye contact or even draw out of my coat pockets the last of the Extra Strong Mints that had got me through the tedious second half of the game. At least Zombies are a bit slow and I was confident of being able to outrun them unless they overran me or I got legged up by someone else trying to evade being eaten alive. I would be confident in being able to make my way home through the inevitable half chewed bodies, burnt out smouldering cars and abandoned military vehicles using all of the guile from a Cub Scout training that I have never forgotten.
I broke clear of the crowd just by the gates of the bread factory. Most Zombie movies feature a cohesive and attentive group of survivors, heavily armed and motivated. I was however on my own and fearful for other Johnny No-Mates in the post apocalyptic environment.
Reaching home I sneaked in under the electric door to the integral garage and closed it again before a full operating cycle. I calculated what would be required to blockade the stairwell up to the first floor which would be the main living area and from which to keep a look out over the street for marauding hordes. Behind closed blinds I felt that I could at last relax, safe for the time being from carnivorous neighbours and friends.
Of course, my daughter shattered my contingency plan by mentioning in passing that there were actually many different types of Zombie. Fast ones, bullet-proof ones, those able to spring and leap large obstacles, intelligent and reasoning ones, scheming and cantankerous ones. I would have to review my contingency for the Zombie Apocalypse or else I was at risk from being stuffed........and savoured as the main course.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
Bob the Builder
I always get a bit confused and disorientated when I have to venture onto the huge housing estate which, on a daily basis (such is the rapid progress of development) continues the urban sprawl northwards of the regional city of Hull.
The only physical barrier to perpetual expansion is the banked course of the River Hull which meanders along before spilling out into the tidal Humber Estuary. When I first started working in the city in 1985 the now built up area was very much out in the countryside and with little by way of roads or transport links to even give a realisation that it would one day be covered in residences, schools, shopping areas and a commercial zone.
The first sector to be built upon was a bit bleak and remote back in the mid to late 1980's. It grew up alongside one of the largest Social Housing areas in the UK, itself marking an earlier phase of expansion in the 1960's when the inner city slums were finally demolished and cleared and the population, either very willingly or not, were relocated some four miles away. There was a standing joke that the new influx of owner occupiers would have to nominate one of their number to stay at home all day to ensure that the neighbouring tenants did not get up to mischief or worse.
Within a decade the private housing far outnumbered the social sector stretching some two miles westwards and a mile or so deep with a supporting infrastructure that allowed the estate dwellers to be almost self sufficient apart from, critically, still having to commute some distance to a place of work elsewhere in Hull or the wider region.
A few National Builders, Regional and local companies have been and remain active as further phases emerge out of the ground,
Each builder has presented their own catalogue of house types and designs and their marketing suites and media campaigns have emphasised the unique individualism of their output but yet there is a bland and very similar appearance to every street which is the main reason for my confusion and total disorientation.
There is, granted, a mix of house sizes from 5 to 6 bed executive detached through to the most common 2 and 3 bed terraced or semi detached houses. Recent trends have seen coach house type properties consisting of accommodation over garaging, three storey living experiences, flats in clusters rather than traditional blocks, one bedroomed units over two floors and strange designs introducing descriptions of link, quarter detached and back to back,
Periodically a builder may try something quite different in terms of style, finishes, materials of construction and layout in order to attract the interest of prospective buyers but purchasers of new build estate housing are not, by nature, pioneers or particularly radical or ambitious animals and will always revert, by default, to the plain four square walls format.
Under this overriding commercial pressure what the public want is what the public get hence the acre upon acre of featureless house types, give or take a few dummy window apertures, timber finials and decorative coursing in mock cottage or Georgian town house homage.
I usually get to visit the various sites at an early stage with an instruction to look at a Plot number on a development named after a tree, such as The Pines, a local landmark such as Abbey View or just something completely inane such as Inspiration, Aspire or Imagine.
Some time later the roadways are given actual postal names and the plot numbers change to usually unrelated postal numbers. This gives me considerable problems especially when required to carry out a final inspection of a property previously identifiable only by the plot and phase references.
I struggled today to find a road called Northgate.
I can usually get a broad idea of location from the grouping together of themed names, again trees are popular along with stately homes, UK rivers and cathedral cities but Northgate, well, no chance.
Sat Nav systems cannot, even with regular updates, keep pace with the rate of expansion of the housing stock and my in car and usually reliable system was no help at all.
I lapped the main circulatory roads a few times hoping to ask a pedestrian for directions but everyone was out at work or car bound which thwarted that intention.
A friendly postie was not to be seen but then again it would take all day just to deliver the mail to a small area of the vast estate. Northgate appeared to be a new village style name and so I concentrated my search in the vicinity of School View, Pasture View and The Manor.
After another 30 minutes of fruitless circling I thought about pulling over to have a rethink about strategy. The estate roads are all double yellow lined to discourage clogging up by resident's and visitor vehicles and the only available space at a break in a row of terraced houses.
I happened to glance into what was a narrow footway serving an off road block. I had found Northgate, how quaint.
I put the wasted hours down to experience, sure and certain in the knowledge that I would not be waylaid again if called upon to visit that particular street any time soon. Of course, that would be true if the rate of development in the area just stopped but such is the relentless pressure of progress and the demand for new housing that Northgate would inevitably be swamped and absorbed pretty soon.
The only physical barrier to perpetual expansion is the banked course of the River Hull which meanders along before spilling out into the tidal Humber Estuary. When I first started working in the city in 1985 the now built up area was very much out in the countryside and with little by way of roads or transport links to even give a realisation that it would one day be covered in residences, schools, shopping areas and a commercial zone.
The first sector to be built upon was a bit bleak and remote back in the mid to late 1980's. It grew up alongside one of the largest Social Housing areas in the UK, itself marking an earlier phase of expansion in the 1960's when the inner city slums were finally demolished and cleared and the population, either very willingly or not, were relocated some four miles away. There was a standing joke that the new influx of owner occupiers would have to nominate one of their number to stay at home all day to ensure that the neighbouring tenants did not get up to mischief or worse.
Within a decade the private housing far outnumbered the social sector stretching some two miles westwards and a mile or so deep with a supporting infrastructure that allowed the estate dwellers to be almost self sufficient apart from, critically, still having to commute some distance to a place of work elsewhere in Hull or the wider region.
A few National Builders, Regional and local companies have been and remain active as further phases emerge out of the ground,
Each builder has presented their own catalogue of house types and designs and their marketing suites and media campaigns have emphasised the unique individualism of their output but yet there is a bland and very similar appearance to every street which is the main reason for my confusion and total disorientation.
There is, granted, a mix of house sizes from 5 to 6 bed executive detached through to the most common 2 and 3 bed terraced or semi detached houses. Recent trends have seen coach house type properties consisting of accommodation over garaging, three storey living experiences, flats in clusters rather than traditional blocks, one bedroomed units over two floors and strange designs introducing descriptions of link, quarter detached and back to back,
Periodically a builder may try something quite different in terms of style, finishes, materials of construction and layout in order to attract the interest of prospective buyers but purchasers of new build estate housing are not, by nature, pioneers or particularly radical or ambitious animals and will always revert, by default, to the plain four square walls format.
Under this overriding commercial pressure what the public want is what the public get hence the acre upon acre of featureless house types, give or take a few dummy window apertures, timber finials and decorative coursing in mock cottage or Georgian town house homage.
I usually get to visit the various sites at an early stage with an instruction to look at a Plot number on a development named after a tree, such as The Pines, a local landmark such as Abbey View or just something completely inane such as Inspiration, Aspire or Imagine.
Some time later the roadways are given actual postal names and the plot numbers change to usually unrelated postal numbers. This gives me considerable problems especially when required to carry out a final inspection of a property previously identifiable only by the plot and phase references.
I struggled today to find a road called Northgate.
I can usually get a broad idea of location from the grouping together of themed names, again trees are popular along with stately homes, UK rivers and cathedral cities but Northgate, well, no chance.
Sat Nav systems cannot, even with regular updates, keep pace with the rate of expansion of the housing stock and my in car and usually reliable system was no help at all.
I lapped the main circulatory roads a few times hoping to ask a pedestrian for directions but everyone was out at work or car bound which thwarted that intention.
A friendly postie was not to be seen but then again it would take all day just to deliver the mail to a small area of the vast estate. Northgate appeared to be a new village style name and so I concentrated my search in the vicinity of School View, Pasture View and The Manor.
After another 30 minutes of fruitless circling I thought about pulling over to have a rethink about strategy. The estate roads are all double yellow lined to discourage clogging up by resident's and visitor vehicles and the only available space at a break in a row of terraced houses.
I happened to glance into what was a narrow footway serving an off road block. I had found Northgate, how quaint.
I put the wasted hours down to experience, sure and certain in the knowledge that I would not be waylaid again if called upon to visit that particular street any time soon. Of course, that would be true if the rate of development in the area just stopped but such is the relentless pressure of progress and the demand for new housing that Northgate would inevitably be swamped and absorbed pretty soon.
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