I have never been very good with strangers.
By strangers I do not of course mean the dangerous type about which we are warned when young but just anyone that you meet in everyday life and of whom you have no prior knowledge or acquaintance.
What happens to me in such scenarios?
I have physiological and mental reactions the former including a perspiring brow and nose and the latter an intense nervous feeling. I came to accept these as just character traits inherited from my family line. Unfortunately I have passed the same onto my own children but in the pursuit of their own lives and happiness it has not been too much of a hindrance.
In my mid teens I was a bit geeky and hesitant and it usually took quite a long time for me to summon up enough courage to participate in such activities as Youth Club, Brass Band , Co-Education and as a spin off of that- asking girls to go out with me. If put on the spot in the classroom, when caught buying alcohol under-age from the local Spar Shop or in many other situations I would rapidly turn into a hot and bothered blob. Feigning illness such as the onset of flu or fever was often a necessary escape tactic and once out of the limelight I usually recovered all of my faculties and some of my dignity.
In spite of giving the impression that I could spontaneously combust at any moment I did manage to have a good and meaningful existence as a teenager.
With the experience of age came a slight lessening in anxiety in the meeting of strangers, perhaps I just came to accept that If I wanted to do anything with my life I would just have to cope and get on with it.
I regret now that I did not investigate more of the medical and psychological aspects of my reactions because I now realise that others suffered the same as me.
If in a meeting and likely to be asked to speak on a subject or give a report I found that I was more at ease if I could see fellow delegates or colleagues experiencing similar signs to my own. If someone came out with the phrase "is it hot in here or is it just me?", I felt an immediate sense of relief and relaxation that instilled in me an immediate confidence and I could look forward to sailing through any predicaments or confrontations with commensurate ease.
It now appears, from scientific studies that humans are in fact hard wired not to have any empathy with strangers.
The outcome of coming across a stranger would therefore be stress. Our long distant ancestors would live in a tight group of 100 or so and being amongst friends as they would all be did not cause stress or anxieties. It would be rare to encounter anyone from outside of the group but if this did happen then there would be a reaction borne out of stress that would, more likely be a violent rather than an welcoming one.
Recent experiments have involved the testing of empathy through reactions to pain.
In controlled sessions, participants were asked to plunge their hands into icy cold water and then rate the pain level suffered. The combination used was single person, the same person and a friend and finally the same with a complete stranger.
The results may surprise. Levels were the same for the individual and also when paired with a stranger but the highest levels of pain were when friends shared the task. This suggested that friends empathise with each others pain and by definition seemed to confirm that there is no empathy with someone you do not know. The term for this is emotional contagion.
In hindsight I should as a teenager have just hung out with friends and avoided new acquaintances like the plaque.
This was impossible anyway given that we moved as a family every four years and I would be plunged into completely new situations regularly. This would also force me to adapt and cope.
So what are the latest theories and practices to alleviate the stress between strangers?
The world would certainly be a much better and arguably calmer and more peaceful place if science or psychology could devise a formula or protocol for this. Anxiety and misunderstanding could be avoided and many global hot spots defused.
Well, a further study has found an answer in making complete strangers play the video game by Harmonix from 2007 of Rock Band for just 15 minutes.
The game, as everyone under 40 must surely know, involves playing plastic guitars and drums to simulate rock music. There is a need for co-operation by players in pursuit of mutual rewards and this was found in the study to act as a blocker to stress with the resultant outcome of empathy. As with the hands in the ice bucket test there was shown to be, from just a 15 minute session the development of a bond and understanding only otherwise found amongst close friends.
At last, a legitimate reason to play a video game!
Saturday, 7 November 2015
Friday, 6 November 2015
Filey Week 1
I wrote this at the beginning of the Season before last having got the idea by walking on the seafront at the beautiful resort town of Filey with no one else in sight..........
The flags currently missing from their seasonal vigil over the beach at Filey are expected back from the dry cleaners any day now. In the stiff March breeze there is a just discernible sound from the freshly white painted poles as they oscillate. A spinning dinner plate would not look amiss on the very pinnacle. When dressed in the colours of the Yorkshire rose, a Union flag and miscellaneous emblems from tourist awards the same poles will give the right impression to the expected car loads of day visitors and guests who will flock to the town as the warmer weather approaches at Easter
The beach huts are securely padlocked. In sequence the wooden door fronts are brightly painted in yellow, red, green, blue and in that repeating sequence resemble a long line of jubilee bunting. It is strange to see the doors firmly closed when for the main seasonal months they will be wide open and welcoming almost on a 24/7 basis. The concrete path on Royal Parade is clean and clear which is a departure from the sandy residues of a hundred or more flip flops which form a small raised dune in the peak weeks of summer.
One of the kiosk owners has shown confidence and optimism by opening up on the third friday in March. An elderly couple from Leeds expend part of their winter heating allowance on their first ice cream of the year. A few brave souls stretch their tendons as they struggle down the steep Crescent Hill and rest briefly and breathlessly on the slatted benches just above the cobble stone slipway. The large colourful tourist information board displays black and white photographs from the halcyon days of the Edwardian period. Bulky bathing machines on cast iron wheels have been left stranded from the retreating tide in one of the pictures. The bathers have more clothes on than the well attired visitors on the beach road. Seeing this a young family from Pontefract firmly zip up their cagoules having been reminded that it is actually quite a cold day.
In the distance on the western crescent edge of Filey Bay the eye catches the bright white edifice that is the former residence of Billy Butlin. The art deco building is looking quite healthy following a number of years of neglect during which the paintwork had tarnished to yellow like plaque and nicotine stained teeth. Under its progressively stepped flat roofs it resembles the superstructure of a battleship in a commanding position.
The public loos have also been spruced up for the approaching season. Visitors with prostate problems or just an over indulgence on pots of tea hesitate at the doorway and peer into the dark void beyond. They have to discover that a few further footsteps activate the new sensor operated light as part of the Borough Council commitment to reducing energy costs. The newly painted surfaces have covered up the last 12 months of vandalism and graffitti although an early visitor has etched his mark on the inner face of a cubicle door.
It is prime time for every conceivable breed of dog to claim the narrow strip of sandy beach as the tide turns. They have until the 5th May when the ban is introduced to confine them and their confused senses to a walk on the lead on the pathway above that interesting and easily excavated playground. Well at least until the end of September shockingly equivalent to nearly three and a half dog years.
The proprietors of the seafront cafes and tea rooms look busy in footing the lower rung of ladders on which their staff or the town handyman lubricates the canvas sun canopy, or under instruction apply a lick of paint to the flaking fascias and signage. A few couples hang around the forecourts of the B&B's or holiday flats having arrived a tad early to kick off their shoes and roll about giggling on the king size bed, sea view or no sea view.
Jon and Kerry look out of their kitchen window on the early season activities and comings and goings. They have enjoyed the relative downtime of the winter months but it is nearly time to accept that they are firmly back on the front line. The spreadsheet for bookings for the holiday apartments is quickly becoming full with names, numbers and payment details. The persistent ringing of the telephone is like the whistle to signify that it is indeed time to go over the top into the incessant battleground that is Filey awakening to another onslaught of a spring and summer season. They, and the town, are more than ready.
The flags currently missing from their seasonal vigil over the beach at Filey are expected back from the dry cleaners any day now. In the stiff March breeze there is a just discernible sound from the freshly white painted poles as they oscillate. A spinning dinner plate would not look amiss on the very pinnacle. When dressed in the colours of the Yorkshire rose, a Union flag and miscellaneous emblems from tourist awards the same poles will give the right impression to the expected car loads of day visitors and guests who will flock to the town as the warmer weather approaches at Easter
The beach huts are securely padlocked. In sequence the wooden door fronts are brightly painted in yellow, red, green, blue and in that repeating sequence resemble a long line of jubilee bunting. It is strange to see the doors firmly closed when for the main seasonal months they will be wide open and welcoming almost on a 24/7 basis. The concrete path on Royal Parade is clean and clear which is a departure from the sandy residues of a hundred or more flip flops which form a small raised dune in the peak weeks of summer.
One of the kiosk owners has shown confidence and optimism by opening up on the third friday in March. An elderly couple from Leeds expend part of their winter heating allowance on their first ice cream of the year. A few brave souls stretch their tendons as they struggle down the steep Crescent Hill and rest briefly and breathlessly on the slatted benches just above the cobble stone slipway. The large colourful tourist information board displays black and white photographs from the halcyon days of the Edwardian period. Bulky bathing machines on cast iron wheels have been left stranded from the retreating tide in one of the pictures. The bathers have more clothes on than the well attired visitors on the beach road. Seeing this a young family from Pontefract firmly zip up their cagoules having been reminded that it is actually quite a cold day.
In the distance on the western crescent edge of Filey Bay the eye catches the bright white edifice that is the former residence of Billy Butlin. The art deco building is looking quite healthy following a number of years of neglect during which the paintwork had tarnished to yellow like plaque and nicotine stained teeth. Under its progressively stepped flat roofs it resembles the superstructure of a battleship in a commanding position.
The public loos have also been spruced up for the approaching season. Visitors with prostate problems or just an over indulgence on pots of tea hesitate at the doorway and peer into the dark void beyond. They have to discover that a few further footsteps activate the new sensor operated light as part of the Borough Council commitment to reducing energy costs. The newly painted surfaces have covered up the last 12 months of vandalism and graffitti although an early visitor has etched his mark on the inner face of a cubicle door.
It is prime time for every conceivable breed of dog to claim the narrow strip of sandy beach as the tide turns. They have until the 5th May when the ban is introduced to confine them and their confused senses to a walk on the lead on the pathway above that interesting and easily excavated playground. Well at least until the end of September shockingly equivalent to nearly three and a half dog years.
The proprietors of the seafront cafes and tea rooms look busy in footing the lower rung of ladders on which their staff or the town handyman lubricates the canvas sun canopy, or under instruction apply a lick of paint to the flaking fascias and signage. A few couples hang around the forecourts of the B&B's or holiday flats having arrived a tad early to kick off their shoes and roll about giggling on the king size bed, sea view or no sea view.
Jon and Kerry look out of their kitchen window on the early season activities and comings and goings. They have enjoyed the relative downtime of the winter months but it is nearly time to accept that they are firmly back on the front line. The spreadsheet for bookings for the holiday apartments is quickly becoming full with names, numbers and payment details. The persistent ringing of the telephone is like the whistle to signify that it is indeed time to go over the top into the incessant battleground that is Filey awakening to another onslaught of a spring and summer season. They, and the town, are more than ready.
Thursday, 5 November 2015
Lercal Dalek
The City of Hull, or just 'ull, has a language all of its own that has survived intact and indeed continues to be enriched and vocalised in everyday conversation. I came across a book on "Hull Speak" produced in or around 1997 by or on behalf of Remould Theatre. Amongst the many great language and linguistic items was an encyclopaedic list of words and phrases. I have added a few provided by my Hull born wife, Allison and a few more that I hear regularly out on the streets and in people's 'owses. The translations are my own and clearly show that I am not native to the City but rather was born in Aylesbury which is darn sarth.
Goangerided-if you want to play hide and seek you go first.
Plern block in tenfoot-a game acted out in a Hullcentric rear roadway behind houses
E's a good doms larker-in the game of dominoes he is pretty good
Giz a croggie- excuse me but can you offer me a lift on your bicycle
Bags foggy- I would really like to go first
Ullefsee- one of the two rugby league teams from Kingston Upon Hull
Bullyvard-the former stadium of the above team
Bluddy Targers- oh dear, Hull City have lost again
Urnly furls anurses- a favourite Tv comedy series featuring London types
Radiur Umbersard- the local BBC airwave broadcaster
Turdstool- a form of wild growing fungus
Fern kerl- telephone call
Ar gorrit for narn narnty narn- if you can get something for less than a tenner it's a bargain
I gorrit for nowt- freebie giveaway or five finger discount
It dunk tek farvs- i have a pocket full of 5p pieces but the vending machine won't accept them
A penny all off- I would like, Mr Barber, a short back and sides.
Goin' on rerd- depending where you live its shopping on 'oldness or 'ezzle Road
Chantsav- a well known secondary shopping street in West Hull
Boyziz- a Yorkshire based store specialising in end of line goods and everything else
'ammonds- an upmarket department store in town
British Erm Stairs- city centre outlet of a large national shopping chain
Curlslur- rough cabbage and carrot mix in a sauce to put in small dollop on a plate
Brokken Bikkies-box of cast offs from the likes of Fox's or McVities
Serp on a rerp- posh showering accessory
Me owziz on fiyer darl narn narn narn- please alert the fire brigade
Arv been brokken into- there has been a criminal trespass in my property
Gorra curled-I think I'm going down with flue
Arfarted- you are not fully committed to something
Arv as parls- my haemerroids have cleared up nicely thanks
Arv bust me trowziz- my slacks have split on me
Osson flags- there is a horse on the pavement
Worrawolly- oh what a silly person
I'll bray yer 'eddin- I might give you a slap
'E had a right skate gob- loudmouth
Shut yer cake 'ole- oh please be quiet
Snur on Frurm rurd- it is winter on Longhill Estate
I'm mafted-I am hot
It's siling down- it is raining hard
Perp- head of the Catholic Church
Pearl Tax- Community Charge
Amgunna- I am going to
Nowtinnit- empty
Dinntit- did it not?
Yiss- Yes
Err nerr- oh deary me
Derrnt know- pass
Diddy Farndowt-did he find out
Lerds and lerds- a lot
Canaborryit-any chance of a lend?
Prinny Ave- Princes Avenue
Larkin'- messing about or famous Hull resident poet
Ma baynes- offspring
Me Mam balling forrus- mother called us in for tea
He towled us- we were told
Knocking off ginger- running away from someones house after knocking on the door
I towled the owlman- I informed my father
Tex em to Bendix- go to the Laundromat
I booled them in the baynes tansad- I carried them in the pram
Sannies- leisure footwear
Berra day tomorrer- tomorrow is a new day
Patty, chips and scraps- slap up meal
Backardy and kerk- fancy drink,cheers.
Wednesday, 4 November 2015
Old Red Eyes is Back
I have wracked my brains to try to remember where this story came from.
It has been filed away in my subconscious for perhaps three decades, that much I have been able to determine by referring to key dates in my life ie, after college and before getting married.
As for the original teller of the story, well that is not entirely clear either but then if I knew one of the pieces of that particular mental jigsaw then all others would simply fall into place.
I was reminded of it by the last few days of thick, damp and stubborn fog that has shrouded much of the UK. The same conditions were the backdrop for the story that I will eventually get to recount.
Thirty years ago the fog was more likely to be caused by air pollution from domestic fossil fuels, full leaded petrol and that favourite activity of men, a casual bonfire. This current phenomena appears perfectly natural in its formation according to the experts although I have long since forgotten my school education in weather systems and cannot offer any meaningfull meteorological explanation beyond that.
I do seem to remember the story being told in a distinct North-East England accent which is one of the most lyrical, emotive and accidentally comic of all of the varied dialects even in the small land area that is our nation. Fog is to the North East and Newcastle especially as much a regional characteristic as palm trees to the English Riviera and Torquay.
My thoughts go to the song by the folk-rock group Lindisfarne of "Fog on the Tyne" rings loud and clear in my mind and will form a main influence on what others consider to be one of my most annoying traits, that of whistling and humming as I go about my day.
So, the story.
It involves the driver of a motor vehicle. The original era of the tale explains why the driver is also very intoxicated as the anti-social and very dangerous practice of drink driving was pretty widespread at that time.
He is very much worse for wear after a heavy session in his local public house. It has taken him some thirty minutes to find his way through the pea-souper fog from the Smoking Lounge outer door to the slightly less foggy atmosphere in the car. He sits slumped at the wheel in the pub car park appearing to be deep in thought. This does not mean that he is having a serious battle with his conscience on the moral arguments behind drink driving but because he cannot actually lift up his head to see out of the windscreen.
There is the option of sleeping it off where he is but that would just cause too much aggravation with his wife who would be pretending to sleep awaiting his return. He has no real option but to make for the open road and try to negotiate the fog to get home.
It is then that the man makes out a familiar image although somewhat blurred and indistinct making its way across the car park to another vehicle. It is his neighbour who has been in the pub, but perfectly sober due to his responsibilities for running the Pigeon Fanciers Club in an upstairs meeting room.
A perfect plan takes shape in the befuzzled brain of our man.
If the neighbour is himself going straight home, which knowing the strait laced chap is almost a certainty, then by carefully following the red tail-lights he would be guided to his very doorstep.
It was a struggle to insert the keys into the ignition and to co-ordinate the otherwise automatic process of making a car move. The neighbour's vehicle edged in reverse out of its space very slowly as the driver was nervous in the weather conditions, after all he rarely went out other than on pigeon related business.
Progress was slow enough for our man to simply fall in behind and focus intently on the two bright red glowing spots so typical of the rear cluster of an Austin Allegro. These ember-like illuminations would be his constant companion for some time ahead. The pub was his longstanding local, even from his underage drinking years, but he had moved away in later years from the tightly packed terraced surroundings to a newer estate on the other side of the town. The familiarity and compansionship amongst his peers was still a strong draw even when involving a car journey.
The fear of losing his guiding light was enough to make him seriously tailgate his neighbour who must have been terrified by the red-devil appearance in his rear view mirror. The emphasis of fierce redness was increased with the prudent switching on of the high intensity fog lighting immediately on pulling out onto the highway.
To any poor soul out walking on that damp night, although the reason for venturing out in such foul weather would be questionable, the scene of two almost interconnected cars must have looked strange.
A distinct difference in driving styles would also be apparent. The lead car, smooth, good road position, frequent appropriate gear changes and a strict adherence to every page of the highway code. Behind, a kangaroo jumping, erratic and reckless passage with kerbs and street furniture clipped or shaved with an occasional cascade of sparks.
Constant peril seemed to be reducing the influence of alcohol and our man was becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings but the fog remained impenetrable and there were no landmarks by which to guage where they were in the town.
The involuntary good shepherd was not taking a direct route home after all, perhaps trying to shake off the manic motorist behind and keen to avoid any road rage incident. Sat Nav would have been some use but such technology was alien and intrusive to a man who respected the navigation skills of the occupants of the loft in his garden above anything man-made.
Crawling along distances were measured in tenths of a mile. On low beam the worst dazzling effects of the sheer white wall of suspended water vapour could be avoided although there was a temptation to use it if anything loomed up ahead, such as The Town Hall, Labour Exchange and Football Ground.
The hands, gripping the steering wheel in the rear car were aching now from effort and a swift end to the journey was prayed for in between snatches of drunken popular song.
Up front the quiet unassuming man was similarly stressed but then he recognised the outline of an exquisitely shaped privet hedge which was a major feature at the opening of his street.
Peering through the moisture dappled windscreen it was a case of counting the dropped kerbs to his own.
Suddenly, and without warning the front car stopped abruptly in a full blaze of brake and fog lights. There was a sickening sound of bumper to bumper impact and tinkling glass lenses as the rear vehicle slammed into the now stationary one.
Angry at having crashed, our drunkard lurched out of his car or at least as far as the secured seat belt would permit at the first attempt. Freeing himself he stood looking at the crumpled front bonnet area and shouted out "what have you ****** well stopped for you big *******?"
The answer was succint and without any other interpretation. "I'm parked in my garage, that's why"
It has been filed away in my subconscious for perhaps three decades, that much I have been able to determine by referring to key dates in my life ie, after college and before getting married.
As for the original teller of the story, well that is not entirely clear either but then if I knew one of the pieces of that particular mental jigsaw then all others would simply fall into place.
I was reminded of it by the last few days of thick, damp and stubborn fog that has shrouded much of the UK. The same conditions were the backdrop for the story that I will eventually get to recount.
Thirty years ago the fog was more likely to be caused by air pollution from domestic fossil fuels, full leaded petrol and that favourite activity of men, a casual bonfire. This current phenomena appears perfectly natural in its formation according to the experts although I have long since forgotten my school education in weather systems and cannot offer any meaningfull meteorological explanation beyond that.
I do seem to remember the story being told in a distinct North-East England accent which is one of the most lyrical, emotive and accidentally comic of all of the varied dialects even in the small land area that is our nation. Fog is to the North East and Newcastle especially as much a regional characteristic as palm trees to the English Riviera and Torquay.
My thoughts go to the song by the folk-rock group Lindisfarne of "Fog on the Tyne" rings loud and clear in my mind and will form a main influence on what others consider to be one of my most annoying traits, that of whistling and humming as I go about my day.
So, the story.
It involves the driver of a motor vehicle. The original era of the tale explains why the driver is also very intoxicated as the anti-social and very dangerous practice of drink driving was pretty widespread at that time.
He is very much worse for wear after a heavy session in his local public house. It has taken him some thirty minutes to find his way through the pea-souper fog from the Smoking Lounge outer door to the slightly less foggy atmosphere in the car. He sits slumped at the wheel in the pub car park appearing to be deep in thought. This does not mean that he is having a serious battle with his conscience on the moral arguments behind drink driving but because he cannot actually lift up his head to see out of the windscreen.
There is the option of sleeping it off where he is but that would just cause too much aggravation with his wife who would be pretending to sleep awaiting his return. He has no real option but to make for the open road and try to negotiate the fog to get home.
It is then that the man makes out a familiar image although somewhat blurred and indistinct making its way across the car park to another vehicle. It is his neighbour who has been in the pub, but perfectly sober due to his responsibilities for running the Pigeon Fanciers Club in an upstairs meeting room.
A perfect plan takes shape in the befuzzled brain of our man.
If the neighbour is himself going straight home, which knowing the strait laced chap is almost a certainty, then by carefully following the red tail-lights he would be guided to his very doorstep.
It was a struggle to insert the keys into the ignition and to co-ordinate the otherwise automatic process of making a car move. The neighbour's vehicle edged in reverse out of its space very slowly as the driver was nervous in the weather conditions, after all he rarely went out other than on pigeon related business.
Progress was slow enough for our man to simply fall in behind and focus intently on the two bright red glowing spots so typical of the rear cluster of an Austin Allegro. These ember-like illuminations would be his constant companion for some time ahead. The pub was his longstanding local, even from his underage drinking years, but he had moved away in later years from the tightly packed terraced surroundings to a newer estate on the other side of the town. The familiarity and compansionship amongst his peers was still a strong draw even when involving a car journey.
The fear of losing his guiding light was enough to make him seriously tailgate his neighbour who must have been terrified by the red-devil appearance in his rear view mirror. The emphasis of fierce redness was increased with the prudent switching on of the high intensity fog lighting immediately on pulling out onto the highway.
To any poor soul out walking on that damp night, although the reason for venturing out in such foul weather would be questionable, the scene of two almost interconnected cars must have looked strange.
A distinct difference in driving styles would also be apparent. The lead car, smooth, good road position, frequent appropriate gear changes and a strict adherence to every page of the highway code. Behind, a kangaroo jumping, erratic and reckless passage with kerbs and street furniture clipped or shaved with an occasional cascade of sparks.
Constant peril seemed to be reducing the influence of alcohol and our man was becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings but the fog remained impenetrable and there were no landmarks by which to guage where they were in the town.
The involuntary good shepherd was not taking a direct route home after all, perhaps trying to shake off the manic motorist behind and keen to avoid any road rage incident. Sat Nav would have been some use but such technology was alien and intrusive to a man who respected the navigation skills of the occupants of the loft in his garden above anything man-made.
Crawling along distances were measured in tenths of a mile. On low beam the worst dazzling effects of the sheer white wall of suspended water vapour could be avoided although there was a temptation to use it if anything loomed up ahead, such as The Town Hall, Labour Exchange and Football Ground.
The hands, gripping the steering wheel in the rear car were aching now from effort and a swift end to the journey was prayed for in between snatches of drunken popular song.
Up front the quiet unassuming man was similarly stressed but then he recognised the outline of an exquisitely shaped privet hedge which was a major feature at the opening of his street.
Peering through the moisture dappled windscreen it was a case of counting the dropped kerbs to his own.
Suddenly, and without warning the front car stopped abruptly in a full blaze of brake and fog lights. There was a sickening sound of bumper to bumper impact and tinkling glass lenses as the rear vehicle slammed into the now stationary one.
Angry at having crashed, our drunkard lurched out of his car or at least as far as the secured seat belt would permit at the first attempt. Freeing himself he stood looking at the crumpled front bonnet area and shouted out "what have you ****** well stopped for you big *******?"
The answer was succint and without any other interpretation. "I'm parked in my garage, that's why"
Tuesday, 3 November 2015
Social Media; Big Society in Wellies
I am at a certain age when the weather is very important.
I rely upon the regular TV forecasts which fall between the usual banale and boring converstaions that characterise the early morning programmes as I am getting ready to go to work. I try to catch the weather bulletins at the end of the on the hour news updates as I drive around between appointments but mostly I just rely upon my own observations and experience.
What is very obvious is that the official weather reporting is invariably wrong.
Not a life threatening thing you would think but nevertheless quite important in determining how my day progresses.
I do spend a lot of my working hours in the great outdoors and so need to be aware whether I need my wet weather gear, sun screen, strongest umbrella or wellington boots. I do keep such equipment in the boot of the car to be prepared for every eventuality in climatic conditions.
There has been a recent trend for no real trends in the weather making forecasting and being prepared very difficult.
Mother Nature seems very confused with, in any single 24 hour period, the likelihood of sleat, sunstroke, battering by gale force winds and inundation by flash floods.
There are those who attribute the unnatural variations in climate to that there global warming. There are as many opinions as to the causes as there are changes in the weather with popular conspiracy theories including solar activity, pollution, the Chinese and even the contradiction of the planet hotting up whilst struggling to offset an Ice Age.
What is also more apparent are the dramatic differences in the weather at very close quarters, meaning from town to town and even street to street.
One phenomena that amazed me was the sight of torrential rain in my front garden and yet glorious sunny and dry weather in the back garden.
I have also seen from a distance, when driving, some very ominous black clouds concentrated over a village close to my home which caused major flood disruption and damage from the resultant downpour and yet my garden, within only a couple of miles, remained parched and drought ridden.
The National Weather Service in the UK seems to have accepted this very local aspect and a public participation project has been launched under the title of "weather watchers".
This invites individuals to register and post their own observations and measurements on line and with these being collated onto an inter-active map for public access purposes.
It is a natural development of social media and the aspects of community and conversation form a major thread.
Some sceptics may regard this project as weather forecasting on the cheap, along the lines of the much maligned Big Society Idea of a specific politician but I think that it just legitimises the closet activities of a good proportion of the Great British population.
I often see home made weather stations in gardens and on allotment land and can remember my own excitement at taking readings and data from a school yard version when at junior school.
I am a bit conflicted in the process of debating whether or not to sign up as a Weather Watcher.
The portal allows for not only uploading of temperature, humidity, wind speed and rainfall data but also photos and other supporting information from within your own boundaries. I see that eight hundred people have already signed up to the first phase of being Weather Watchers and I admire them for it and wish them well.
What I am not too happy about is having to dilute my anger and frustration that inevitably arises from being told one thing by the professional weatherman or woman of that day and yet experiencing something very different between them and now, potentially, my own neighbours.
There is something to be said for venting fury caused by the surprise of rain sodden feet and a soaking to the skin on the likes of Schafernaker, Kirkwood, Avery and Willetts rather than the kindly looking elderly man with weather guage from number 6 down our street.
I rely upon the regular TV forecasts which fall between the usual banale and boring converstaions that characterise the early morning programmes as I am getting ready to go to work. I try to catch the weather bulletins at the end of the on the hour news updates as I drive around between appointments but mostly I just rely upon my own observations and experience.
What is very obvious is that the official weather reporting is invariably wrong.
Not a life threatening thing you would think but nevertheless quite important in determining how my day progresses.
I do spend a lot of my working hours in the great outdoors and so need to be aware whether I need my wet weather gear, sun screen, strongest umbrella or wellington boots. I do keep such equipment in the boot of the car to be prepared for every eventuality in climatic conditions.
There has been a recent trend for no real trends in the weather making forecasting and being prepared very difficult.
Mother Nature seems very confused with, in any single 24 hour period, the likelihood of sleat, sunstroke, battering by gale force winds and inundation by flash floods.
There are those who attribute the unnatural variations in climate to that there global warming. There are as many opinions as to the causes as there are changes in the weather with popular conspiracy theories including solar activity, pollution, the Chinese and even the contradiction of the planet hotting up whilst struggling to offset an Ice Age.
What is also more apparent are the dramatic differences in the weather at very close quarters, meaning from town to town and even street to street.
One phenomena that amazed me was the sight of torrential rain in my front garden and yet glorious sunny and dry weather in the back garden.
I have also seen from a distance, when driving, some very ominous black clouds concentrated over a village close to my home which caused major flood disruption and damage from the resultant downpour and yet my garden, within only a couple of miles, remained parched and drought ridden.
The National Weather Service in the UK seems to have accepted this very local aspect and a public participation project has been launched under the title of "weather watchers".
This invites individuals to register and post their own observations and measurements on line and with these being collated onto an inter-active map for public access purposes.
It is a natural development of social media and the aspects of community and conversation form a major thread.
Some sceptics may regard this project as weather forecasting on the cheap, along the lines of the much maligned Big Society Idea of a specific politician but I think that it just legitimises the closet activities of a good proportion of the Great British population.
I often see home made weather stations in gardens and on allotment land and can remember my own excitement at taking readings and data from a school yard version when at junior school.
I am a bit conflicted in the process of debating whether or not to sign up as a Weather Watcher.
The portal allows for not only uploading of temperature, humidity, wind speed and rainfall data but also photos and other supporting information from within your own boundaries. I see that eight hundred people have already signed up to the first phase of being Weather Watchers and I admire them for it and wish them well.
What I am not too happy about is having to dilute my anger and frustration that inevitably arises from being told one thing by the professional weatherman or woman of that day and yet experiencing something very different between them and now, potentially, my own neighbours.
There is something to be said for venting fury caused by the surprise of rain sodden feet and a soaking to the skin on the likes of Schafernaker, Kirkwood, Avery and Willetts rather than the kindly looking elderly man with weather guage from number 6 down our street.
Monday, 2 November 2015
Thicko's need not apply
In my final year as a student at a Midlands Polytechnic (a sort of vocational establishment with many now having attained University status) in the early 1980's there were many rumours that Recruiters for the Civil Service had been watching our progress, in particular the Degree Grade predictions from tutorial staff.
Some of us could expect a call to an interview imminently.
It said something about a slackening of criteria in Government Departments that we, very much in the second or third tier of education were being considered at all. It may also have reflected that the traditional, fertile sources for Diplomats, Consular Staff, Private Secretaries and Civil Service moguls from the top rated Universities had been diluted as financial and career rewards had become more lucrative in Commerce and Industry.
It may still be the case that the Secret Services seek out the highest flyers in respective disciplines of lingusitics, politics, history, science and technology and completely ignore perfectly worthy candidates from the provinces. Suffice to say I was not approached nor had I expected to be but did experience some feelings of being unloved anyway. I could imagine myself as "Our Man in Havana" ,"The Man from the Ministry, a Sir Humphrey Appleby character or perhaps a mole or spy.
It has therefore been interesting to see archived documents from the 1850's arising from a sweeping review of Civil Service Policy on recruitment. This was intended to establish a permanent and neutral administrative body to serve an elected Government and could be seen as acknowledgement of an insidious Old Boy Network perpetuating jobs for the privileged classes.
There were four main stipulations from the Northcote Trevelyan Report.
a)Recruitment should be entirely on the basis of merit by open, competitive examinations
b)Entrants should have a good ‘generalist’ education and should be recruited to a unified Civil Service and not a specific department, to allow inter-departmental transfers.
c)Recruits should be placed into a hierarchical structure of classes and grades
d)Promotion would be on the basis of merit not on the grounds of ‘preferment, patronage or purchase’
The overseeing Civil Service Commissioners were ratified by Queen Victoria in 1855 and the creation of the Commissioners to oversee open recruitment based upon examinations was the single most important factor in the development of a unified civil service dedicated to serving the public.
The Civil Service looked for young men ‘of superior education’, although individual departments had different requirements. While not all departments demanded that candidates ‘must be unmarried and without family’ (a precondition for being considered for appointment as a Lieutenant of Revenue Police), most required high standards of attainment in arithmetic, English grammar and composition, history and geography along with excellent handwriting and spelling.
A broad basis of knowledge was therefore required but for some archaic reason in order to work at the Treasury, you had to be prepared to answer examination questions on the first three books of Euclid and translate a passage out of Latin, French, German or Italian.
The 1855 examinations for junior clerks covered the following subjects;
In Elementary Arithmetic; a person having £5,704. 18s. 4½d lays out one third in good which he sells for £2316 5s 10d, how much has he at last, and how much has he gained?
Find the income tax on £2382.7s.6d at the rate of 16d in the pound
History; What were, at different times, the titles of the Chief Magistrates of republican Rome? Name the first and last of the 12 Caesars and the principal writers of the Augustan Era.
What were the Petition of Right, Instrument of Government, Act of Uniformity, Act of Settlement, and Act of Navigation?
Geography; Draw an outline map showing the overland route to India
Mention seven colonial possessions of Great Britain, specifying wherein their political and commercial importance to this country.
English Grammar; Construct sentences exemplifying the use of the relative pronouns in the possessive and objective cases.
The emphasis on the form of testing today has changed dramatically but understandably in a world where there are different demands on a workforce and this continues to apply to those in the Public and Civil Service.
A typical new breed of question seeks out cognitive and reasoning powers and looks for logical and innovative thought and intelligence.
At the end of a busy day at work, you accidentally send an e-mail containing an attachment with some confidential client information to the wrong person. Which of the following would be the best thing to do?
A - Decide to leave the office and deal with any problems tomorrow.
B - Decide to overlook your error, send the e-mail to the correct person and leave things like that.
C - Immediately send a follow up email to the "wrong" person, or if possible telephone them explaining your mistake. Then send the email to the correct person.
D - Find your manager, explain what has happened to them and let them deal with any problems.
I am not helping in revealing the answer, just discuss it amongst yourselves. If you do want to know the preferred answer just contact me through my Twitter account @Langdale82.
Some of us could expect a call to an interview imminently.
It said something about a slackening of criteria in Government Departments that we, very much in the second or third tier of education were being considered at all. It may also have reflected that the traditional, fertile sources for Diplomats, Consular Staff, Private Secretaries and Civil Service moguls from the top rated Universities had been diluted as financial and career rewards had become more lucrative in Commerce and Industry.
It may still be the case that the Secret Services seek out the highest flyers in respective disciplines of lingusitics, politics, history, science and technology and completely ignore perfectly worthy candidates from the provinces. Suffice to say I was not approached nor had I expected to be but did experience some feelings of being unloved anyway. I could imagine myself as "Our Man in Havana" ,"The Man from the Ministry, a Sir Humphrey Appleby character or perhaps a mole or spy.
It has therefore been interesting to see archived documents from the 1850's arising from a sweeping review of Civil Service Policy on recruitment. This was intended to establish a permanent and neutral administrative body to serve an elected Government and could be seen as acknowledgement of an insidious Old Boy Network perpetuating jobs for the privileged classes.
There were four main stipulations from the Northcote Trevelyan Report.
a)Recruitment should be entirely on the basis of merit by open, competitive examinations
b)Entrants should have a good ‘generalist’ education and should be recruited to a unified Civil Service and not a specific department, to allow inter-departmental transfers.
c)Recruits should be placed into a hierarchical structure of classes and grades
d)Promotion would be on the basis of merit not on the grounds of ‘preferment, patronage or purchase’
The overseeing Civil Service Commissioners were ratified by Queen Victoria in 1855 and the creation of the Commissioners to oversee open recruitment based upon examinations was the single most important factor in the development of a unified civil service dedicated to serving the public.
The Civil Service looked for young men ‘of superior education’, although individual departments had different requirements. While not all departments demanded that candidates ‘must be unmarried and without family’ (a precondition for being considered for appointment as a Lieutenant of Revenue Police), most required high standards of attainment in arithmetic, English grammar and composition, history and geography along with excellent handwriting and spelling.
A broad basis of knowledge was therefore required but for some archaic reason in order to work at the Treasury, you had to be prepared to answer examination questions on the first three books of Euclid and translate a passage out of Latin, French, German or Italian.
The 1855 examinations for junior clerks covered the following subjects;
In Elementary Arithmetic; a person having £5,704. 18s. 4½d lays out one third in good which he sells for £2316 5s 10d, how much has he at last, and how much has he gained?
Find the income tax on £2382.7s.6d at the rate of 16d in the pound
History; What were, at different times, the titles of the Chief Magistrates of republican Rome? Name the first and last of the 12 Caesars and the principal writers of the Augustan Era.
What were the Petition of Right, Instrument of Government, Act of Uniformity, Act of Settlement, and Act of Navigation?
Geography; Draw an outline map showing the overland route to India
Mention seven colonial possessions of Great Britain, specifying wherein their political and commercial importance to this country.
English Grammar; Construct sentences exemplifying the use of the relative pronouns in the possessive and objective cases.
The emphasis on the form of testing today has changed dramatically but understandably in a world where there are different demands on a workforce and this continues to apply to those in the Public and Civil Service.
A typical new breed of question seeks out cognitive and reasoning powers and looks for logical and innovative thought and intelligence.
At the end of a busy day at work, you accidentally send an e-mail containing an attachment with some confidential client information to the wrong person. Which of the following would be the best thing to do?
A - Decide to leave the office and deal with any problems tomorrow.
B - Decide to overlook your error, send the e-mail to the correct person and leave things like that.
C - Immediately send a follow up email to the "wrong" person, or if possible telephone them explaining your mistake. Then send the email to the correct person.
D - Find your manager, explain what has happened to them and let them deal with any problems.
I am not helping in revealing the answer, just discuss it amongst yourselves. If you do want to know the preferred answer just contact me through my Twitter account @Langdale82.
Sunday, 1 November 2015
Walk This Way
You could always count on the inhabitants of our small town to punch above their weight as far as sponsored events were concerned.
This was no more evident than for the annual charity fund raiser of a 12 mile walk every Easter school holiday.
It saw just about the whole of the self propelled population taking part turning the otherwise congested High Street into a ghost town on the day with shoppers, browsers, loiterers, ne'er do wells and poseurs relocated to the town park which formed the starting line and finish for the event.
It was one of the few activities that whole families could participate in and indeed a degree of parental or in loco-parentis supervision was required over such a long distance. In addition the usual route took walkers some 5 miles away to the west of the outskirts of the town before a wide, swinging arc brought in the southern leg and the return journey. There was a variety of terrain and surfaces to be negotiated including spooky forest rides, bleak heathland, flooded gravel pits and a few busy trunk roads to cross.
The potential for mischief, mayhem, injury, fatalities, disappearance and abduction was tremendous to such an extent that in todays' Health and Safety culture such an event would not get past the vaguest of ideas stage.
In those days, however, there was enough common sense and community spirit to negate the need for a Risk Assessment. All participants were fully expected and without any validation by the organisers to be appropriately dressed and booted, adequately provisioned with water and energy foods and aware of where they were going. There were no incidences such as those cited by Rescue Teams of people turning up in summer attire and flip-flops in situations requiring, at minimum, the full gear.
The day of the walk was eagerly anticipated amongst us kids. There was always a frantic jockeying for friendships and allegiances in arranging who you would tag along with. Some of our peer group would be bragging that they intended to run the route in order to impress the girls. This usually involved a fast start but with the rapid onset of stitch, shin splints or just plain exhaustion.
The Easter timing did introduce an element of unpredictability in the weather. The day could start off frosty and sharp and end in glorious bright and warm sunshine or it could just pour down all the time. I seem to remember that only thick and persistent snow one year was enough to cause the event to be cancelled, and reluctantly so with a few dozen townspeople turning up anyway and wading through the drifts on the off chance that the walk had survived even when the rest of the country had shut down.
These things were the enjoyable elements of the whole charitable endeavour.
The downside was the pestering, cajoling, blackmailing, bribery, bullying and extortion involved to get signatures and promises of monies from sponsors.
The first to be approached were parents, followed by grandparents, aunts and uncles, the neighbours, complete strangers and a few outlandish forgeries as if Walt Disney or Kevin Keegan were likely to have passed through the town at the same time.
A 12 mile distance could be an expensive outlay for those electing to put their names down for, say, 2p a mile. There soon developed the practice of expressing the donation as 10p or so if you finished, and could prove that you had finished, on the day and within the allotted time, without cheating, taking lifts, shortcuts, piggy backs or retiring early from dehydration, blisters, a sprained ankle or anything more drastic such as capitulating to the aforementioned hazards of field, forest, deep water and perverts.
On the day we would make our way to the Park to start. The organisers had a small caravan as the headquarters where sponsor sheets were handed over in return for a badge and number which would be our ID and the means of retrieving our sheets upon completion. Critically, the same number would figure in the raffle or tombola for an Easter Egg, again if the walk was completed. The tombola prizes were displayed in the big rear window of the caravan. These ranged from top of the range eggs in sumptuous packaging down to a Crème Egg or a handful of loose, leftover mini eggs.
Upon setting off, the first mile always seemed to drag but the miles soon racked up as we got into a rhythm and manageable pace. The staggered start meant that there was a steady stream of walkers either ahead or behind and these could be chased down or allowed to catch up and pass, dependant upon who they were and how you felt.
The equivalent of hitting the wall in a Marathon came at about 9 miles into the sponsored walk. Those in our group who had not eaten their stash of supplies on the way to the Park feasted in front of those of lower levels of will power and poor planning. Deals were done over packets of Rainbow Drops and with shame I recall trading my girlfriend of the time for such a multi coloured, highly processed, excessively 'E' numbered delicacy. She was not best pleased when she found out.
Such an infusion of high sugar would result in a few hyperactive miles before the inevitable depletion of energy kicked in. Consequently the final mile always resembled Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow or a refugee trail. Tired limbs, sore feet, parched throats, a bit of chafing in the lower regions and bright red and rosey cheeks from outdoor activitiy were duly attended by the St John's Ambulance Brigade, or as we knew them, the thick, creepy fat kids.
There was a feeling of elation and achievement in completing the 12 mile walk but tempered by the thought of having to ask family and acquaintances for the money to be paid over. Most years it was a case of the organisers calling at individual houses and co-ercing parents to write a cheque for the full promised, but still outstanding, amount. From year to year the charity would not really know how much had been raised at all. Perhaps it was just their guesstimate that made the town look benevolent rather than actual deposited funds.
The final act on the day was to see what prize would be forthcoming from the tombola. It was hit and miss what would be thrust out from the split door of the caravan as a match for your number. Many a family left the park with screaming, disappointed and distressed children clutching, in disbelief for their endeavours, the smallest, most pitiful excuse for an Easter egg that you could imagine. Of course, they would be back next year, that was for sure.
This was no more evident than for the annual charity fund raiser of a 12 mile walk every Easter school holiday.
It saw just about the whole of the self propelled population taking part turning the otherwise congested High Street into a ghost town on the day with shoppers, browsers, loiterers, ne'er do wells and poseurs relocated to the town park which formed the starting line and finish for the event.
It was one of the few activities that whole families could participate in and indeed a degree of parental or in loco-parentis supervision was required over such a long distance. In addition the usual route took walkers some 5 miles away to the west of the outskirts of the town before a wide, swinging arc brought in the southern leg and the return journey. There was a variety of terrain and surfaces to be negotiated including spooky forest rides, bleak heathland, flooded gravel pits and a few busy trunk roads to cross.
The potential for mischief, mayhem, injury, fatalities, disappearance and abduction was tremendous to such an extent that in todays' Health and Safety culture such an event would not get past the vaguest of ideas stage.
In those days, however, there was enough common sense and community spirit to negate the need for a Risk Assessment. All participants were fully expected and without any validation by the organisers to be appropriately dressed and booted, adequately provisioned with water and energy foods and aware of where they were going. There were no incidences such as those cited by Rescue Teams of people turning up in summer attire and flip-flops in situations requiring, at minimum, the full gear.
The day of the walk was eagerly anticipated amongst us kids. There was always a frantic jockeying for friendships and allegiances in arranging who you would tag along with. Some of our peer group would be bragging that they intended to run the route in order to impress the girls. This usually involved a fast start but with the rapid onset of stitch, shin splints or just plain exhaustion.
The Easter timing did introduce an element of unpredictability in the weather. The day could start off frosty and sharp and end in glorious bright and warm sunshine or it could just pour down all the time. I seem to remember that only thick and persistent snow one year was enough to cause the event to be cancelled, and reluctantly so with a few dozen townspeople turning up anyway and wading through the drifts on the off chance that the walk had survived even when the rest of the country had shut down.
These things were the enjoyable elements of the whole charitable endeavour.
The downside was the pestering, cajoling, blackmailing, bribery, bullying and extortion involved to get signatures and promises of monies from sponsors.
The first to be approached were parents, followed by grandparents, aunts and uncles, the neighbours, complete strangers and a few outlandish forgeries as if Walt Disney or Kevin Keegan were likely to have passed through the town at the same time.
A 12 mile distance could be an expensive outlay for those electing to put their names down for, say, 2p a mile. There soon developed the practice of expressing the donation as 10p or so if you finished, and could prove that you had finished, on the day and within the allotted time, without cheating, taking lifts, shortcuts, piggy backs or retiring early from dehydration, blisters, a sprained ankle or anything more drastic such as capitulating to the aforementioned hazards of field, forest, deep water and perverts.
On the day we would make our way to the Park to start. The organisers had a small caravan as the headquarters where sponsor sheets were handed over in return for a badge and number which would be our ID and the means of retrieving our sheets upon completion. Critically, the same number would figure in the raffle or tombola for an Easter Egg, again if the walk was completed. The tombola prizes were displayed in the big rear window of the caravan. These ranged from top of the range eggs in sumptuous packaging down to a Crème Egg or a handful of loose, leftover mini eggs.
Upon setting off, the first mile always seemed to drag but the miles soon racked up as we got into a rhythm and manageable pace. The staggered start meant that there was a steady stream of walkers either ahead or behind and these could be chased down or allowed to catch up and pass, dependant upon who they were and how you felt.
The equivalent of hitting the wall in a Marathon came at about 9 miles into the sponsored walk. Those in our group who had not eaten their stash of supplies on the way to the Park feasted in front of those of lower levels of will power and poor planning. Deals were done over packets of Rainbow Drops and with shame I recall trading my girlfriend of the time for such a multi coloured, highly processed, excessively 'E' numbered delicacy. She was not best pleased when she found out.
Such an infusion of high sugar would result in a few hyperactive miles before the inevitable depletion of energy kicked in. Consequently the final mile always resembled Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow or a refugee trail. Tired limbs, sore feet, parched throats, a bit of chafing in the lower regions and bright red and rosey cheeks from outdoor activitiy were duly attended by the St John's Ambulance Brigade, or as we knew them, the thick, creepy fat kids.
There was a feeling of elation and achievement in completing the 12 mile walk but tempered by the thought of having to ask family and acquaintances for the money to be paid over. Most years it was a case of the organisers calling at individual houses and co-ercing parents to write a cheque for the full promised, but still outstanding, amount. From year to year the charity would not really know how much had been raised at all. Perhaps it was just their guesstimate that made the town look benevolent rather than actual deposited funds.
The final act on the day was to see what prize would be forthcoming from the tombola. It was hit and miss what would be thrust out from the split door of the caravan as a match for your number. Many a family left the park with screaming, disappointed and distressed children clutching, in disbelief for their endeavours, the smallest, most pitiful excuse for an Easter egg that you could imagine. Of course, they would be back next year, that was for sure.
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