A Seasonal Story #3

Christmas Day at last!

In Dulce Jubilo and Sussex Carol by dogsbody

"God bless us, one and all!"

A Seasonal Story #2

To continue ...

Owing to my incontinent messages on ‘facebook’, Jane had already discovered my impulsive purchase via a third party.
I survived, and the arrival of the parcel came as no surprise to her.

The parcel looked thus:

‘C’, my vendor, had advised that I allow the concertina to warm up in the house for an hour or so before trying to play it, so I had a beer while I admired the packaging.

I took my time unwrapping it, in mounting anticipation.

Excitement heightened.

“Slow down!” said Jane, so I had another beer.

I took more photographs of the process, because I love bubble-wrap.

Removing the bubble-wrap was rather like clearing the membranes from a new-born lamb.

Eventually this beautiful instrument was delivered into my world.

An hour had not yet passed so, in order not to disregard ‘C’’s prudent advice, I had another beer.
“Slow down!” screamed Jane.
This time she was referring to my consumption of beer.

The hour passed, oh so slowly.
The magic moment came.
I removed the elastic band that ‘C’ had wisely applied in order to keep the bellows compressed while in transit.
I touched, felt and gently caressed my new baby with all the tenderness of a loving father.

I couldn’t wait any longer … I tentatively pressed one of those friendly metal buttons and began to extend the bellows.
A note sounded.
Ah, bliss! It had the musical texture of polished silver that will ever remain in my memory.

“STOP!” cried Jane.
“Now wrap it up again, put some festive wrapping paper round it and put it under the Christmas tree. You are not having that until Christmas Day!”

“B-b-b-but …” I tried to say through my tears of joy.

“OK, I’ll have another beer!”

A Seasonal Story ...

Now here’s an encouraging tale.

A couple of weeks ago, drinking beer while Jane was out, I decided to revisit an on-line auction site and search for ‘English concertina’.
This came up, and aroused my interest.

The seller’s information demonstrated that he clearly had significant knowledge of concertinas, but I was a little concerned that he indicated ‘no returns accepted’. We exchanged messages about this policy and I was reassured that if we mutually agreed that the item was not 'as described', then a full refund would be forthcoming.
He also recommended another couple of more expensive instruments that he had in stock.

The end-time for the auction was an hour away, and, so far, he had no bidders.
I went and poured a beer.
I studied the pictures again.
I re-read and remained impressed by the extensive description.
I had another beer.
With five minutes to go before the auction ended I entered a bid at the reserve price, but poured another beer before hitting ‘submit’.

Within seconds I received an email: “Congratulations, you’ve won!”
“Whoops!” I thought, “How do I explain this to Jane?!”
I had another beer and went to bed.

The following day the vendor and I exchanged courteous phone calls and emails regarding payment, dispatch and delivery.
“Yes, Tuesday next week will be fine,” said I, mistakenly believing that Jane would be out.

Then came the second phase of UK’s big freeze in the current winter.
All transport was disrupted.

We spoke again.
If the couriers were unable to move the parcel containing a valuable antique then it was likely to remain in a freezing warehouse (minus 14deg.C) until they resumed service after the New Year.
‘C’, who by now had become a friend, kindly offered to retrieve the package from his local depot, BUT it was 4.45pm!
“Let it be,” I said. “If it suffers irredeemably from hypothermia, I will regard that as ‘damage in transit’, and you can claim on your insurance!”

I remained at home all day on Tuesday.
Morning came and went.
The postman managed to deliver the customary vast quantity of unsolicited rubbish, but my organic veggie-box failed to materialise.
Neighbours dropped in greeting cards.
I was slightly cheered thereby.
In the afternoon the doorbell rang.
I excitedly opened the front door ...
and invited a couple of doorstep evangelists in for tea.
They looked very cold!
I explained my anxious state as I poured Earl Grey with lemon slices.
They were most comforting, but my neo-Darwinian philosophy excluded me from salvation.
They left.
I wept into my beer.

I settled down in my state of dejection in front of my warming log fire.
I drank more beer.

Then, oh joy!
The doorbell positively chimed.
I stumbled to open the door.
There stood a jolly, ruddy-faced gentleman sporting a long white beard, and clad in a warm red coat and hat, both of which were trimmed with white fur.
He confirmed that my name corresponded with that on the large parcel he bore.
I plied him with a mince pie and a drop of whisky.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he exclaimed with an approving ascending vocal inflexion.
“Hic …!” I responded.

I peered beyond his portly frame into the road.
There was parked an illuminated snow-mobile tethered to six manificent ungulates, the lead of which sported a magnificent red nose.

“Come back, doorstep evangelists!” I cried.
“I AM A BELIEVER!”

There are several morals to this tale:

• Santa Claus does exist.
• Doorstep evangelists are nice people.
• Never look at eBay while imbibing alcohol!

About wood spiders ...

How to beat terrorist insurgents ...

"Archers!"
"Cavalry!!"
"Infantry!!!"

"Errr ... send in the rest!"

[Aside to CIC, "Oh dear, Sir, it's not going well."]

Junior Corporal/Drummer-boy apologetically tugs CIC's tunic and cries:

"Pipes!!!"

CIC says, "Good idea, boy!"
"You lead them, MacTavish ..."

AAAAAARGH!!!

Agnostic is a dangerous place to be ...

I couldn't resist this picture.
It brings back character-forming and painful memories ...

This was a row of Victorian tenements in the town of Bacup, Lancashire, where I went to my second school.
I'm talking 1950s here.

Plantation Street, was a smelly, rat-infested development where policemen dared not venture.

We lived in a 'nice' house at the top of the hill.
One particularly fearless policeman frequently popped in to have tea with my mother.
"Go and play outside," she would say to me.

My walk to school involved 'goin' daan t' bonks'. The 'bonks' was as an abandoned quarry from which I would emerge down the lane on the right of the picture.

I was regularly intimidated by the roughnecks who lived in considerable deprivation, (as I now recognise with hindsight,) along 'Plant Back'.
Their favourite taunt was, "Are you Catholic or protestant?"
"What a strange opening gambit," I thought.
Now, I was never sure about their motivation. Nor did I know the accurate answer to their enquiry.
Even less did I know the possible lie that would save me from physical abuse.

Once, after multiple painful encounters, I responded, "Agnostic."

"Huh?" they said, half-inquisitively.
Then they beat me up once more!

'Agnostic' is a word I didn't understand at the time.
(I'm still not sure!)
I am determined that I will NEVER use that word again.

Tracey, The Underground Pig and The Ferret ...

I have an idea!
I confess it has been inspired by a comedienne’s spot on Rob Bryson’s programme on BBC2 this evening.

Do you receive ‘cold calls’ on the telephone?
You know the sort of thing ...

“Hello, my name is Tracey. I am calling on behalf of ‘The Subterranean Porcine Detection Company'."

"Do you have an underground pig?”
(Apologies to my friend, OSM.)

Now, here’s the strategic response ...
“Hello, Tracey, how nice to here from you!”
You remember Tracey, she looks like this …



You continue thus ...
“Before I answer that question I need you to respond to a few security questions, is that OK?”

Tracey, somewhat taken from behind, says, “Yes.”
(Silly girl!)
“Please tell me your mother’s second cousin’s maiden name?” you ask.
Tracey responds with an answer that may, or may not, be accurate.
You don’t really care!

“Fine,” you say and continue, “And what is the name of your pet ferret?”
“But I haven’t got a ferret!” says Tracey.
“Correct!” you say in a congratulatory tone.

“Now, I need you to tell me the 75th letter/digit of your password.”
Tracey chooses some arbitrary alpha-numeric character.
“Right!” you say, “You are successfully logged in to your account.”

Tracey - "What account?"
You - "The database of time-wasting call-centre personnel with delightful telephone voices who stimulate my imagination."
Tracey - "Oh!"

Then …
“Will you have sex with me tonight?” you enquire.

Tracey puts down the phone.
She has not made a sale.
The pig remains underground ...
and it costs you nothing not to have sex tonight!

Life is ever thus!

The Tale of a Bicycle Wheel #3

Last week Jane struggled home from her work having suffered another broken spoke on the new wheel.
I removed the wheel.
She took the wheel back to the shop.

“Oh yes, we’ll sort that,” said [B]'s helpful young assistant.
“I’ll collect it later,” said Jane.

Three hours later we collected it.
PING!

[B] was summoned.
Once again he complained to us, the consumers, (not the manufacturer/supplier!) about the quality of materials.

PING!

He searched his stock, but was unable to locate a matching complete wheel.
He then undertook to replace all the spokes on the existing wheel with a ‘DT’ variety.

I made the mistake of asking what the term ‘DT’ actually means.

I was educated, at considerable length, including a creditable thesis involving scientific terms about tensionometry, and the material-strength and elastic limits of stainless steel.

“Hooke’s law of elasticity states that … F = - kx.”

“Oh yes,” that’s what my physics teacher told me.”

“Yes, BUT stainless steel is not a linear-elastic (Hookean) material.”

I’d already guessed that!

“Perhaps someone could invent a wheel with rubber spokes,” I jested.

Unfortunately [B]’s sense of humour is hard to detect. He continued his lengthy dissertation explaining why my idea was geometric and mechanical nonsense.

I’d guessed that too!

“Come back next week,” he said.

To be fair to [B], he phoned at 7.00pm that same Saturday evening to say he had completed the task.

Will this saga continue?
May I borrow your tensionometer?!

Tensionometry ...

As an aside to those recent posts about bicycles, I have been advised to purchase a tensionometer.
I've never seen one so I searched for images on Google ...

The caption read, "Yep, this standing rigging is properly adjusted."

Yes ...

I need one of these!

Anyone seen one on EBay?

(Jane won't let me have one!)

The Tale of a Bicycle Wheel #2

After an interval of a few days we returned to the shop.
Jane had calmed down.
[B] had regained his emotional continence.
He found Jane's wheel. By now it was looking like a bird's nest.

We were then regaled by a sincerely apologetic discourse about the quality recently manufactured spokes. Apparently the cycle-industry, particularly manufacturers of factory-assembled wheels, have been sabotaged by a world-wide supply of substandard spokes.

“I can keep doing this,” said [B], “but all these spokes are cr*p!”
He pointed out the internal degradation in the fractured ends of the spokes.
He invited us to observe rust on the surface of supposedly stainless steel spokes.

“You’ll be better off buying a new wheel.”
The bike, being beyond any warranty, we agreed to do so.
It cost £80.00.

[B] said, “Would you like to take the old wheel away?”

“No, thank you,” we said in unison, harmonised by two more PINGS!

This story will continue after a few more cycle-miles ...

The Tale of a Bicycle Wheel #1

This commentary will take some time.
I anticipate at least three chapters.
Here’s the first …

This year Jane began riding her two-year-old bicycle regularly.
We have had joyous outings together throughout the summer.
Her bike looks like this:

One day while we were cycling around Chidham, a couple of miles from home, I heard a cry from behind me: “STOP! Something's gone 'PING!'”
As ever, an obedient husband did as he was told.
Jane had dismounted and was pushing her bike with some difficulty towards me.

It was clear that the front wheel had become wobbly and was binding on the brakes.
Further inspection revealed a broken spoke.

Now, spoke replacement is not my forte, so, after arriving home, I removed the offending wheel. We took it to our local bike shop, where we had previously purchased the road machine.

The proprietor, (let’s call him [B],) said, “OK, come back in half-an-hour. I’ll have it ready.”

We returned as requested, and waited a few moments while [B] refitted the tyre to Jane’s wheel.

“PING!” we heard before he’d pumped up the tyre.

“Oh dear!” said [B], “That’s another spoke gone!”

[B] repeated the replacement process while I waited and watched with great interest.
(I have always regarded making a wheel round to be a secret and dark art!)

“There you are!” said [B], smiling triumphantly.

Jane picked up the wheel and said, “Thank you.”

“PING!” we heard, as another spoke disintegrated.
(Now, I know that those wheelwrights with skill talk about tuning bicycle wheels, but I don't break that many strings when tuning my psaltery!)

Jane, very gently, put the wheel down and glared at [B].

“PING!” we heard yet again!

I smiled at [B] in commiseration.

[B] held his hands to his abjectly bowed head.

He wrung his oil-stained hands, rent his clothes and tore his hair ...

Jane and I walked home!

More to follow ...

I wish I'd travelled by bicycle ...

I am on a railway journey.
I have booked my seat.

My seat-reservation is for coach C, seat number 29, facing the direction of travel, and conveniently next to the aisle.
I occupy my seat and, with some difficulty in the limited space, open my broadsheet newspaper.

The train departs.
Leaving behind all that urban graffiti, we cruise through delightful countryside.
Nobody has yet occupied the window-seat, number 28, so I have an uninterrupted view.

The train stops.
There are the usual public announcements –
“Take your belongings …”
“Mind the gap when alighting.”
“Passengers for Wigan must change at Timbuktu!”
Some passengers alight.
New ones get on board.

“Excuse me,” says a large lady pointing to seat number 28, “I think that’s my seat.”
I re-fold my newspaper, arise from my seat and move into the aisle.

Lady has a big suitcase. I offer to place it on the overhead rack.
“Oh, how kind!” says she.
The suitcase is very heavy!

She compacts herself into the seat by the window.
I ignore serious transverse pain in my chest.
Under the irresistible force of gravity, her generous frame, having nowhere else to go, spreads laterally.
I smile and re-occupy seat number 29.
Somehow there doesn’t seem to be quite so much room.

“Are you travelling far?” I enquire in a friendly tone.
“Oh, yes, all the way!” she responds.
I am somewhat alarmed by her broad-gauge smile.

(Did I tell you that this train is the one from Penzance to Newcastle, and we haven’t passed Newton Abbot yet?!)

I re-open my newspaper. I think I’ll settle for one of the tabloids next time, or perhaps a small paperback.

Five minutes after leaving the station the lady asks, “Is there a buffet car on the train?”
“Oh, yes,” say I, (somewhat hesitantly because I can feel what’s coming,) “I think that’s in coach D, further back.”
“Fine,” she says, “I think I’ll pay a visit.”
With my newspaper now in a state of serious disarray, I get out of my seat to allow lady access to the aisle. Lady emerges from her airline-type seat with some difficulty. She heads off towards the front of the train.
I decide to take the opportunity, while standing in the aisle, of reconstructing my newspaper.

Lady realises that coach D is in the opposite direction.
She apologises profusely as she squeezes past me once more.
Coincidentally the train lurches violently over a series of points.
Jiggerley-juggerley-dum-didderley-dum-dudderly-di-jiggerley-jug!
This onomatopoeic interlude accompanies an unforeseen entangling of limbs in order that we both manage to retain an upright posture.
Lady smiles sweetly and asks, “Is there anything you would like?”

Her voluminous bosom threatens to engulf my slender frame.

I blush.
She doesn’t!

“No, thank you!”

I tentatively sit down again, savouring the unworthy hope that there will be a very long queue at the buffet.

I search for my newspaper.
Did I lose it in her cleavage?
I don’t remember!

My earlier hope is not realised. Within minutes lady is once again at my side bearing a brown paper bag bulging with all sorts of artery-clogging goodies in one hand, and a large cup of something liquid, held at a precarious angle, in the other. Our earlier manoeuvrings are reversed. This time there is less physical contact, although some strange fluid has been spilled on my seat.

She sits.
I try to sit.
Now there’s even less room.
My bottom now feels moist.

Lady spreads the contents of her goody-bag over her own fold-down table … and half of mine.
“Would you like something?”
I politely accept ... a crisp. (Eeugh – prawn cocktail!)

To continue a description of this lady's noisy consumption of this pre-packaged repast would be unsavoury and unkind.

Anyway, I think she likes me.
I should be grateful ...
Not many people do!

I am getting irritable.
I've got a wet bum.
I am finding it difficult to breathe, though, thankfully, the chest-pain has gone.
I’d really like my newspaper back.
I daren’t look for it!

Achieving what comfort I can in a restricted space, I engage compassionate and forgiving thoughts while looking at the inside of my eyelids.
I pray for sleep to come.

My repose is soon interrupted ... “I think I need to go - err - you know where.”

Now, visualise this ...
Two fold-down tables full of detritus with nowhere to go, large person with full bladder and a 'need to go' trying to negotiate a small space ... and me ...
I stood no chance!

Once more, after scattering rubbish everywhere, we dance momentarily in the aisle.
She smiles flirtatiously again, while playfully caressing my left nipple.

While she’s away in the loo I pick up my small rucksack from under my seat, abandon all hopes of retrieving my newspaper, (wherever it may be,) and make for the ‘quiet zone’ coach.

This anecdote has a basis in historical fact.
I have made only very slight embellishments to the truth!

About Swan Vestas matches ...

I wonder if anyone else has made this observation ...
Swan Vestas matches aren't what they used to be!

1. They scatter sparks in unpredictable directions causing tale-telling burn marks, (as evidence of your disgusting habit,) in whatever clothing you are wearing.

2. "Average contents - 85." I have never counted them but, by the time you've ignited 32, the striking surface on the box has worn out!

I think I'll chop off the ends, discard the box, and take up matchstick modelling ...

About gauges ...

In Victorian times there were two common gauges for the mainline railways of Britain. Most companies adopted what we, in Britain, now refer to as ‘standard gauge’: that is 4ft 8½in between the rail-faces, as above.

My engineering hero, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, here immortalised in bronze, was a man of big ideas.

For his Great Western Railway he insisted upon 7ft 0¼in:

Smaller industrial and rural enterprises, unconnected with main lines, used several different narrower gauges, partly because such gauges permitted tighter curves. On the Isle of Man Railway you'll find 3-foot gauge, and on Welsh mountain railways - 2'3".

Irish Railways, for some contrary reason, (keep the Brits out?) finally ended up with 5ft 3in for their main railway lines.

Brunel’s argument for adopting the broad gauge on the GWR was that it would facilitate higher speeds, improved comfort and greater load-carrying capacity. Wider wheel-based locomotives could accommodate boilers placed lower than their standard gauge counterparts. Thereby a lower centre of gravity would lead to greater stability. Cylinders could be situated between the mainframes, (inside cylinders.) Again, this might have contributed to stability, but one wonders whether reduced accessibility could have created difficulties with maintenance.
That debate: "What if … ?" continues to this day.

Some of Sir Daniel Gooch’s designs for the GWR must have been fire-breathing monsters of their time.
Here's Iron Duke:

Interestingly the permanent way for Brunel’s broad gauge railway consisted of rails supported on longitudinal sleepers, in contrast to the still-familiar transverse sleepers of the standard gauge:

Perhaps the biggest problem that signalled the demise of broad gauge was the time, labour and inconvenience involved in transhipment of passengers and freight between the rolling stock of rivalling companies:

After 1864, when the British parliament accepted advice from ‘the gauge commission’ that 4ft 8½in should be adopted nationally, there was some dalliance with mixed gauge, but 1892 saw the final demise of Brunel’s broad gauge as the last broad gauge train left Swindon:

Notice the longitudinally-sleepered broad gauge track on the right, mixed gauge with intricate point-work/crossings in the centre, and standard gauge to the left.

Isn't all that terribly interesting?

My next project will be about bridges.

The terms 'cantilever', 'suspension', 'box-girder' and 'truss' come to mind!

Using a Senior Railcard ...

There are some advantages to being of advanced age.

Recently, at a small cost, I acquired my Senior Railcard. This entitles me to substantial discounts on off-peak rail travel.

On Monday I plan to travel from Chichester to Didcot, a distance of 88 miles.
The return rail journey will cost me less than £25.00.
That’s only about 7p. per mile.
(Perhaps not many people want to go to Didcot.)

I do!

I even booked my tickets on-line and was able to collect them from my local station.
Isn’t that remarkable?

For years I have wanted to visit The Didcot Railway Centre which houses a collection of Great Western Railway locomotives and rolling stock. I acknowledge that such an excursion may not have widespread appeal, but if you’re over 60, admission costs only £4.50 instead of £5.00. This just gets better!

What more could a senior citizen want?

Here’s a train journey, a piece of industrial heritage and respite from housework, all for less than £30.

Perhaps I’ll repeat the expedition on Tuesday!

(For a slide-show of my visit click Didcot slide-show)

Is Faith Worth It?

So, the Pope is to visit our country.

We will welcome this ‘outreach’ from the head of the ‘true faith’, won’t we?

What is he coming for?

• To admonish the wayward of these islands?
• To forgive us? 
• To apologise for the historical and on-going travesties of the Church of Rome?

We are told that the Pope's visit will cost the UK tax-payer £12,000,000 in respect of security and police protection.

If I want to visit Rome, I will pay my air fare. I will take out holiday insurance. I will pay for my accommodation. Bearing in mind my EU citizenship, I assume that the laws of that visited land are adequate to protect me at no additional personal cost.

Let the Pope bring his own Rottweilers at his expense!

From the Ancient Nonsensical Musings of St. Anley ...

I was a stranger in a strange land …

And, lo, then did I come to a great metropolis inhabited by a gentle people who called themselves Cicestrians.

Roads within that city were surfaced with a hard substance, grey in colour, and smooth in most places.

Upon this surface did machines progress, which had wheels at each of the four corners.

Some exceedingly large machines bent in the middle and were possessed of many wheels.

All proceeded at excessive speed, exhaled noxious gases, and made such noises as to make the hearers block their ears.

Almost all, apart from the ones bearing a strange emblem, ‘Stagecoach’, had but one occupant.

And then I did behold a smaller machine that did have only three wheels. The name upon it was Robin.




I heard a great voice from on high: “Go, thou, and design a mobile device with two wheels. Thou shalt call it  errr ..

... bicycle!"

... "and for your next task- the UNICYCLE!"

Spend Money Now - before VAT is increased ...

"Unavoidable," says George.

So, the previous government bails out the banks.
The tax-payer bails out the treasury.

What next?

BP?!!!

Our Greek Holiday

It was hot, sweaty, and all discomforts were assuaged by good food, cheap wine and great company.
Click in the box below ...
























The images lose some definition in this picasa-generated slideshow. The stills can be viewed here.

It's all our fault ...

This evening Right Hon. Gordon Brown, ex-prime minister, publically took full personal responsibility for losing the general election.

It was a gracious, articulate and dignified gesture.

But … that responsibility is misplaced. A democratic nation gets the government it deserves. (Well, that’s how it should be.) The responsibility lies with you and me, the electorate.

Now we will be governed by an unholy conjugation of two parties, neither of which had my vote. (Fertility for this union might involve IVF.) These parties are led by power-hungry and inexperienced individuals who have done a mutually beneficial deal. Doing a deal involves compromise, details of which I am anxious to learn. In this scenario, I suspect conspiracy!

Yes, Messrs Clegg and Cameron, I want electoral reform. If we had PR neither of you would be where you are tonight.

My Queen, God bless her, could have said, “We are not amused. Go away and don’t come back until my people are clear about by whom they want to be ruled!”

If she were to continue, “Meanwhile, ONE rules!” - that would have my vote.

May I kiss one's hand, ma’am?

Notice by my front door ...

I MIGHT VOTE

My guts are to vote LABOUR, but what’s the point in this area?

I might (tactically) vote LIB DEM.

I rather like the idea of GREEN.

I certainly will NOT vote TORY.

My doorbell is programmed to inflict immediate and terminal electrocution of representatives of UKIP and BNP!

I am NOT open to persuasion on the doorstep.

CANVASSERS NEED NOT CALL!

There must be quicker ways of saying NO!

I am a charitable person.

However, I have recently lost my patience with cold-callers.
You know the sort of thing ...

RING, RING ...

"Hello, my name is [someone] from [some charity or other]."
Let's call [someone] - err - Tracey.
Now, I have no personal animosity to anyone called Tracey, but how does she know MY name?

Tracey sounds to be a charming young lady.
In real life I suspect that she's a very nice person.
She has a trace of an engaging provincial accent - 'geordie' always gets me!
In my imagination looks she something like this ...

She arouses my ... err... attention when she seductively says, "I'm not asking you for money - now."
Not hearing that faint, closing, near-aspirated 'now', I foolishly become excited about the possibility of a freebie.

Taken aback by her imagined beauty, my mind races in anticipation.
Before I've had time to regain my composure or articulate any intelligible response, Tracey goes on.
With immaculately auto-cued diction, she educates me about all the good works and achievements of the charity she represents.
"Don't you think that's wonderful?" she asks.
She doesn't wait, but anticipates that I'll say, "Oh, yes!"
She continues, without interruption, to brazenly invite me to help financially.
"But you said that you're not asking for money," say I, when I can get a word in edgeways.
"Oh, no," she replies, "But I wonder if you'd be generous enough to make a monthly donation by direct debit?"
(Thinks - "How does Tracey know that I have a bank account?")

... "Now, how much can you afford?" !!!
... "Are you a UK tax-payer?"

If I'm in a charitable mood, and if Tracey sounds enormously cooperative, I will politely invite her to discover, as a one-off contribution, all the cash I have in my numerous pockets.
This invariably meets with, "Oh, no, we can't do that!"

If I am less aroused by her tentative contact, I will say, "OK, Tracey, please can you tell me your registration number with the Charities Commission?"
Tracey, predictably, doesn't know the answer to that, because she's not personally working for the charity. She's operating from a call centre which, (at considerable expense to the charity,) has been contracted to generate these carefully-scripted calls. Off she goes to find her line-manager. Meanwhile I hurriedly go on line to see if I can discover the information before Tracey does.

After some time we agree that Tracey's new-found information matches the intelligence that I gleaned in a few seconds.

I make the same 'up-front' offer again.
(Readers may misunderstand that sentence.)
Tracey doesn't!
She again declines by saying, "I'm not authorised."

"Goodbye, and thank you for your call," I say.
"HUMPHHH!" says Tracey.

The outcome ...

Tracey's wasted her time.
I have wasted mine.
The charity paying Tracey, directly or otherwise, have wasted their money for no gain.
My vivid imagination about Tracey's desirable corpus proves a disappointment.
My 'compassion fatigue' becomes near terminal!

The lesson ...

Get 'caller display' on your phone.

NEVER answer if you don't know who it is.

If it's Tracey, tell her you could love her dearly, then put the phone down!

A May Song ...

Here's a seasonal anthem composed by Dave Webber.
Although it is a contemporary song, it has entered the tradition of the May Day celebrations in Padstow.



If I were to publish the entire lyrics, I imagine I would be in breach of copyright.
However, this video is in the public domain, so I justify sharing the jolly words, (received by oral/aural transmission,) of the chorus...

Hail, hail, the first of May-o,
For it is the first summer’s day-o.
Cast your cares and fears away,
Drink to the old oss on the first of May.

Thanks, Dave.

For those unfamiliar with the term 'oss', you have to understand that the Cornish alphabet does not include lower-case 'h'!
The sound of 'r', seems to follow most vowels that precede a consonant. For exaRmple, 'cast' becomes 'caRst'. Inexplicably, however, 'horse' loses both the 'h' and the 'r' to become 'oss'!
Lots of Cornish sentences end with '-o'.
Got that?

Will you take my unwanted gold items?

So, now we have it: the final demise of the economic system!

Today I received the following message from my bank ...

"Following years of declining cheque usage, extensive research and reducing acceptance amongst retailers, the Payments Council has agreed to an industry-wide withdrawal of the Cheque Guarantee Scheme on 30 June 2011.

In line with this announcement, from 1 June any renewal and replacement Visa Debit cards will no longer carry the cheque guarantee logo and customers with these cards will no longer be able to guarantee cheques.

You can continue to use unguaranteed cheques, where accepted, and cheque books will continue to be available in the usual way."

Now, retailers won't accept cheques.
I won't need to carry a writing implement.
We've all got to remember (and be secretive about) various PINs, passwords and security questions.
Britannia has disappeared from our coinage.
The Bank of England has no gold reserves, but appears confident that the loyal tax-payer will cough up to fund the nation's debt.
We are obliged to have 'plastic' money. Cards, of course, are derived from hydrocarbons - fossil fuels - consumption of which should be minimised if we are to avoid global conflagration.

Bring back promissory notes, say I.
(Such notes, of course, must be written on recyclable paper manufactured from wood-pulp obtained from sustainable forests.)
Let us barter goods for services.
Let us cautiously re-embrace mutual trust.
Re-open those ancient debtors' prisons!

Here's another anecdotal piece of nonesense ...

I have a friend who recently applied for a credit card.
"No," said the banks.
On enquiring, "Why not?" she was informed that she didn't have any 'credit rating'.
"But I've never had a loan/debt/overdraft in my life!" she responded.
"Precisely!" replied her advisor.

No debts = no credit!
That doesn't make sense to me.

Now, what was my mother's maiden name?!!!

For Amy

Here's a tune I'd like to share.
It was written by Charlie Laurenson, a Shetland Island fiddler, for his wife, Maggie-Ann.
Charlie, still living in Shetland, is a relative of my wife.
He generously gave her this manuscript (without copyright) when we visited in 2000.

Please play it.

Being Saint Patrick's Day ...

Here's his breastplate ...



I first came across this song as a tedious dirge in my local church. Under the direction of a formidable choir-leader, Miss Belchamber. We were AWFUL!

Then I discovered Rita Connolly with orchestration by Shaun Davey, recorded on The Pilgrim (Tara Music, 1994.)

Then I found this pretty lady.

Is she miming?
Her mother assures me that she's not!

A Geordie song about a dead tree ...

SAIR FYELD HINNY
Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin' aa kenned thoo.

Aa was young and lusty, aa was fair and clear.

Aa was young and lusty many's a lang year.

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin' aa kenned thoo.

When I was five and twenty aa could lowp a dyke.

(… I was brave and bold)

Noo a'm five and sixty aa can barely step a syke.

(…I’m but stiff and cold)

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin aa kenned thoo.

Thus spoke the owld man to the oak tree:

Sair fyeld is aa sin' aa kenned thee!

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin aa kenned thoo.

A surprise found on a long-forgotten EP of Louis Killen, (Northumbrian Garland; Topic 75; 1962). Apparently published by Bruce and Stokoe in Northumbrian Minstrelsy (1882). The refrain, 'Sair fyeld...', translates as 'sorely felled since I knew you'. 'Hinny' is, of course, a Geordie term of affection - 'mate'(?) To 'lowp a dyke' is to jump a stream. To 'step a syke' means 'take a step', and the whole thing is a lament about getting old.

These lyrics were found by scrolling through http://www.sedayne.co.uk/northernstar.html
The parenthesised words are those transcribed from Louis’ recording. When I have discovered how to include audio in blogs, I'll post that.

The song brings to mind the profound tragedy of my birth in Wallsend ...

Swan Hunter shipyard - likewise 'sair fyeld'!

I was born in what is now a domestic garage somewhere nearby.

Perhaps there's a near-Biblical precedent for this, but they couldn't find any wise men or a virgin in Northumberland!

Wilf Paish - RIP ...

I have been reminiscing today about my teenage school years.
I thought to 'google' some of my erstwhile mentors.
The name Wilf Paish came to mind. I don't know why.
I always found him rather intimidating.

Here he is ...

Mr Paish, (or Wilf, as we called him behind his back,) was an authoritarian teacher of physical education in the early 1960s at my school. He could be abrasive. Often he resorted to sarcasm. He entertained no nonsense, and we pupils found him difficult to like.

Nevertheless, he knew that teaching is not a popularity contest.
He always encouraged the best out of those he was teaching.
Well, that's good, isn't it?
That's teaching!

He left the school to take up a post as coach with the British Amateur Athletics Association in 1964.

To my sadness I found a tribute to him in the Yorkshire Post ... http://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/obituaries/Wilf-Paish.6028371.jp
Apparently Wilf Paish died on 28th January.
Below, I quote ...

He guided Tessa Sanderson to an Olympic javelin title in Los Angeles in 1984 when she prevailed over her great rival Fatima Whitbread, the reigning world champion.
Four years later, he coached Rotherham-born Peter Elliott to a silver medal in the 1,500 metres in Seoul.

Mr Paish also taught javelin thrower Mick Hill, a stalwart of Great Britain athletics for many years, but his legacy is about so much more than big- name stars.

From his base at the Carnegie Sports Centre in Leeds, he taught all-comers the finer points of track and field, be it a university student wanting to learn the art of middle-distance running or a junior picking up a shot put for the first time.
 Mr Paish was highly regarded for his knowledge of the sport, his enthusiasm and his unselfishness. When top-class athletes tried to pay him to spend more time with them, he refused, mindful of the other not so glamorous names under his tutelage.


In many respects, he was ahead of his time on coaching practices and nutrition. He was also a respected writer and a broadcaster.
Away from his first love of athletics, Mr Paish was well-respected in the world of rugby league, football and cricket thanks to the fitness and sprint sessions he conducted with some of Yorkshire's leading clubs. In 2005, he was made an MBE for his services to sport.
 When not coaching, he was a teacher in Essex and Slough where he met Margaret, his wife of 52 years, before moving to Leeds in 1964 when he was appointed national athletics coach for the north of England.
 He retired from international coaching in 1996 but was still coaching youngsters two weeks before his death yesterday morning.

He used his state pension to enable him to teach young athletes on a voluntary basis at the Carnegie Sports Centre and could be seen there two to three times a week, his enthusiasm still self-evident to all those he helped to inspire in his latter years.


His career was not without controversy.
He upset the athletics establishment with his views on performance-enhancing drugs and his willingness to make those opinions heard.
Having spent much of his career coaching clean British power-performers to compete against eastern Europeans aided by a cocktail of steroids and hormones, Mr Paish eventually suggested there was no point in British athletes being drug free if their opponents were not.
 After such distinguished service for British sport, he had earned the right to have his opinion.

His finest hour came in the Los Angeles Coliseum 26 years ago with Sanderson's surprise gold medal.
Mr Paish was born in Gloucestershire on July 29, 1932. He was raised in Stow on the Wold and attended Northleach Grammar School.

 He trained to be a teacher at Borough Road College in London and furthered his education at the Carnegie College of Physical Education in Leeds – the precursor to Leeds Met.
 Mr Paish died of pancreatitis and kidney failure. He is survived by his wife Margaret, their two daughters and twin granddaughters.

I have some afterthoughts ...

Sometimes, (too often with hindsight,) I realise how privileged I am to have shared this world with good people.
Wilf was intimidating, abrasive, sarcastic, authoritarian and difficult to like.

He was also a good man, and a credit to the teaching profession.

The Latest Instrument ...

A couple of weeks ago a friend, a regular participant at our folkie-gathering, indicated to me that she had a musical instrument for which she had no further use. She said that she would generously give it to any member of the club who might like it. I eagerly responded by saying, “I might be interested.” (I omitted to specify exactly what I was interested in.)
“You shall have it,” she said.

So, one Friday night I wobbled home from the club bearing a large and heavy black box. To my chagrin, Jane, my wife was still up and about.

“What’s that?” asked she.
“Just something I’m looking after,” I calmly replied.
“Till when?” she asked with a terrifying look of suspicion in her eyes.
“Just until it’s better,” I confabulated.

The following morning I arose early, thinking that Jane was still asleep.
Ever so quietly, I ventured downstairs.
I gently opened the aforementioned box.
I beheld a vision of sheer delight.
“Oh, joy! You are such a pretty thing!” I was moved to exclaim.
Little did I know that Jane was not asleep; she had heard my declaration of ecstasy from the bathroom.

“I knew it,” she cried, “You’ve got a woman in there!”
“Oh no, dear,” I replied, “It’s just a piano accordion.”

“THAT’S EVEN WORSE!”

Those Verdant Braes ...

We are so privileged.
I usually listen to, and take note of, the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards.
I missed the original broadcast this year.
Never fear; this is the twenty-first century!
It's all there on the wonderful web!

Here's Cara Dillon.
Isn't she lovely?! ...



Thanks, BBC.

The song is a romantic piece of reportage about failed seduction.
It can be summarised by a punch-line wherein the fair maiden says,
"I'm not getting a wet arse by sitting on the grass next to you. BOG OFF - I'm going to climb a tree!"

Notes about the bowed psaltery ...

Introduction and disclaimer

I have owned a bowed psaltery for about two years, and I am only now beginning to feel comfortable with it.

Last year I posted a couple of items on youtube of me playing this bizarre contraption. I received a number of affirmative comments including ...
"What on Earth is that?"
"Where can I get one?"
"Is it easy to play?"
My favourite was, "STOP IT - I LIKE IT!"

What follows should not be regarded as expert advice. It is simply a response to those questions, based on my own short and very limited experience.

History
Although the bowed psaltery produces a characteristically resonant and olde-worlde sound, it has little documented historical provenance. In its present form it was introduced in the mid twentieth century by Walter Mittman, a school teacher in Westphalia. Its plucked ancestors, however, date back to Biblical times, and it is questionable whether these earlier instruments were ever played with a bow.

Present-day instruments
Commercially-available bowed psalteries retailed in the UK are generally fully chromatic over two octaves, commonly beginning at G above middle C. Of course, this range is optional. Within limits; I suppose you could retune to a different range. I have encountered one US manufacturer who describes a 32-string psaltery with the lowest note being C. Each of the steel strings is tuned individually. These are tensioned between a hitch pin and a tuning pin such that the notes on the right of the instrument are naturals, (equivalent to the white keys on a piano keyboard.) The accidentals (black keys) occupy the left hand side. A note rings when a string is bowed just short of its hitch pin. Some consider that the sustained resonance is a very pleasing sound. Others worry about their personal dentition!

My psaltery, (factory-produced in Pakistan,) came with a short violin-type bow of about 19 inches in length. (I am advised that this is about 1/16 size in violin parlance.) I have experimented with longer bows, but I found them to be cumbersome, and speed and accuracy are compromised. I also have a bow strung with nylon, rather than horse-hair. Horse hair is far superior. Unlike modern violin bows, my bow has a curve which is convex away from the hair. (See image above.) This facilitates greater tension, and the player may hold the bow anywhere along its length, rather than being restricted to the frog. Some players use bows with hair tensioned by a piece of curved bamboo. I am not convinced that these are any more easily manipulated. They are not adjustable and I see no reason why they should compliment the sound. I wonder if they are not simply a contrivance to make this modern instrument appear more ancient than it really is. Believe it or not, some players use two bows simultaneously on a psaltery stabilised in some sort of clamp.

Tuning
Tuning is a time-consuming business as the pitch of a string is highly sensitive to the slightest rotation of the tuning pin. A clip-on digital chromatic tuner is essential for those who do not possess perfect pitch. For one new instrument that I tuned for a friend recently, I found it better to begin by slackening off all the strings; then tune up, rather than tune down. My experience has been that first tuning stays reliable for a matter of only minutes. I had to revisit and retune my own new psaltery several times over a week before it would stay in tune with itself overnight. I guess that has to do with ‘settling in’. Those top strings are particularly sensitive, fickle and fragile. Only a fraction of a degree’s rotation of the tuning peg can alter the pitch by one semitone or more. (Over-enthusiasm here results in a resounding 'TWANG!!', a sharp intake of breath, followed by Anglo-Saxon expletives!) Just when you think you’ve got it right, you invariably find that the tuning wrench is seized on the tuning peg. You have to wiggle it to remove it. Anything more than a delicate wiggle has you back to square one!

With patience, I found that, according to my tuner, the psaltery appeared to be in concert pitch, and would remain reasonably so. Unfortunately, I have yet to find that my psaltery plays in tune with any other precisely-tuned instrument in a session. Then again, this is not usually a session instrument. It’s not a rock-psaltery, after all! I doubt that you'll find Concerto for two bowed psalteries in any classical repertoire either.

That said, I insist on the importance of the instrument being accurately in tune with itself throughout its range. There is always at least one person in the audience who has a finer ear for pitch and harmony than you!
I know; I've met him!

Replacing strings
Yes, you would expect strings to break. I use .009 guitar strings for replacements. Fitting these is a fiddly procedure that often draws blood. (Are you up-to-date with your tetanus vaccinations?)
Ideally you require three hands, a good pair of pliers (and a supply of sticking-plasters.)
For this operation, it is helpful to clamp the psaltery to an operating table.
Alcohol consumption is unhelpful; it serves only to increase blood-loss!
Interestingly, I find that the timbre of replaced strings is noticeably different to that of the originals. It may be that they need time to relax, or perhaps this represents some difference in material.

Playing
This is one of the simplest instruments I have ever tried to play. On my psaltery the notes are scribed into the soundboard alongside the corresponding string/hitch pin. The notes are all there in front of you. Your only task is to play them, one at a time, preferably in some semblance of order!

Anyone with an ear for melody would be able to feel their way around. A little patient practice will help with placing the bow accurately between the hitch pins, rather than stumbling over them. I recommend some experimentation with tension of, and pressure on, the bow. In my view, more tension and less pressure gives a better sound. When it sounds right, it is right!

As regards tune-selection, this is a matter of personal taste, and I hesitate to advise. I remain a novice, but it is clear to me that up-tempo pieces don't work. This is an instrument that, like a lover, requires tender strokes and gentle carresses!

Although I can read simple music, I play the psaltery by ear. I use tunes that have penetrated my being over the years through the very pores of my soul. I started with the ancient melody Dives and Lazarus, in what musicologists might label the Aeolian mode. For the moment, I tend to avoid those black notes that require superhuman dexterity, and I almost instinctively transpose into the keys of C or A minor. It works well with church music and carols.  As yet, I have not accompanied myself with the psaltery throughout an entire song. That requires too much concentration, and becomes just something else that might go wrong. I have, however, used it near-successfully for an instrumental introduction to a song, with the odd ‘tween-verse ‘fill'' and an obligato final flourish!

At the outset I regarded the psaltery as nothing more than a toy for aspirant violinists who weren’t sure what to do with the left hand. Perseverance, and tentative exposure at a local folk club have led me to now believe that the sound has a place within folk music. I accept that the bowed psaltery has even less authenticity as a ‘traditional’ instrument, and it is far less versatile, than those ubiquitous fretted instruments for accompanying ancient lyrics. Nevertheless, the sound works for me, and I have concentrated on medleys of tunes.

Here's a mudley  ...



All comments from those with more experience than me, and questions from those with less, will be welcome.

I have found it!

The red circle is over the house of my childhood ...

It was semi-detached, but I always remember it as a BIG house.
(Then again, perhaps I was just rather small!)
It had a huge kitchen and we tended to live almost exclusively by the kitchen fire.
There were at least three separate rooms in the cellar. Of course, we didn't keep wine there - just paint tins and the odd volatile solvent.
Apart from the usual domestic accomodation, there was an attic. WOW!
No, I don't mean a draughty loft. This was my private space where I would dream of owning a three-rail Hornby-Dublo train set. That always remained a dream.

The imposing building in the picture, to the left of the house, was the Baptist Church at which my father was the minister until 1957/8. That's how we had such a big house. The only problem was that 'The Manse', just up the steps, didn't belong to us. That building is no longer a 'house of God'. It has become a residential conference centre. If I could discern some subject about which I could residentially confer, I would be pleased to visit.

Now, here's my first school, just down the hill ...

I don't want to go back there.
Mrs. Harrison was horrid to me when I wet my pants.
To this day my life has been a catalogue of bladder problems, and it's all her fault!