St. Anley the Incandescent

More about the bowed psaltery ...

2011-11-07T17:45:00.001Z

Having three strings to replace, St. Anley was seriously considering giving up playing the bowed psaltery.

A diligent research, however, led him to this image, a sketch by Daniel Gabriel Rossetti:

Now St. Anley will replace the strings and invite such players to join a new orchestra!

SCAM ...

2011-10-18T21:55:00.000+01:00

Some aashole has hacked into my googlemail account.

Perhaps cleverly, this pseudo-person has changed my password and altered my security ‘secret question’ to “what is your library ticket number?”

"Huhh?..."

This malicious nutcase has successfully sent a message to all my e-contacts, ingenuously purporting to come from me, suggesting that I am stranded, penniless and incommunicado in Madrid.

He/she even invites you to send me money.

However welcome your donations might be, that message did not come from me.

I have never visited Madrid.

Work in progress #3

2011-07-15T12:14:00.001+01:00

Now I have two feet and legs.
(Digits will be replaced/added later.)
I have begun work on the underbelly:

I think I will have to seriously consider the centre of gravity of this artistic work.
I will also need to go and buy some glue.

"Two more packs of Swan Vestas matches, please ... and a tube of UHU!"

Work in progress #2

2011-07-15T11:09:00.002+01:00

Now, about that 3-dimensional swan:
I have made a start with one foot.

Three toes point forwards, one backwards.
I believe there should be a fifth digit, (perhaps vestigial,) somewhere higher up the limb that remains to be constructed.
The other foot should be easy.

I will enrol for a course in avian anatomy tomorrow.

I googled for an image of the real thing:

These birds can break an arm with one swipe of their wing.

I was very frightened, so I searched again and found this:

Now I am petrified!

Must go to the shops now; I've run out of matches.

Experiment

2011-07-14T07:48:00.001+01:00

Embed codes seem to have stopped working from youtube, so I thought I'd try this one ...
Beware - adult content!

It works!

Work in progress #1

2011-07-13T10:59:00.006+01:00

I seem to have acquired a considerable collection of empty match boxes.
I was wondering how to use them creatively.
Here's my first attempt ...

I AM A SWAN!!!

Eventually I hope to make this three-dimensional, but I will have to burn a few more matches first.

On Being Whelmed ...

2011-06-22T17:52:00.007+01:00

Today I have been considering this word:

Overwhelmed.

Some of us have been there, and there is a credible dictionary definition.

If you watch the Eurovision Song Contest, you might be underwhelmed.
Now, that last word does not appear in my English dictionary, but spell-check seems happy with it.

My question is: what is this verb ‘to whelm’?

That’s not in my dictionary either, and it is unrecognisable by spell-check.

I think it might be good to be continuously whelmed, don’t you?
Or, maybe, just occasionally.

More about trains ...

2011-06-22T08:49:00.007+01:00

I like travelling by rail.

I always have.

Here is how I used to travel to school on a 101 class DMU:

(OK, that image is just of a model, but it is in the correct livery for the time …

and - just admire the immaculate track-work!)

I did not need to be at high speed.

Today I listened to a discussion on The Jeremy Vine Show.
(BBC, Radio 2.)

The proposed high-speed link between London and Birmingham will have a journey time of 45 minutes.

Wow, that’s impressive!
But the train won’t stop anywhere between the two termini.
“What use is that to someone who lives in the Chilterns?” asked one subscriber.

Anyway, why do people need to travel between two modern cities so rapidly?
In this age of advanced communication technology, who needs to go anywhere?
What about the telephone, fax, email and internet-based video links that facilitate near-instantaneous communication?
I accept that face-to-face meetings are sometimes necessary, but how many such meetings won’t wait until tomorrow?
Perhaps there are precious things/objects/documents that need to be delivered from hand to hand, and signatures required.
Fine, but what’s the rush?

Naturally, there will be the occasional wedding, funeral or family gathering that you feel obliged to attend.
You don’t have to do ‘day-return to Birmingham, please,’ do you?
(Particularly if the event is in some remote corner of Essex.)
You do your research, factor in your journey-time, and, if necessary, book a room at Premier Inn:

I live in a village on the outskirts of a provincial city on the South coast of England.
There is a railway station in the village, but half the trains don’t stop there, so we have an hourly service throughout the day, and two-hourly in the evening.
Here’s my magnificent local station:

It is worth visiting Bosham just to admire this fine architecture.

Occasionally I need to visit my dentist whose premises are in another village - three stations down the line. That train journey takes 14 minutes, and the timetable is usually reliable. Of course, because of an hourly service, I usually arrive at my dentist well before the appointment.

I don’t find that a problem because my dentist has a delightful receptionist who offers me coffee:

Oh, look, it's Tracey again - if she plays her cards right, she can have me!

Then I have to get home, and that often involves hanging around a drafty station, (that has no facilities,) for a bladder-challenging period of time.

I don’t need to go to London at the speed of sound.

I need a local transport system that operates frequently, on time, and stops where I need to be.

I don’t really care how long it takes

… as long as there’s a loo!

I Never Knew That ...

2011-06-21T10:29:00.014+01:00

Now, there was I looking on the web for a song: 'I Wonder as I Wander'.
I always considered it to be traditional, but ...
Google came up with one John Jacob Niles, (1892 - 1980.)
Here he is:

I pursued this link http://www.john-jacob-niles.com/music.htm and discovered that Mr. Niles claims to have collected a snippet of the song in 1933 from an impoverished 'unwashed blond' girl, whom he reports to have been 'very lovely'.
Her name was Annie Morgan.
Perhaps she appeared thus:

JJN was clearly enchanted.
What man wouldn't be if she looked like that?
He claims to have added additional verses.
If you click on the above link, hit the 'play' option, and fast-forward to about 2min. 37secs, you will hear him sing and play it.
I was not engaged by the peculiar voice, and I continue to question the origin.
I have a book that simply entitles the piece 'Appalachian Carol', credited 'trad.', with no mention of JJN.

I continued in my search and came across a youtube post of another of JJN's recordings:
http://youtu.be/fMO-b8FM2OE
(The embed code seems to be corrupt.)
This is truly delightful.

Another Bicycle Story ...

2011-06-14T21:49:00.017+01:00

I am charged with the task of servicing, and adding certain equipment to a bicycle.

I enjoy doing that sort of thing.

It’s a good bicycle:

I acquired some SKS ‘chromoplastic’ mudguards. They are supposed to be the best.
Here they are:

Unfortunately the front one comes with patented ‘secu-clips’. They are intended to release the guard from the front fork if you happen to run over excreta that sticks to the front tyre. You can see those black plastic bits on the ends of the stays on the carefully pre-assembled front guard; those are 'secu-clips'.
I was not impressed, and their inclusion in the system would have required the removal of 2 cm. from the stays.
Even after my decision to discard said clips, I needed to shorten the stays by 1 cm.
I discovered that a blunt hacksaw is not the best tool for such a task.

Only as small amount of blood-loss was involved in the final fitting:

Then I came to the rear mudguard, (no ‘secu-clips’ here,) and that went pretty smoothly. All the bits were there, and the stays were the correct length for a 700C wheel.
I took this photo later, after fitting the rear carrier.
See ... the mudguard even includes a reflector:

However, Ridgeback, the bike manufacturer, seems to have a strange idea about how to orientate those threaded M5 bosses on the frame.

I ended up improvising with cable ties. That worked, but I think this photo is out of focus, and might be upside-down:

The rear rack is a simple design, fairly easy to assemble and install:

Those of you who know about such things will observe that the rack is not horizontal, as recommended in the manufacturer’s instructions. The reason is that those flimsy, bendable pieces of metal that attach it to the seat-tube anchor points are not long enough.
That will have to do.
A great advantage of this particular carrier is that it has a mounting for a rear light, (see later.)

My client wanted a front basket.

“Are you sure?” I questioned.

I obtained one, and it was rather nice:

The fixing bracket, (only suitable for 25.4mm handlebars,) went on perfectly, occupying all the space that you would otherwise expect to accommodate other accessories, including your front light, (see later.)
The basket has a quick-release function – very good.

BUT! … You have to squash all your gear and brake cables behind it.

It took several hours of brake adjustment and gear-indexing to rectify the altered tension thereby generated.

THEN … you remove the basket and you’re back to square one!
That still makes no scientific sense to me.

LIGHTS!

Yes, my client wants lights; that's wise.

Having occupied all the available space on the handlebar, the front light had to go somewhere else. Here it is on the front fork:

The Q/R mounting does not foul the front wheel, but anyone wishing to remove the mounting will have to remove the wheel first.
You will, of course, notice that it is on the left.
That is because my client intends to ride the bike on the continent.

Now, have you ever noticed that rear cycle lights purchased in the UK will only fit on the right-hand side of your frame, unless you fit them upside-down - whereby they fall off?
Anyway, if you secure the lamp on the rear stay of the frame in the traditional manner, your rear pannier is now in the way.
I solved this difficulty by fitting a dusty old rear lamp to that wonderful bracket on the rear carrier that I mentioned earlier:

(Needs new batteries!)

So, now it's complete and looks thus:

I am rather pleased.

Tools required:

4 & 5mm spanner/socket
5mm hex-key
Cross head screwdriver
Cable-ties x 2
Blunt hacksaw
Sticking plaster!

Now I will pump up the tyres.

Bicycle pump!

Iceland rules the world

2011-05-23T21:37:00.012+01:00

I worked with an Icelandic lady once.
I liked her.

She didn't look like this, but one can dream.
Cissa was her name.
Cissa was a BIG girl.
Her command of English was elementary, although she was particularly good at fly-fishing.
"I preefer too speek viv zee tung," she said.
"Oh, GLORY!" said I.
Of course, she never tickled my trout, but she frightened the pants off me
... and that was a long time ago.

Now I can breathe again ...

Seriously, now ...

I am not impressed by Iceland.

First, it rises from the sea, without global permission, in mid-Atlantis.
A spontaneously generated people hunts Wales - I mean whales.
Indigenes invent a language that is unintelligible to everyone else. That's a bit like Welsh!
They steal our fish.
They eat whales!
We have a war. That's the 'Cod War'. Such description is hardly likely to be retained in the memories of those who take twentieth-century history more seriously.

Iceland invites foreign investment.
They misuse such investment and go bankrupt.

Here's your worthless change ...

They accept loans upon which Iceland arrogantly defaults - both capital and interest.
Then, in 2010, Iceland explodes, whereby air transport within the northern hemisphere is disrupted for several weeks.
Having failed to bring about the end of the world on 21st May 2011, as predicted by a North American evangelist, Iceland sets off another bonfire.
The Icelandic Geological Association denies all responsibility.

Now, about my planned air journey next Saturday?

And Cissa is no longer in my life.

(Weeps!)

What is the function of that barrel-shaped thing at the extreme on of the stick?

2011-05-18T10:50:00.004+01:00

I am working on composing a quiz right now.
It will have a maritime theme.
I searched Google images for the word 'bowsprit'.
Here's one result:

Any tasteful suggestions for a corresponding question and answer will be most welcome.

My Wife's a Celebrity

2011-05-08T20:46:00.009+01:00

Today Jane completed a 50Km bicycle ride in aid of Action Medical Research.

Here she is being dispatched by Davina McCall.
That's Ruth, Jane's daughter, on the right.

Here's Jane leading the pack:

Later she was pictured on Meridian Tonight on ITV1.
Will celebrity go to her head?

Some of our friends now owe Jane lots of money!

The bicycles were cleaned, serviced and lubricated by St. Anley Two-Wheel Maintenance.co.uk, which establishment donated time and materials free of charge.

More about Budapest

2011-04-29T08:19:00.000+01:00

Somebody asked, "What was the food like?"

First, we thought it wise to avoid this eating-place:

Well, the following evening we found a Greek Taverna, Dionysius, by name.
We ordered a mixed kebab platter to share:

Despite our best efforts we couldn't finish it.

The following day we stopped for lunch at a hostelry on the Buda side of the city:

The waitress was rather pretty:

The beer was VERY good:

Jane, of course insisted on exploring the local shops:

And here she is in Tesco Express:

There is a very fine market:

... where Jane spent our remaining Forints.
Here she is bargaining with a very nice Hungarian man:

"Oh, no," said I, "Not another bag!"

Spring in Budapest

2011-04-28T18:19:00.000+01:00

Jane and I visited Bupapest during Easter.
It is a truly lovely city.
It will be even better when it's finished!

I acquired various invitations to visit local attractions like this:

There was even one advertising 'Sweet Massage Escort Agency', open from 6.00pm to 6.00am.

(Telephone: +36 (1) 3119273.)

Jane wouldn't let me accept, and google declined permission upload an interesting image.

Instead, Jane took me to the opera:

Well, I suppose the Prima Donna was rather lovely!

My Birthday Present

2011-04-28T10:23:00.005+01:00

For my birthday Jane and I attended a concert by Chris de Burgh in Birmingham, at Symphony Hall.
Actually, I paid for the tickets!

Now, C de B has been around for many years and he seems to be more warmly received in continental Europe than on British shores. Yeah, we’ve all heard ‘Lady in Red’; I always found that a little cheesy for my taste. Nevertheless, I think he has a great voice, and he writes from the heart.

The concert was entitled ‘Moonfleet and Other Stories’.
The idea was taken from the 1898 novel Moonfleet by J. Meade Falkner. Chris’s suite of songs and narration faithfully reflects that literature. I bought the CD and read the book in advance.
The book is a good read about smuggling, piracy, love and sorrow etc. The CD, at least the ‘moonfleet’ bit, has some magnificent and triumphant music. ‘Other stories’ seemed a bit superfluous.

At the concert I was disappointed to discover that the overture was a recording played from an empty stage. I was expecting a full orchestra.
After all, this was Symphony Hall!

Then we got into the concert. A lead-guitarist, a bass-player, keyboard-person and percussionist appeared on stage, along with Chris. I cannot remember their names, but those accompanying musicians were GOOD! The keyboards managed to emulate a plethora of orchestral sounds, the drummer was spot-on and the guitarists seemed to be having a good time.

After the ‘moonfleet’ part, Chris embarked on ‘other stories’. In fact, this was a re-run of much of his earlier material.

There were some highlights:
Spanish Train,
Borderline: there’s a line in that song, “… how men can see the wisdom in a war.” That prompted rapturous applause.
I wept!
Don’t Pay the Ferryman: weird, but exciting.
Lady in Red: I nearly vomited as Chris wandered around the stalls receiving kisses from all the ladies dressed in red. He almost made a mistake with the guy in a cerise tee-shirt!

Towards the end he performed People of the World. That is an anthem that Chris wrote in memory of an Iranian woman who was shot to death during a demonstration in Tehran in 2009.
As he sang “… stand up for freedom,” people stood.
We all sang.
I moistened my handerchief again!

"Oh, pull yourself together; get a grip!" said Jane.

How to hang out washing ...

2011-04-24T16:16:00.000+01:00

From the teaching of Saint Anley ...

It is of the utmost importance that similar items are suspended from the washing line by the same colour peg, thus:

There are three reasons for this:
First - they'll dry more quickly.
Second - it is easier to differentiate the underwear of the two genders.
Third - Jane thinks I'm autistic, and that those first two reasons are complete nonsense!

Wow!!!

2011-03-24T08:14:00.000Z

These guys need a haircut!

Regarding Original Sin ...

2011-03-23T22:10:00.006Z

Tracey was on the phone again today.
You’ll remember: I like Tracey.

We exchanged the customary telephonic pleasantries, without the necessity to remember my mother's maiden name or several characters from an obscure password, before she came to the point:

“Have you had an accident that wasn’t your fault?” she enquired.

I thought of several such incidents and decided to err on the side of caution.
“Yes, many!” I replied.

At this, Tracey's enquiries went up a gear. Incisively she continued: “Would you like to tell me about the first one?”

“Well, I have no clear recollection of it, but I was born.”

Tracey asked, "Are you sure it was an accident?"
"Well," said I, "I can't imagine that anyone would want to conceive me on purpose!"
“So how did you suffer as a result of this accident?”
“I suffered it well; I’ve had a lifetime of practice,” said I.

“Now, come on.” said Tracey, “Be more specific, please.”
“Well,” I responded, “How would you like to have the middle name of ‘Stanley’?”

“So is your first name ‘Accrington’?” asked Tracey.
(If only, I pondered: that would have been magnificent. I could have sported a coat of arms!)

Then Tracey asked me when this accident occurred.
I rapidly added nine months of gestation to my age and gave her an approximate date.

“Oh, that long ago!” she exclaimed.
“Who do you think was to blame for this accident?” she asked.

I paused to consider this philosophical question.
“Ultimately, Adam and Eve,” I replied.
“Oh, yes,” said Tracey, “and where are they now?”
“Somewhere in Paradise with fig-leaves, an apple tree and a snake,” was my reply.
“ …Oh, you could try an old china-clay pit near St. Austell in Cornwall.”

Eventually Tracey announced that acts of God were beyond the scope of litigation.

Fine, but it was lovely talking to her.

Oh, how I hate parody, but I couldn't resist this ...

2011-03-21T07:56:00.000Z

Things not to say at a job interview ...

2011-03-08T08:56:00.000Z

Thirty-odd years ago I applied for a job.

Back in those days you were expected to hand-write a short letter of application, accompanied by a professional-looking CV. All applications would be acknowledged by the advertiser, even if you were considered a non-starter.
That was an era of courtesy and accepted protocol.

Now, I say, ‘a job’, but this was to be a professional partnership that would involve my domestic translocation.

For this particular position I was adequately qualified and had suitable experience. I had rehearsed my responses to anticipated questions at the interview I hoped to be offered. I even had some naïve political views that I was prepared to share and justify.

The interview was going well, and my well-practised responses to the interviewers’ delving enquiries regarding professional aspects of the position seemed to meet with approval. I began to relax.

Then we came to, “… and how would you go about integrating with the local society?”
Now, I hadn’t practised this one.
Hobbies and pastimes would have been OK, but ‘social integration’?!

“I would probably attend Church,” I offered, rather too hastily.

(Now, bear in mind I am referring to a bygone age when it was entirely PC to advertise: “Christian practice requires someone of similar views …” So-worded had been this advertisement. We all knew that in reality that meant “British, white and middle class.” Applicants were expected to lie!)

My response was met with warm smiles that perhaps belied some circumspection on the part of my interviewers, who appeared to be wringing their hands rather nervously.

“Anything else?” one of them asked.
I paused.
Should I tell them about my passion for steam engines?
What about philately?
Do I tell them that I am a competent bicycle maintenance person?

“Yes,” I replied after thinking for a while; “I like folk music so I intend to seek out any local folk clubs.”

The silence, after a sharp intake of breath, in unison, was palpable.
The four members of the interviewing panel exchanged enigmatic glances. The corporate hand-wringing became more obvious, and I am sure that one of them kicked her neighbour under the desk that separated me from them.

“Fine, kindly leave us to consider for a few moments.”
I was ushered into the ante-room of the WC.

Within seconds the practice secretary was despatched to convey the outcome.
I think she smiled as she said to me, “I am terribly sorry …”

I rarely attended Church after that.
I still like folk music.

A New Grammatical Phrase ...

2011-03-07T12:32:00.000Z

I have just invented the 'ortho-palindrome'.
Now, we all know that a palindrome is a word that looks and spells the same when written forwards, or in reverse.

Look at these words:

1. Banana
2. Dresser
3. Grammar
4. Potato
5. Revive
6. Uneven
7. Assess

What do they have in common?

Answers by post written on the back of an exceedingly large cheque will be gratefully received.

Correct responses in 'comments' will be rewarded by being published.

Now I'll work on neo-onomatopoeia!

Regarding Trees ...

2011-02-20T23:33:00.001Z

So, Mr. Cameron has responded to popular pressure by not pursuing the idea of selling off England’s trees, forests and ancient woodland.
Campaigners, with whom I sympathise, and congratulate, regard this as a success.

BUT … is it a success?
The media reports DC’s recent statement as a U-turn by the government.
In reality it is an idea that has simply been shelved – put on the back-burner.
My guess is that the unholy coalition of our government has neglected to turn off the gas.
I can’t help thinking that this issue will come back.

These are trees...

They probably germinated from seed before you or me were ever conceived.

They do not belong to me, or you, or any individual, and certainly not to our parliamentary representatives.
I guess that The Crown might lay claim, (questionably,) to the land, but the aristocracy hunted out the game from the so-called 'Royal Forests', centuries ago.

I like trees.
Can you tell?

An Interesting Journey on the 700 Bus ...

2011-02-20T13:51:00.005Z

I took the bus yesterday evening.
You know I like buses.

There was a young man travelling, who clearly had Tourtette syndrome.
He expleted loudly, and repetitively, very rude words of a sexual nature.

Most of my fellow travellers just looked out of the window, reluctant to make eye-contact.

Between Chichester and Bognor, just before the Royal Oak, (that’s the pink pub,) a lady rose from her seat and approached the driver.
“Will you please get this man off the bus,” she said, “He is using obscene and offensive language. He said that he wants to stroke my …”
(Actually, he did say that; I heard!)
In silence, the driver simply responded by pointing to a notice that read as follows:

“Do not stand forward of this sign.”
“Do not distract the driver while the bus is in motion.”

The lady continued her exhortation with increasing vehemence.
The Tourette sufferer, remaining in his seat, responded at a competitive volume.
The driver drove on.

Nobody had pressed the bell for the bus to stop just beyond the Royal Oak.
Nobody had hailed it from the roadside.
The driver stopped his bus ...

“Now,” said the lady, “Will you remove this disgusting person?”

“No,” said the driver, “This is where YOU get off!”

Well done, Driver!

A Maritme Quiz ...

2011-02-01T10:58:00.000Z

There you are, on a starboard tack, having a leisurely sail in Chichester Harbour. Another boat, displays a rectangular burgee that looks thus:

She is on a collision course at great speed.
What is the courteous and prudent thing to do?

A) Abandon ship
B) Shout rude words
C) Send snipers to the top-rigging
D) Pray
E) Partake of alcohol
F) Get out of the way
G) Gybe
H) Put about
I) Heave-to and hope
J) Fire distress flares
K) Make a video-recording of the event on your mobile phone
L) Contact your marine insurers

M) Any or all of the above!

That Concertina and The Gresford Disaster...

2011-01-16T12:17:00.003Z

A few teething problems have been surmounted following the helpful advice of my concertina vendor, and some mechanical intervention and further recommendations from a friendly repairer.

Gresford by dogsbody

I tried to post this demo on facebook, but my extensively researched account of the Gresford Mining Disaster of 1934 was foreshortened.

Here goes:

The Gresford Mining Disaster

On 22nd September 1934 there was a notorious mining catastrophe at the Gresford Mine near Wrexham.
266 colliers died following an explosion.
The youngest, Duncan Bett, was 12 years old. The eldest was James Sam Edwards, 87.

The event is documented in an anonymously published broadside, sales of which helped raise money for the relief of the victims’ families.

Lyrics as follows ...

You've heard of the Gresford Disaster,
Of the terrible price that was paid;
Two hundred and forty two colliers were lost,
And three men of the rescue brigade.

It occurred in the month of September
At three in the morning the pit
Was racked by a violent explosion
In the Dennis where gas lay so thick.

Now the gas in the Dennis deep section
Was heaped there like snow in a drift,
And many a man had to leave the coal-face
Before he had worked out his shift.

Now a fortnight before the explosion,
To the shotfirer Tomlinson cried,
"If you fire that shot we'll be all blown to hell!"
And no one can say that he lied.

Now the fireman's reports they are missing
The records of forty-two days;
The collier manager had them destroyed
To cover his criminal ways.

Down there in the dark they are lying.
They died for nine shillings a day;
They have worked out their shift and now they must lie
In the darkness until Judgement day.

Now the Lord Mayor of London's collecting
To help out the children and wives;
The owners have sent some white lilies
To pay for the poor colliers' lives.

Farewell all our dear wives and children
Farewell all our comrades as well,
Don't send your sons down the dark dreary pit
They'll be doomed like the sinners in hell.

One source gives the tune as a variant of Botany Bay. (http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk/song-midis/Gresford_Disaster.htm)
I’m not sure I like that.
More commonly I come across it to Alexander Reinagle’s music that accompanies John Newton’s hymn, 'How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds'.
That’s fitting because the colliery band is known to have played that tune at the pithead during unsuccessful rescue attempts. Thereafter it has popularly become known as ‘Gresford’ and ‘The Miners Hymn’.

John Tams is credited as having married up the words with that tune, as recorded by The Albion Band. (http://riseuplikethesun2.tripod.com/id11.html
and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCKBhmK95q4)

Gerry Rafferty, RIP.

2011-01-05T08:22:00.002Z

A sad loss to the music world was reported today ...

The saxaphone never held much appeal for me until I first heard this on a late-night radio programme.
It is late-night music, after all.
"Wow!!!" I exclaimed.

I am told that the sax-player was never credited on the original album.

A Seasonal Story #3

2010-12-25T14:43:00.001Z

Christmas Day at last!

In Dulce Jubilo and Sussex Carol by dogsbody

"God bless us, one and all!"

A Seasonal Story #2

2010-12-24T14:26:00.001Z

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 ...

2010-12-22T18:11:00.007Z

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 ...

2010-12-15T12:23:00.001Z

How to beat terrorist insurgents ...

2010-12-07T14:47:00.004Z

"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 ...

2010-11-12T10:08:00.010Z

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 ...

2010-10-17T00:06:00.008+01:00

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

2010-10-04T22:54:00.002+01:00

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 ...

2010-09-29T08:44:00.001+01:00

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

2010-09-29T07:36:00.001+01:00

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

2010-09-26T23:12:00.009+01:00

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 ...

2010-08-23T11:47:00.005+01:00

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 ...

2010-08-22T20:32:00.000+01:00

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 ...

2010-08-20T16:53:00.006+01:00

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 ...

2010-08-15T10:58:00.005+01:00

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?

2010-07-06T14:08:00.004+01:00

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 ...

2010-06-24T13:20:00.007+01:00

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 ...

2010-06-22T18:54:00.001+01:00

"Unavoidable," says George.

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

What next?

BP?!!!

Our Greek Holiday

2010-06-08T14:52:00.002+01:00

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 ...

2010-05-11T22:56:00.003+01:00

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 ...

2010-04-30T05:55:00.004+01:00

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!

2010-04-27T17:29:00.025+01:00

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 ...

2010-04-27T08:29:00.005+01:00

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?

2010-03-30T10:14:00.004+01:00

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

2010-03-22T10:52:00.002Z

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 ...

2010-03-17T10:56:00.010Z

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 ...

2010-02-24T08:31:00.006Z

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 ...

2010-02-22T10:23:00.007Z

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 ...

2010-02-08T17:21:00.000Z

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 ...

2010-02-05T09:05:00.001Z

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 ...

2010-01-26T10:40:00.176Z

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 sieved 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.

2010-01-21T17:17:00.002Z

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!

Baah Humbug

2010-01-03T19:53:00.000Z

Like a breath I knew would come ...

2009-11-23T10:40:00.000Z

I thought I had 'blogged' this some while ago, but I was confused ...

Words and music are by John David.
John David was the bass player for Love Sculpture (Sabre Dance) and later, Dave Edmunds (I Hear You Knockin').

I have to thank my good friend, Ken, for that intelligence regarding the origin of this smashing piece.

There exists a recording (inaccessible on youtube) by Airwaves that, in my humble opinion, is better.

I thank my friends, Lynda and Paul, for performing this song for me at the City Folk Club recently.

I reach for the new day...

It's an age-old problem ...

2009-11-16T08:51:00.002Z

Or is it just a problem advancing age?

Now, why can't I find this book that I so desperately seek? ...

2009-11-11T09:12:00.005Z

My friend, who lived and occupied some spare time taking obscure photographs in Hong Kong, sent me this possible explanation.

Perhaps you are looking in the ...

Thanks, Bill!

A pre-Christmas circumlocution ...

2009-11-10T11:10:00.002Z

A new day has dawned.

That is so exciting!
I have been preserved.
The world is still there.
The reason for, and the orchestrator of, this preservation remains a mystery to me.
Yet, I am inexplicably grateful.

Grateful to whom?
I don’t know.

Thus, I wake in trembling anticipation …

What will happen today?
Who will cross my path?
Will the postman bring some unexpected offer that will cost me nothing?
What new music will I hear?
What ancient music shall I reiterate on youtube?
What new friend will I make?
Who shall I encourage?
Who will encourage me?

How much more carbon dioxide will we pump into the atmosphere?
Which nuclear establishment will go into critical meltdown?
How will the weather be?
Does that matter?

Is the apocalypse imminent?
Is today to be the final judgement?
Will the seventh trumpet be heard? (Rev. 11:15)

“Who may abide the day of His coming?” (Malachi 3:2)
Will I behold a pale horse bearing the personification of death? (Rev. 6:8)

Will the Earth give up her dead?
I hope not; Auntie Ethel never liked me!

Will God change his mind?
Is there a Biblical precedent?

Couldn’t the Almighty send the odd squadron of celestial beings to range the skies announcing, in perfect harmony, the complete forgiveness of all human-kind?

Some would argue that He already did.

NHS to fund road-gritting ...

2009-11-09T16:23:00.003Z

Did I hear this correctly?

I can’t quote verbatim, (being overcome by laughter,) but the news report I have just heard on the radio suggested that an NHS Trust in County Durham is to contribute £1,000,000 towards gritting of roads and footways this coming winter.

Now, I can understand the preventative motivation of this activity, but I fail to see that such expenditure is the remit of the NHS.

I am rather depressed about the state of our national economy. I wonder if that same trust would care to supplement my income before I become suicidal!

Now, where did I put my psychotropic medication?

My thought for the day ...

2009-11-04T14:01:00.003Z

There is at least one thing wrong about a free-market economy.
By nature it is competitive!

The market should be co-operative and compassionate.
The global market needs to recognise the interdependence of humanity.

Hereby I present my manifesto as the only credible candidate for EU presidency.

They’re Coming to Take Me Away, ha ha!

2009-10-20T07:53:00.007+01:00

My wife believes my mind is disturbed,
That something is wrong in my brain,

My incessant rambling leaves her perturbed.

She thinks I am going insane.

I speak with things inanimate.
I converse with the walls and the floor.
With hardware I am intimate.

I’m in love with the knob on the door.

In gobbledegook I am well versed,

Progressing to nonsense by noon.

My divers tongues are so well rehearsed,

I’ll be speaking in bullshit quite soon.

By my tee-shirt I will advertise,

“Garbage spoken here!”

My condition I will not disguise,

I’m not infectious, have no fear!

I’m connected to the National Grid

Of voices that come through the walls.

My imaginary friends, Gertrude and Sid,
Assist me in talking sheer balls.

My doctor says, “It’s drugs that you need,

Psychotropics are good.

Then again, there is ECT

For rapid improvement of mood.”

No need have I for these mind-bending tools.

I’m happy the way that I am.

Pills such as Prozac, they’re just for fools.

If I’m mad then, who gives a damn?

The world’s convinced my mind’s deranged.

No doubt that opinion is right.

From reality I am estranged,
And I’m really enjoying this plight!

(CT, August 2007)

Crib Goch ...

2009-10-16T12:41:00.002+01:00

I have a friend who justifiably boasts of having achieved the summits of The Wolf's Jaws somewere in the US.

Well done, Dana!

This is an image of one of the ridges (sometimes known as 'pinnacle ridge') approaching the summit of Snowdon in North Wales. Note the weather conditions. That's the best you can expect!

Done that.
Got scared.

Wife cried!

A Flower is no more ...

2009-09-19T00:18:00.006+01:00

This week we learned that Mary Travers, at the age of 72, passed away.

I am saddened.

I wonder … how many people of my generation had their first taste of (what we then thought was) folk music on hearing Peter, Paul and Mary?

Was it folk music?

It became so, and remains so.

Some might argue that it was 'twee' popular music for a commercial market.

I disagree.

Who cares? Let’s not go there!

PP&M produced music that was pleasing to many.

In folk clubs of the 1960s and 70s someone from the floor would always offer a cover of their material. It happens even now.

Was it not only couple of weeks ago that our very own Mike performed ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ at the City Folk Club? Didn’t we all join in?

‘Pleasing’ is too trite an adjective. Much of their music was socio-politically motivated. It spoke of opposition to the Viet Nam war, of pacifism, and of support for the civil-rights movement. There were, and remain, powerful messages in much of what they performed. Social awareness was raised. Consciences were stirred.

That, of course, was before we all became hippies!

So, where have all the flowers gone?

Is the answer really ‘blowin’ the wind'?

Wrongly-addressed mail ...

2009-09-16T08:22:00.006+01:00

A friend emailed me this image with the subject heading 'tighten your what?!'

Is there a subliminal message for me here?

Does my wind cause offence?

Titan is, of course, a satellite of Saturn (not Uranus), and lies several astromomical units away from Hong Kong!

Not known at this address.

Return to sender!

Welcome, Ed ...

2009-09-16T07:44:00.006+01:00

There is someone out there called Ed Searl.
He has just become a ‘follower’ of this blog.
I can’t think why, but thank you for your interest.

Enlighten me, Ed, please.
Do I know you?
Have we met?
How did you find me?
(Well, I trust!)
Do you share my interest in publishing disordered and banal thoughts?
Do we both have too much spare time?

In spite of my fictional canonisation, you don’t need to genuflect, just respond as a ‘comment’!

PS. Alternatively, while I decline to put my email address in this public domain, I do receive messages via youtube. My channel is at http://www.youtube.com/user/nolicnotrut?gl=GB&hl=en-GB.
There's nonesense there too!

Say Goodbye to it all ..

2009-09-15T13:34:00.003+01:00

"These were only boys ...

... who will never know how men can see the wisdom in a war."
(Chris de Burgh, Borderline)
See - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29yXef8TqkY

Comfort in Bereavement ...

2009-09-14T08:12:00.003+01:00

The very last of my elderly relatives died recently. This generated tears at her funeral.

Me next?

Door-Step Evangelism ...

2009-09-07T15:25:00.017+01:00

I have just been blessed by a visitation from some really nice people.
I invited them in for tea.
We had an interesting exchange.

What follows summarises (?) my contrary argument …

Bishop Ussher (1581–1656) declared that this Earth was created in 4004 BC. He based this assertion on genealogy of Adam’s offspring documented in the Holy Bible. Now, I do not have the time, patience or resources to verify that succession, although some of it seems to be exhaustively chronicled.

I don’t believe it.

The Genesis story gives an account of creation in six days (plus one for a rest). I have a problem here. For one ‘day’ to exist, we need a benchmark of time. In this instance, it requires a pre-existing, spherical and rotating planet, wherefrom a pre-existing sun can be regularly observed. Some argue that the chronological order in which earthly things came into being is probably correct. There are those who contend that God’s ‘day’ is something beyond the understanding of we earthly mortals.

This biblical account was written from the then incomplete wisdom of the author, possibly Moses, for acceptance by the partial understanding of the listeners of that time.
That was brilliant! It worked. It survived. It continues to be promulgated.
Many who continue to believe it are very worthy souls.
Some have simple minds.

But, it is scientific nonsense!

Have I just committed heresy? Should I be tortured until I recant lest I be burnt at the stake? Is my very soul in jeopardy?

Scientists tell us that the Universe is about 14 billion years old. Earth is a youngster at 4.6 billion years. They can produce evidence, (most of which I fail to understand), that this is so.

I am inclined to believe this, not only because such knowledge gained me a Bachelor’s degree from the Open University!

I ask this question: if you’d said ‘desoxy-ribose-nucleic acid’ to Moses, what would he have understood?
What would Moses have known of quantum physics?
Would he have heard on ‘tele-evangelism’?

Of course, none of that is Moses’ fault; he was simply working from the partial knowledge of his time.
What do tele-evangelists really know?

Do I come across as an atheist?
My visitors thought so.
I am NOT!
I subscribe to the Heisenburg uncertainty principle ...

“Lord, I believe. Help, thou, mine unbelief!” (Mark 9: 24)

Ignore poverty and it will go away ...

2009-08-20T20:52:00.011+01:00

I was recently frivolously engaged in debate on another blog regarding the commercial basis of music. My response was utterly irrelevant to the original contention, but I became possessed of an original, albeit lateral, thought:
‘Poverty is the collateral damage associated with the free-market economy.’
I thought that was fairly clever. My exposition follows.

In my understanding, limited though that may be, the following are key words and phrases that underlie a free-market economy: supply and demand, competition, speculation, accumulation, self-regulation and unrestricted trade.

Imagine, if you will, that I am poor.
My demands, requirements necessary to survival, are considerable. The supply might be around, but my poverty denies me access to that supply.

Having sold my dwelling and land, eaten my livestock and having abandoned my ungrateful offspring to their uncertain fortunes in a faraway city, the only commodity with which I can speculate is my labour.
Now, we have all seen how fragile the labour market can be.

Speculation, by its very nature, involves risk. As exemplified by the recent banking crisis, it does not always lead to accumulation.

My desperation might even lead me into a life of crime. It is said that crime never pays. My arrest, conviction and subsequent imprisonment would render me disenfranchised. Thereby I have no voice; that is another major feature of poverty. I am then released from captivity. I have no address. Thereby I become unemployable and my credit-rating is zero. Having no gainful employment, I have no access to permanent accommodation. Herein lies the inexorable spiral of poverty.

Consider now ‘unrestricted trade’. Do we have that? Have we ever? My meagre means ensure that my ability to trade is very seriously restricted. I cannot compete. My poverty begets destitution, starvation and death.

Does that matter?
The US administration of George Bush regularly demonstrated gross complacency on this issue, and seemed to have the attitude that, if you ignore poverty, it will go away. Witness the tardy response to the devastating flooding of New Orleans.
On the subject of climate change we heard Mr. Bush say, “The American way of life is not for negotiation.” Is that in context? Yes, be assured that global warming will lead to widespread poverty.

Indeed, it is probably true that ignoring poor people might eventually make them disappear, whereby poverty, as a concept, ceases to be a problem for those who remain.

We have another example on our own shores. I refer to the utterly inadequate response (some would say intentionally so) of the British government to the Irish potato famine of 1845. The Irish population (consisting of largely unwilling British subjects at that time) was decimated by starvation, disease and emigration.

See – it almost worked!

Now, do I believe what I have just written? I think I have justified the hypothesis intellectually in economic, historical and self-indulgent imaginary terms.

Is it right?
I mean morally.
That, of course, is another question.
I think not.

Will our national leaders ever begin to seek something more than another term in office?
When will they engage at least a degree of compassion and altruism?
When will the relief of human suffering become a priority in their minds?
Can they be persuaded that poverty is blight on our global society, that wealth is to be shared and that, as long as poverty exists, it remains a communal responsibility?

It is a responsibility that needs to be addressed by us all. The eradication of poverty is not the function a free-market economy. This issue needs strategies more than the forlorn hope that poverty will simply go away.

Do my politics look big in this?

And my wife says, "You're not having one of those, either!" ...

2009-08-12T11:22:00.003+01:00

Take a tip from me.

Never, never, never, search for 'hurdy gurdy' on youtube!

The results can be excrutiating.

The Last WW1 Veteran ...

2009-08-09T18:54:00.006+01:00

Harry Patch died last week.

This man of great dignity and compassion said, "War is just organised murder, and nothing more."

When will they ever learn? ...

I am moved to publish these words from John Tams:

Scarecrow

I see the barley moving as the mowers find their pace.
I see the line advancing with a steady timeless grace,
And there's passion in their eyes, and there's honour in their face,
As they scythe down the castles and the courts.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I smell the smoke of stubble when the harvest is brought down.
I see the fire a-burning as it purges all around,
And the field is turned to ashes, and the only living sound
Are the skylarks as they try to reach the sun.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I see the barbed wire growing like a bramble on the land.
I see a farm turned to a fortress and a future turned to sand.
I see a meadow turn to mud, and from it grows a hand,
Like a scarecrow that is fallen in the rain.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

God bless you, Harry.

Ma femme, elle dit, "NON!" ...

2009-07-22T09:15:00.002+01:00

Shortly we will be visiting northern France.
I want to buy a bombarde.
"What's a bombarde?" I hear you ask.

Watch and listen...

From wikipedia: "The bombard, or bombarde (in Breton) is a conical bore double-reed musical instrument from Brittany. The bombarde is blown by the mouth; the reed is held between the lips. Typically pitched in B flat, it plays a diatonic scale over two octaves."

Fortunately the sporting of bleached hair and wearing of a skirt are not prerequisites!
In spite of that, my wife continues with her objections.

Product review ...

2009-07-08T19:17:00.020+01:00

A few weeks ago my wife insisted on purchasing a wild bird feeding station. It looked something like this...

Initially the parts didn't fit together properly but after three return visits to the garden centre, we managed to plant it.

After one week it had germinated and looked thus ...

Notice the miraculous appearance of coconut shells and various devices for holding seed and peanuts.

Notice also - no birds!

I suggested taking the thing back for a refund since it clearly didn't work.

After a further week we witnessed this ...

This solitary bird didn't know how to use the device. I tried to show it, but it flew away.

Once again I urged my wife to return the product to the retailer as it seemed unfit for purpose.

YESTERDAY ...

Avian war broke out!

I will take this thing back myself.

I don't just want a refund;
I demand compensation for disturbance of my peace !

I think I woke up this morning ...

2009-07-01T08:41:00.008+01:00

... and I have vague recollection of hearing this on Radio ... (can't recall)!

My day was enlightened.
Then I think I shed tears!
For whom? - I forget.

Never mind - cogito ergo sum!

Should I increase my medication, Doctor?

Midsummer Eve ...

2009-06-23T07:20:00.008+01:00

Well, here we are at the end of Imbolc (Celtic for 'lactation of the ewes'). Tomorrow's sunrise marks the Celtic festival of Beltain, the first day of summer. This will be a season of partnerships and fertility. New couples will proclaim their love for each other. 'Writings from the puritanical elements during the English civil war show the festival was alive and well in the 17th century. We have quotes such as- "Couples would go into the woods at night and ne'er a third returned undefiled!"'

Ref: http://www.gallica.co.uk/celts/calendar.htm

There were no such activities for me and my friends that evening. There was much benign derision, but no one was defiled. However, here's Fiddlin' Bill performing Cripple Creek, while admirably ignoring bum notes from the out-of-sight concertina player.

Astute viewers will notice the vertically-challenged lighting engineer struggling unsuccessfully for attention!

Now let's all set off for that henge-thingy ...

A Gracious Woman ...

2009-05-31T12:46:00.005+01:00

I have a friend who has a charming and delightful wife. In some recent correspondence I urged him to 'value her'.

This is how my friend responded:

I've had [my wife] valued. Despite being an older property of considerable character with a pleasant facade and a satisfying interior, the high maintenance required affects the value rather badly. Or in my case, baldly. For myself, a striking, if unusual, frontage is affected by some seepage at times and a tendency to cracks and dry rot. Roof needs attention to avoid damage by sun, wind and rain. There are some marks left by previous repairs, and everything creaks. All in all, a newbuild would be a better choice, but they are in high demand, and the owners prefer first-time buyers.

Remember, my friend ...

Who lives in a house like this?

2009-05-22T09:54:00.006+01:00

The clues are here...

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/mps-expenses/5360873/MPs-expenses-Furious-David-Cameron-orders-Tory-grandee-to-quit-over-duck-island.html

I/you/we paid for this floating abode.
Shall we all become ducks take up residence?

Alternatively, the magnanimous thing that Sir Peter could do is to be persuaded to make it available the homeless PEOPLE of his constituency. Unfortunately, they'll all have to have webbed-feet, brilliant plumage and be less than 5 feet tall. Having no fixed address, many such people are disenfranchised, of course.

How much more nonsense are we to tolerate before we re-establish the authority of our monarch?!
Come on, Queen, dissolve the lot. Constitutionally, and historically, you have that power.
I wish you longevity because I might change my view after you've gone!

Can I clean your moat, Ma-am?!

Gabriel's Oboe ...

2009-05-14T15:35:00.003+01:00

I just found this on youtube.
I had to post it.

It is one of the most beautiful melodies I have ever heard. Ennio Morriconi composed the soundtrack for the film The Mission. The melody doesn't need words, but this is both charming and triumphant.

I love it!

The Stinky-Poo Parliament …

2009-05-14T11:52:00.015+01:00

Given the recent disclosures of expenses claimed by our parliamentary representatives, I find myself in a mood of indignation. The word 'corruption' comes to mind. In an economic scenario that may soon see the UK having the GDP of a ‘third-world country’, one of my representatives has claimed an annual expense which is worth more than the current value of my home.

Many MPs have come under the spotlight. Here are some of the offered explanations/excuses/justifications, and my immediate thoughts:

“I did nothing wrong. It was all within the rules ...”

Perhaps there’s something wrong with the rules then.

Now, just who made those rules?

“I made an error of judgement ...”

Yes! Possibly the electorate made an error of judgement at the polling station too!

“I made a mistake …”

Really? Many of us think that you’re just milking the system.

“I needed somewhere to spend time with my family …”

Don’t we all? That’s usually a given reason for resignation.

I could go on.

Bring back the authority of our Head of State, say I.

What has she got to say about all this? Unlike some of our present elected rulers, our Queen is a good person. She has integrity and a considerable amount of experience. As a tax-payer, I willingly contribute to the upkeep of her royal residence. (Well, perhaps not all of them!). Does she claim expenses for horse-manure or dog-food?
Who cleans her moat?

Having said that, I remain cautiously circumspect about the qualities of her immediate successor.

Where are you, Mr. Cromwell?!

Did someone say, "Such a parcel of rogues ...?"

Is Morris Dancing an Exclusively Male Activity?

2009-05-06T07:28:00.003+01:00

There are those purists who opine that women shouldn't do this.

I disagree. Here's the women's side of Oyster Morris optimistically invoking the spirits of economic recovery outside a bank in Canterbury ...

The gymnastic red-haired lady was particularly attractive!

Happy Easter...

2009-04-11T10:54:00.002+01:00

Truth ...

2009-03-27T14:13:00.008Z

In a recent conversation with a friend, we discussed the correct placing of punctuation within parentheses. My friend, a follower of Ms. Truss, wrote, "I am merely a seeker of truth."
I believe that his soul may be in danger.

I wrote as follows:

Surely, you've been on this Earth long enough to realise that 'truth' is ephemeral.

First we had God. He was followed, after a 14,000,000,000 year-long gestation, by Jesus. He said, " ... I am the truth ..."

Many mortals came after.
Bishop Ussher declared that the world was created on 23rd. October, 4004 BC, (by the Julian calendar).
Darwin caused uproar.
Thomas Malthus said we should be extinct by now.
Richard Dawkins confounded everyone with 'intelligent design', while Noel Edmonds engaged in 'cosmic ordering'. (He needs it.)
NOW even the Pope confesses to fallibility! (We all knew that, anyway.)

The only absolute truth, according to nobody else but me, (in whom I have complete faith), is as follows:

If you wish to parenthesise a complete sentence, perhaps as an afterthought, the final full-stop belongs before the closing bracket.
See below:

(Otherwise, truth is nothing but myth, legend and superstition.)
It would silly like this: (Otherwise, truth is nothing but myth, legend and superstition).

In Memoriam...

2009-03-20T09:26:00.005Z

Another cat died yesterday. This was unexpected and untimely. It must have been shocking for her carers. Holly was rescued and nurtured to become the much-loved companion of my good friends Berry and Brenda. I have reason to share their pain.

This is for them...

Sand and Water

All alone, I didn't like the feeling.
All alone, I sat and cried.
All alone, I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside.

All alone, I came into this world.
All alone, I will someday die.
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby,
Sand and water, and a million years gone by.

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns.
I will hear you in the sound of the waves.
I will know you when I come, as we all will come,
Through the doors beyond the grave.

All alone, I heal this heart of sorrow.
All alone, I raise this child.
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow,
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile.

All alone, I came into this world.
All alone, I will someday die.
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby,
Sand and water and a million years gone by.

This is for you, Berry and Brenda, with our love and sympathy.
Don't worry, Misty will be looking out for her!
xC&J.

Who's got gold these days?

2009-03-11T07:51:00.007Z

Youtube has fallen foul of the Performing Rights Society (PRS) in UK.
I had to upload this before it disappears.

I haven't a clue what Neil Young's lyrics are about:
Drugs? Armageddon? UFOs?
Does it matter?

I woke up to this rendition by Prelude on the radio the other day.

I remain stunned!

Listen NOW!
This video might self destruct, taking your PC with it, within the next few days.
THEN, blame the mendacity of PRS!

Something about "Quantitative Easing" ...

2009-03-05T12:29:00.024Z

Now, look here, Mervyn, what load of nonsense is this?
Here is my government's banker proposing to print money!
Surely, money has to be earned, not just printed!

I could print money.
"I promise to pay the bearer b***** all," it would say.

I am no academic economist, but I derive from some earlier-received wisdom that such a strategy is a recipe for inflation. That would mean higher prices, increasingly widespread poverty and a devaluation of the odd pound in my pocket. I can put that pound in my bank (risky) or I can secrete it beneath my mattress. Wherever, it remains at risk of devaluation.

I have every sympathy with those who are threatened with redundancy, unemployment and repossession of their properties. I acknowledge my own good fortune in not being so threatened (yet.) Unfortunately, now we are witnessing the fruits of an overconfident, credit-orientated economic system which has come to disadvantage us all.

In youth my parents encouraged me to save. I did.
In adult life my bankers invited me to borrow. I did.
Now, in later years, my government implores me to spend.
I suppose I must!

What's your terminal bonus going to be, Mr. King?

....

On top of all that, I learn that the Royal Mint (with my government's approval) is to abandon the image of Britannia on our coins of the realm.

"Shame on you," I say, "How very dare you?!"

I wonder: what does the Queen have to say about this?

Rule Britannia! (But mind where you're putting that trident!)

Pompey wins the FA Cup ..

2009-02-27T17:44:00.003Z

Most of you probably think the Portsmouth striker is a bloke, don't you?

Actually, I am married to her!

I am the chimp on the left ...

2009-02-27T07:03:00.007Z

The person who sent me the following clip prefaced it with a derogatory title about Irish people and their Darwinian heritage.

PC requires that it do NOT reproduce that introduction.

This sender should be kneecapped, tarred and feathered.
(Is 'tarred' a correct verb?)

I complain to the director that, apart from the opening frames, I receive minimal exposure. What's the one in the middle got that I haven't!

Now look here, Bill (1.however-many decimals,) this is parody in the extreme. The Riverdance productions were a complete delight.

I remain very fond of my Irish friends.
Darwin was pretty bright, too!

Anyone for tea? ...

Good,eh?!

Kipling and vampires...

2009-02-18T01:23:00.003Z

Philip Burne-Jones' picture, "The Vampire" (first exhibited in 1896,) depicts a woman mounting a sleeping/unconscious man.

(Oh, lucky man!)

In 1897 Rudyard Kipling was reputed to have been inspired to write his poem “The Vampire” after viewing this image. Here it is:

The Vampire

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair--
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died--
(Even as you or I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand--
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!

(I don't understand either!)

The Dream of St. Anley ...

2009-02-17T12:15:00.004Z

Those of you who have had the patience to follow this blog, you will know that St. Anley the Incandescent is an illiminated and imaginary figure.

He is also St. Anley the Imaginative. He has several imaginary friends. (They are always best friends.)

Today he woke up and imagined receiving a telephone call. He didn't quite catch the caller's name, but she directed him to this masterpiece on youtube:

St. Anley was transported into continued imagination and further slumber.
He dreamed that she said, "I'll be along on Friday."

Then he woke up.

Reality dawned!

Oikan Anis Bethlehem...

2009-02-13T06:44:00.004Z

Somebody commented , kindly, on a video I posted on Youtube.
These are the English words of a carol originally written in Manx gaelic:

Oikan Anys Bethlehem

Now let us keep this feast,
And keep it with pure hearts,
In remembrance of Jesus Christ:
Baby in Bethlehem.

He left the courts of his Father,
Taking on our human form,
Born of a pure maiden:
Baby in Bethlehem.

The angels of heaven were glad,
And came with news to us,
Telling of the Saviour born today:
Baby in Bethlehem.

Is it not great the meekness
Which was in Christ the Lamb?
When He took on a servant’s form:
Baby in Bethlehem.

Glory up to God above,
Who rules in happiness.
Goodwill of God is shown to us:
Baby in Bethlehem.

I hope that helps.

The foolhardy might want to follow this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GtPZkQ6uv8&feature=channel

Into the West...

2009-02-11T07:33:00.007Z

Here's some more for Misty...

(Originally I posted a video incorporating Annie Lennox singing 'Into the West'. Understandably, that was removed from youtube because of copyright infringement. Here's Enya singing 'Exile' instead.)

[Gandalf]...and all turns to silver glass,
and then you see it...
White shores, and beyond - a far great country,
unto a swift sunrise.

I suppose Gandalf will be the next to be disallowed!

Play 'Misty' for me...

2009-02-10T17:38:00.002Z

I watched our family cat die last week.
Her name was Misty.

Sadly mist!

How do you walk in those shoes?

2009-02-09T07:42:00.001Z

Attached to this elegant foot is my wife's shapely body. She is too modest to allow me to publish any more of her desirable form.

A grumpy old man's reflections about winter in the North

2009-02-03T10:40:00.058Z

Please have in mind that I am writing of the austerity-years of the 1950s. The location is a small industrial town in Lancashire. God made it. Then, it has been rumoured, He forgot about it. It was a time and place where people were born, dubiously-raised, educated, worked, married, procreated (not necessarily in that order) and died without ever having strayed further than the great metropolis of Manchester.

Occasionally there might have been a coach-trip to Blackpool. (Such was the corporate entertainment of the time.)

Life was very different then. Perhaps it was more parochial and pragmatic, than it is now. Car ownership, and many other modern conveniences, were far from universal. (Lots of less-than-modern conveniences were inconveniently situated in the back yard. They were a Victorian builder's afterthought. The plumbing regularly froze!)

Personal transport, if you were fortunate, was a rusty-chained bicycle that needed new tyres. The concept of 'Commuting' was a rumour. It was what rich people were said to be doing around faraway London. Here it was not a consideration. Most people lived where they worked ... and enjoyed vivid dreams.

(I meant about bikes!)

There were proper railways then. As well as passengers, they would transport freight and livestock. Interminable rakes of mineral-wagons were hauled, rattling through the night, bringing fuel from the Yorkshire coal fields to centres of manufacture.

The permanent way had sleepers that had been lovingly hewn from solid timber, not those inorganic concrete things we see now. The rails were of bullhead profile, held in ‘chairs’ with wedges.

Steam was king!

Drifting off to sleep, the comforting noise of shunting in the nearby goods yard echoed around the valley. You felt you wanted to 'bottle' that sound. It made every young boy dream of owning a Hornby-Dublo train set, and of growing up to be an engine driver.

Mills were operating throughout day and night. You knew that life continued as long as you could hear those shuttles flying.

People had jobs there. Everybody did. Whole families relied on the mills for their sustenance. Parents had no greater expectation than that their offspring would follow them into similar employment.

"What will we do if Johnny passes his 11-plus exams?" asked many an anxious mother.

Factory chimneys were tall and branded. They had personality. We loved them. Their emissions were a constant reassurance that all was well in our small world.

Fred Dibnah (bless him) had triumphed over the hazardous life-crisis of adolescence. He began fearlessly and famously climbing tall architectural structures. Little did we know what was to come.
(Some say that Fred never grew up!)

Dr. Beeching was yet to take over responsibility for the railways. What qualified him to usurp the responsibility of the fat controller?

(Does this anorak suit me?)

Winter came at least once a year. It would snow.
Heavily!
Every year it would snow.
Oh, what joy!

The sledge your dad had made came out of the shed/attic/outside loo. Woolworths would regularly sell them from November onwards, but your pocket-money was never enough, and the one your Dad had made was always better.

.
The weather wasn't bad, just a minor inconvenience. You lived with it. You adapted to it. Schools did not close; we were simply advised to wear more clothing. Getting changed for PE in front of your peers became acutely embarrassing: "Your mother knitted THAT?!" they'd enquire in total disbelief.

The school milk that came in third-pint bottles was always frozen.

Then, we’d never heard of the ‘school-run’. It wasn’t necessary to be accompanied; you walked or cycled to school. We trusted Charlie, the friendly lollipop-man, to see us safely across the main road from Rochdale.

There were no parking difficulties outside my school. The only person who had a car in those days was the headmaster. It was a much-coveted Triumph Mayflower, in silver-grey, if memory serves me correctly. (Mr. Fenwick even possessed some snow-chains!)

Buses still operated on roads that had been cleared by public-spirited farmers coming down from the surrounding hills with their tractors. Points on the railways did not freeze; they’d been in continuous use throughout the night. We never had the ‘wrong sort of snow’.

While we youngsters attended school, our elders went to earn the daily bread, negotiating waist-high snow-drifts. They just set off earlier.

Only occasionally did they freeze to death on their way home.

We unfailingly walked to chapel (three times) on Sunday, where a fearsome minister exhorted the congregation to endure shivering throughout the sermon as ‘righteous suffering’. Only Auntie Muriel (the organist) succumbed to hypothermia.

The postman uncomplainingly struggled to deliver Her Majesty's mail. His worthy mission did not depend upon motorised transport; he walked from the sorting office. Mother regularly asked him in for a cup of tea and a 'warm-up'. He seemed a nice man; I liked him. However, even before the kettle had boiled, Mum would wrap me up in my warmest clothes, gloves and balaclava, and send me out to play.

In Mum's defence, I must add that I am not aware that I have any younger siblings. Nevertheless, after that, I briefly toyed with the aspiration of becoming a postman!

The doctor, carrying a worn Gladstone-bag full of mysterious substances, would visit if requested. Even the doctor couldn’t afford a car. I had measles at the time. The doctor's breath had a spiritous odour. Mother recoiled, while Father thanked God for Aneurin Bevan. I wondered, "Who on Earth is he?"

On Christmas Eve the town band continued to regale the populus with carols, as we children marvelled at these beautifully-formed hexagonal crystals that fell into, and transformed, our world.

There was one slight casualty when the euphonium-player's lips became frozen to his instrument's mouth-piece.

Life went on, and it was good. We accommodated the weather. How could we do otherwise? Mum would do old Mrs. Irwin's shopping. My brother and I were provided with shovels to clear the paths and pavement. Then we'd build a snowman in the middle of the road.

Dad used to supplement the family income by signing up to deliver the Christmas post. He walked miles through snow-filled tracks to remote farms and villages. I went with him once. It was a glorious, albeit exhausting, experience.
(We were never invited in for tea and a 'warm-up'!)

The Ebenezer Baptist Sunday-School's football team, of which I was a faithful, undersized and otherwise-undistinguished member, played whatever the weather. We regularly lost by double-digits to nil. I scored a goal once, (an own goal!) I never played again.

Yes, I admit to some unreserved sentimentality here, and only a little fanciful exaggeration. This week’s media hysteria regarding so-called bad weather irks me considerably. Shortly, harnessing all my courage and resolve, I intend to traverse a snow-laden and icy pavement in order to post a letter.
Is this wise?
Is my journey necessary?
Should I perform a risk assessment?
Will the postman (in his van) collect the letter?

So, there you are, that's how it was. In spite of the good times, I never owned a Hornby-Dublo train set, but I still have the catalogue...

I think that's the Duchess of Hamilton on the left. The Duchess continued to occupy my dreams until Jenny Agutter came along in the BBC's serialisation of The Railway Children.

(I digress; that was quite a bit later, by which time we had acquired a second-hand TV set. Father had recanted his view that the cathode-ray-tube was an invention of the antichrist. I was 18 and hopelessly in love; puberty was just around the corner!)

Here's Jenny...

(I never got to drive a steam engine either!)

Where did my life go?
Where have all the real winters gone?
Am I too old for any of my dreams to be fulfilled?

(Ooooh, Jenny ... !)

PS. I offer a prize (a thermal vest) for anyone who can identify the town. Within the fantasy are hidden several genuine clues.