A good walk - spoiled

I played golf on sunday. There is nothing remarkable about that, after all I used to play every sunday morning in all weathers and would often play several times during the week too. When I left the Island just over a year ago, I ended my ages long membership of the golf club of course. I had already stopped playing competitive golf some time back when my hip seized up, and never really got back into the swing of it. (No pun intended)

My son was here at the weekend and he is rekindling his interest in golf and we do try to get out now and then even just down to the local par three course which serves to remind me of how difficult golf really is. Jamie had a terrible round and mine was only marginally better but it was nice to be out in the sunshine and all the way round we were serenaded by a cuckoo. I hadn't heard one for a number of years and it was a pleasant reminder that spring is here even if it has gone largely unnoticed.

It is a silly game of course. We go to great expense and use a great deal of energy to knock a little white ball into a hole. Admittedly the hole may be a long way fro where we begin but even so when it comes down to it, that is all that is involved. You might imagine that with practice it would bet easier and easier, until the task became simplicity itself. Those who play know different.  It is a game of variables and they seem to be countless. Apart from the weather and the state of the course, there are all the internal variables that make it so hard. Most of the game is in the mind and it only takes one bad shot at the start of a round to sow the seeds of self doubt and then self destruction. On the other hand, during a bad round it only takes one good shot to make you want to come back and try again and again and again.

These days I find nine holes is more than enough for me and a full eighteen holes on a proper course would be a struggle. Oh for the days when I could manage thirty six holes in a day. Anyway, sunday was pleasant even though the golf was less than inspiring.

It's in the paper

According to a newspaper, and therefore it must be true, there are seven million people in this country that have never been online. This is seen by some as extraordinary and yet I'll bet that there are more than that who have never been abroad or even to London.  I know that when I lived on the Isle of Wight, that there were people who had never been to the mainland and had no wish to do so.

For most of us the internet has become part of our everyday lives and we are in a sense addicted to it. Being online is being a part of a community and empowers us in so many ways. Oscar of course has no real concept of what it is all about and yet, he uses my iPad efficiently and has already grasped the fact that Youtube can feed his main addictions - diggers and dinosaurs.  This is relatively harmless I suppose but social media that will suck in youngsters from an early age, represents a real threat to society at large.

I like to think that I am reasonably intelligent and that I am endowed with common sense and a fairly large streak of cynicism, (Yes really!)  and I do use Facebook and have used other means of communication online.  Facebook is a way of keeping in touch with people that we rarely or never see, but the more I see of it, the less appealing it becomes.  I really am not interested in what people have for lunch and I do not particularly wish to look at a superabundance of really bad photographs. I am bored with sentimental images of domestic pets and other people's drinking exploits.  Advice as to how to live my life or how to feel good, accompanied by twee images,  invitations to share all sorts of garbage, and attempts to engender guilt are all part of the endless tsunami of garbage that is posted each and every day. Having said all that, I still look at it every day and participate in word games and even post rants from time to time.

It seems though that with younger users, social media is riddled with dangers. Children are easily influenced and peer pressure can incite youngsters to make errors of judgement that can have life changing consequences. We hear about online bullying of course, and of kids who post inappropriate images of themselves unaware of the use to which those images may be put.  We hear of children being groomed by paedophiles who cleverly hide their real identities while preying on the vulnerability of the young.  Many children are very cruel and can use these media to taunt and tease and even blackmail their peers, and I am sure that many lives have been ended as a result.

Online fraud is a growing industry and criminals (not just bankers) are finding more and more ways to access our money or to steal our identity.  It is becoming harder and harder to remain anonymous and sooner or later it will be impossible to live outside of the world wide web, as we rely less and less on hard cash and pay all of our bills online.

Everything that we write or say online is recorded somewhere and can be held against us at some time in the future.  I'd like to think that in this blog that I have freedom of speech, but I know that I don't. Many people are finding that expressions of opinion are no longer seen as innocent and careers are being wrecked because of a few ill advised words placed on Twitter.  I am careful in my writing, that I do not name names even though my readership is minimal; this is after all more of a diary than anything else. It is sad though that freedom of expression is becoming eroded at such an alarming rate.

Those seven million people are probably quite fortunate and also I imagine probably quite elderly. As the years go by, their numbers will decline and fall.

Well that passed the time.

It is mid May; I have just been mowing the grass and have come back inside frozen.  There is a bitter wind blowing and the sky is the colour of Welsh slate.  The garden is more or less under control for now, and is looking as neat as a saturday morning haircut. Everything is growing, especially the grass, and so it is a daily chore to maintain that pristine enough state.

For now though I am back at my desk and pondering over what to write about. I have decided that writing is not really my thing. I have attempted all sorts of things, short stories, essays, letters, blogs and even dreamt of writing a novel, but none of these ever really come to much. I lack the self discipline for a start and then there is the need for ideas.  Some people have fertile imaginations and can generate stories at the drop of a hat. Some of these become politicians whilst others do actually become writers and provide us all with entertainment.

Would be writers are advised to read a lot.  Not just to research but to broaden their experience of the written word and to experience the styles of different writers. It is also advised that one should maintain a notebook in which to record the little gems of ideas as and when they arise.  I do read every day, but mainly in bed. If I read during the day I have a tendency to drop off to sleep and so I tend to avoid that. I have tried keeping a notebook but it doesn't work for me; I either forget where it is or can't be bothered to look back over the pages and so it really is not at all useful for me. I just don't have the wherewithal.

A writer that I admire enormously is Terry Pratchett. He is about my age and has accomplished so much. He has written a plethora of novels which are read by millions of people all over the world. Although suffering from a form of Alzheimer's Disease, he is still working and at the same time campaigning for research into his condition.

Many of his books are set in a world of his own making; a sort of parallel one to our own, populated by  characters  inspired by people that we would all recognise in real life. Everything is Disc world is based on our own world; Pratchett simply turns things on their head and makes them funny whilst simultaneously making serious points.  His novels are unpretentious, absorbing and great fun.

There are so many good writers alive today and as time goes by, the mountain of books that are available to read gets higher and higher. I have not yet managed to read all the Mr Pratchett has written, and I know that there must be countless other writers whose work I would enjoy had I the time to find them and read them.

I guess that the successful writers have one thing at least in common, they are or were dedicated to their art and shared a willingness to sacrifice much in order to achieve their goals. I have always been a jack of all trades and never really mastered anything at all. I can turn my hand to a lot of things but I really don't do anything well.  My life I guess has been about compromise.

Well the sun has still not come out and the wind is still howling so my good intention of working in the garden will come to nothing. It will soon be time to pick up Oscar from School and then there will be tonight's meal to prepare and cook. There is housework to do and I suppose I could sort out the garage again.  I'd do some drawing or painting but  I am no good at it and that leaves me frustrated and angry, so maybe I'll just let the day pass as it always does.

Time passes

The fourth dimension is a concept that is hard to grasp.  The notion of "Before Time" is often bandied about but can we imagine a universe where time did not exist?  Without time of course, nothing can happen. Any event can only occur during the passage of a finite period of time and so our lives, and all of the changes and events that make them up are dependent upon the passage of time.

When we were children, time seemed to pass so very slowly. Every day was a long one, summers and winters lasted an eternity and the years crawled by. It took a great deal of time to grow up. It even seemed to slow down when anticipating birthdays or special treats.

As adults, time passes faster and faster, its relative speed being in direct proportion to deadlines and unwanted appointments.

Maybe time is actually speeding up. If it were, then we'd probably not be able to measure it, as events that we use to measure time would also adjust accordingly.  Maybe it is just our concept of time that changes as we get older and the past stretches out behind us and our mortality seems to be hurtling towards us .

Oscar loves to come to grandad's house for the occasional sleepover. It gives his parents a break and he knows that he will get lots of attention and that his obsessions with space rockets and diggers will be encouraged.  He stayed over the other night and enjoyed the Hipad, the puter and the bricks. He loves grandads big bath and the big bed that he gets to sleep in. He likes Grandad to read his bedtime story and he sleeps well. That  is he sleeps well until around 5.30 am.  At this unearthly time of day, he gets out of bed and needs help using the toilet. After which he likes to get into bed with grandma and grandad while he wakes up and grandad tries to get back to sleep.

I was lying quite still hoping  that he would doze off the other morning, when after a few moments of peace, a small voice said
"Grandad; in a minute we can go and dig in the garden."
I said "Yes Oscar, in a minute." and closed my eyes again. There was a silence that lasted all of 30 seconds, then
"Grandad; in a minute we can go and play with the bricks."
"Yes Oscar, in a minute. Why not try to sleep for a while. It isn't morning yet."
Thirty seconds later Oscar Sits up.
"Grandad; where is the Hipad?"
He knows very well where it is and I know that my night is done. So at quarter to six I am up with Oscar, looking at diggers and dinosaurs on the iPad, playing with bricks and generally avoiding going out in the garden where it is still cold, in order to dig.

Oscar's concept of time is so very different to mine and so I have to adapt to his, which can be quite hard, especially before six am.  His sleepovers are lovely but very testing, and a reminder perhaps of why childhood days seemed so long - it was because they start so bloody early.

Spring has sprung

It has been a while since my last confession. No I am not a convert to Catholisism, should that ever happen you will know that I have finally gone insane. Just imagine having to pop in to tell your priest every now and then, what naughty thoughts you might have had, or what dirty little deeds that you have done.  Most of us would need to pop in very frequently I am sure. It always seemed odd to me that as a Catholic you could commit sin after sin as long as you pop in and say sorry now and then. Anyhow, I am not really going to confess or even apologise for thing that I may have thought or done; it would make for very dull writing and even more dull reading.

So spring is here, the grass is growing and my densely unworkable wet clay soil has turned to unworkable concrete. The weeds are flourishing of course and each day the garden reminds me who is boss.  There was a time when I could work all day in the garden, but I know that those days are a long way behind me. Nowadays I have to work in spurts of varying lengths and my attempts to get on top of it sometimes feel almost futile.  The aim has become to reduce the work that will be needed in the future, and that means a lot of black plastic and slate and gravel to hold back the weeds  and eliminate at least some of the spade work.

The flower beds are covered in daffodils and wood anemones, with patches of creeping buttercup and bluebell leaves. Right now it looks fine but within a few weeks it will look what it really is - weed infested.

The garden is a stark reminder of entropy. Order is hard to maintain and has to be worked on. It needs a motive and it needs a concerted effort. Our bodies, our communities, our roads and buildings all require energy and materials in order to maintain them and once that energy is denied, there is inevitable return to chaos.  

We have a government that can see no further than its wallet. It is dismantling the vital machines that  maintain what we call society.  Everything seems to be falling apart, while a few concerned individuals struggle to maintain their own little worlds. Ministers believe in what they are doing and strive to maintain the huge division between haves and have nots, pulling up their ladders as they watch the masses upon which they depend, struggle  in the mayhem. They have nothing to confess either.

I am reminded of the words of T S Eliot.

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Booze in the news

So,  according to surveys into people's drinking habits, we are only drinking half of the total alcohol sold in this country. This prompts the interpretation that we lie about how much we actually consume, most people feeling somewhat ashamed that they like a glass or three of their favourite tipple to take the edge off as it were.

I like to drink, wine mostly, but when I am out I prefer to drink ale.  Units mean very little to me and never enter my mind when drinking.  I rarely drink to excess, though for some, a bottle of red wine at a sitting would be seen as such.  There have been periods when I have been known to drink on a daily basis, but these days I try to confine it to weekends, a pint with a pub lunch on a friday and maybe a shared bottle of wine on friday and saturday nights and that is generally it.  I don't really have a social life as such and that makes it much easier to keep consumption under control. Going without alcohol during the week is not a problem and I know that I could easily do without it if I chose to.

If I go to the theatre of to a concert, I choose not to drink, mainly to avoid the inconvenience of having to go to the toilet during the performance.

It seems though that for many it is not that easy. On monday night I went to the O2 in London to see the Australian Pink Floyd. Actually I went to hear them as for me it is the music that matters. The show started more or less on time at seven thirty and they played the whole of Dark Side of the Moon. I sat at the end of a row, and forty minutes after the start, people were still coming in and struggling to find their seats. Most of them had glasses in their hands and clearly had been unable or unwilling to tear themselves away from the bar. One pair actually took their seats in our row five minutes before the interval.  Throughout the performance there was a steady flow of people going back and forwards to the bar and then of course inevitably, to the toilet.  It seemed that the acquisition of alcohol was the most important part of the evening for many, regardless of the inconvenience to the rest of us. For me the evening was spoiled by, not just a few, inconsiderate people.

Drink is so easily available and still relatively affordable, and although the pubs are complaining of a drop in trade, drinking heavily at home is becoming the norm. Maybe that is the cause of the disparity in the figures, we all know that drinking at home doesn't count.

Vinyl revival

I have down in the basement, a collection of several hundred vinyl albums. Many of these date back to the sixties and seventies and some are even older and were inherited from my father's collection. They range in genres from 40's jazz and swing, through 60s and 70s pop and of course centuries of orchestral music. Most are not in great condition, I never seemed to have the knack of keeping my discs in pristine condition, but I do still play some of them. I am listening to the second side of Abbey Road, the Beatles at their peak, and I am reminded of some of the advantages of the vinyl LP when compared to modern equivalents.

Playing a vinyl record was almost a ritual. First of all there was the sleeve. The designs on these twelve inch squares were there to tempt the potential buyers, and as such many of them were real works of art. On this one, we have the four  band members walking across a pedestrian crossing in Abbey Road. An iconic photograph that has been scrutinised for hidden meaning since it was released. McCartney's bare feet and that he was out of step with the others were taken a sign that he was dead; Lennon's white suit was also imagined to have significance. All nonsensical really but you cannot play the album without thinking of the history behind it.  The disc has to be removed from the outer sleeve and then the paper inner sleeve before being placed oh so carefully on the turntable, cleaned with care before lowering the tone arm and bringing the diamond tipped stylus into the grooved plastic.  There are clicks and pops that drive some people crazy but they are unique to each disc and in time they disappear into the background.   After  twenty minutes or so, the disc has to be turned over and when finished, returned lovingly to its protective sleeve.

I keep a small selection of disc handy and now and then I will take the trouble to play them, even though it is much easier to play a cd or an mp3 file on the computer.  These formats are far less personal and their crispy clean sounds are clinical and what we have come to expect.  It is easy to pick out single tracks and play them out of context, and many of us make compilations of songs that bear no relationship to each other.

I am at an age when nostalgia is a hobby I suppose.  I do embrace new technology though, I even have a smartphone that I don't use much, an iPad that I use a lot, three Apple Mac computers, a Brennan music system that can store 5000 cds and several systems for playing tapes, cds and of course vinyl discs.  Maybe it is nostalgia that brings me back time and time again to the latter or maybe it is my body forcing me into a little exercise.

Take to the streets but do it peacefully.

The default setting of human consciousness hovers around apathy. Mostly we are oblivious to the goings on of the world and tend to focus out attention only on the things that are of direct concern. Even then, by and large, we may moan and complain but do nothing. Large organisations, including governments know this and major decisions are taken every day, with opposition only from a small vocal minority, whose voices are rarely heard and almost never heeded.

We are living in a society that our ancestors would find ludicrous. Inequality has always been with us, but the degree of inequality has reached new levels that  we should find shameful. We have high levels of unemployment, much of the workforce working for a pittance and grateful to be in any sort of work. We have at the other end of the spectrum, celebrities and football players receiving huge incomes, and a financial sector that rewards its cronies whilst punishing the rest of us.

Many people can no longer afford to eat properly, let alone go to a football match or a cinema. It seems that prices for everything are rising unopposed.

Mahatma Ghandi was a pacifist and yet managed to bring about the downfall of the British Raj in his native India. His methods included peaceful protests and civil disobedience.  He began alone but soon gathered huge numbers of followers. Only then did his voice make an impact, and his non violence became difficult to oppose.

We live in a democracy, a far from perfect solution to government, but so much better than alternatives. In theory power lies with the electorate, but of course nothing is quite so simple. In reality most people believe that their vote is worthless; the same candidates often being returned to parliament over and over again, and so many choose not to vote. This feeling of powerlessness is at the root of the lethargy and apathy that has got us into this situation.

I remember in the 60s, a mass movement that boycotted produce from South Africa. How instrumental that turned out to be in the downfall of apartheid, I am not sure but at least people were flexing muscles.
Maybe it is time to boycott football matches, movie theatres and the like, and begin a revaluation of people's worth.

The best of times and the worst of times

Ok I know that I am getting old and that my views of popular culture are tarnished by the patina of time, but I listen to new music and sometimes despair.  Chanting obscenities or gibberish to a thumping beat may be what kids are presented with and perhaps it is the inevitable product of an evolutionary process that has produced a generation, of which many of whom seem to have lost a sense of direction.

The reason for the Oxford trip the other night was to attend a concert performed by  one of our best symphony orchestras. The program included works by Chopin, Glinka and Tchaikowski.  I haven't been to such a concert for some considerable time and it was a joy to experience wonderful music performed by real musicians, and what crossed my mind was that this is one of the pinnacles of man's achievements. Composers, rightly, are given most of the credit for the works that they write, and yet, without the dedicated professional musicians that interpret those writings, their efforts are nothing to most people, but scribblings on a page.  In order for great music to be delivered to us mere nobodies, there has to be a convergence of some of the finest minds with talents that are rare and precious. They, together, become one with the mind of the originator and bring to life, music that is priceless.

There have been many bands of musicians of many genres that have achieved wonderful things, producing music that has had the power to move and thrill audiences. Some bands evolved and grew to almost orchestral proportions, inspiring an anti - music trend called punk. Punk bands took music back from the dizzy heights and ran it screaming and kicking into the gutter. Punk, like the banal Rap of today was purely visceral, and lacked any intellectual thread. Punk was a protest against quality and against talent and so today we have a music industry that is on its knees, for probably the same sort of reason. Boy and girl bands abound and any of the scarce real musicians are forced along a pathway that renders their own work pretty much subsumed into the musak promoted by the get rich quick.

I was heartened by the fact that there were many young musicians in the orchestra and yet the program notes suggest that most of them come from eastern Europe.

Celebrity status

One thing that I loathe and detest more than anything else is reality TV, and the ongoing trend of bringing more and more of the so called real world into all of our lives through the TV screen.  The programs that I have been unfortunate enough to see, seem to focus on the poorer sections of society, placing people, albeit with their consent, under a microscope so that the rest of us can mock or even pity  them.

It seems from the little that I have seen, that the focus of much reality TV seems to be on the lack of education, that so many people seem proud of.  It appears that failing at school is always the fault of someone else.   I recently watched a programme that got together disparate people and got them to cook dinner for each other. These were professional people, and the only reason for watching was that a relative was involved.  It is an appalling program, clearly edited to show people up in the worst possible light, with a patronising over commentary.  Many people seek fame, maybe more so than fortune. To be on the TV allows one celebrity status, at least in their own mind, but why oh why do we have to be subjected to it more and more?

Too many people

Every now and then I leave the shelter and security of my little space and venture into the big bad world. Sometimes it is through necessity and rarely through choice. Visiting old friends is worth the effort and the weekend was fun, despite the tedious drive west.

On friday night we went to the Sheldonian Theatre in Oxford for a sublime concert by the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. That however is not what I want to talk about.

The evening began with a drink in a pub very close to the venue. It was raining hard and the pub seemed inviting with plenty of time before the concert began.  It was a very small pub, dark and very full. There was only standing room near to the bar and even that was very limited.  The bar itself was rather like a corridor and for the first time that I can recall, I began to feel very claustrophobic. I was being jostled from all directions and it was impossible to move to a space. I hated the feeling and could not wait to get out.  No-one else seemed bothered and so I had no choice but to tolerate the situation. I do seem to be able to engage in a sort of self hypnosis that enables me to detach from unpleasant situations such as the dentist's chair, and that seemed to work. Once outside I was fine and we joined the queue to get into the concert hall.

The Sheldonian is a wonderful building, more or less circular and quite austere in terms of seating comfort. There are no numbered seats, in fact there are no proper seats at all; it has a series of large steps that serve as seats. We got in fairly early and chose seats at the front of the balcony with a good view over the orchestra. All was fine, if Spartan for a while but as the performance time grew closer, the place filled to capacity and then beyond. More and more people squeezed in and had to sit anywhere that they could. My space got smaller and smaller and soon I had people sitting on my feet and others with their knees in my back. My levels of anxiety were as high as I can remember them ever being, and had it been possible to escape easily I think I would have done, however the programme began and there was no choice other than to sit very still, in an uncomfortable posture and try to focus on the music.  By the time of the interval, those behind had clearly had enough and left, and so the second half of the concert was a very different experience and by the end I could relax. I was still more than glad to get out into the rain however and even the crowded pavements seemed to offer relief.

I seem to be losing my ability to be with other people. There was a time when crowds did not bother me, but now they do and I know that I will try very hard to avoid putting myself through that again. Having said that, next month we have tickets for the O2 and that will involve a much bigger crowd than were at the Sheldonian on friday. I look forward to that with some trepidation.

Here we go again

Another year and as yet nothing to write about. I suppose that in the scheme of things, that last year was an eventful one and i hope that 2013 will be somewhat less so.
Life in Kent seems to have settled into some sort of pattern and I am enjoying regular contact with the grandchildren. It is alarming that in a couple of months, Oscar will be going to school. It will only be on a part time basis, but even so it will be a major step for him and his parents.  He is growing up so very quickly and continues to make me laugh. Only the other day, we were walking in the woods and he stood to attention, saluted and said "Yes Sir Grandad". I suppose that he picked it up from Toy Story, which seems to be one of his obsessions, along with diggers, dinosaurs and space rockets.
Matilda is 6 weeks old and has little conversation, but very expressive eyes. She is an unknown quantity as yet but a very placid and co-operative young lady so far.
I'd like to make some resolutions for the new year but I won't, largely because I never really keep them and don't see the point.  There are many ways in which I could improve myself but that would require some sort of motivation, and that is sadly lacking.
Even vowing to write more regularly would be futile; I write only when the mood takes me, and even then it is getting harder and harder to find things to write about.  Oh I can rant about all sorts of things, but nobody is interested in my opinions, quite understandably, and no doubt there will be a rant from time to time.
I will wish anyone who reads this a happy new year, even if it is late in coming.

If evil exists then it is here

Almost daily there are reports of what the Taliban are doing to their own people. Some describe them as freedom fighters, others as terrorists, but the reality is probably that they are just vile thugs who love to inflict misery on their fellow human beings.

I read with horror the report of one of their victims having been accused to using tobacco. He was taken and his hand chopped off. The hand was then boiled for a while before being sewed back onto his bleeding stump.  This morning we read of Vaccination workers being executed, depriving children of the right not to die from infectious diseases like polio.

The list of atrocities is endless and yet this criminal and vile organisation continues to attract followers and benefactors. Somebody is supplying them with weapons and with supplies and maybe it is time that they too are named and shamed. Perhaps their fellow Muslims could make a start by condemning them without reservation, but to criticise another muslim is not the way of Islam is it?

It is a cold damp and grey day here. The sort of day that makes you want to shut the doors and curl up with a good book. Days such as this one can be depressing, but I look at these reports and am thankful that I do not live in an Islamic state - yet.

They walk among us.

I like to think that I am calm and even tempered. Very few things get me worked up these days, one of the functions of advancing years perhaps.  However, the other day, I found myself in an online debate with two fundamental creationists.  I know now the meaning of red rags and bulls.  Someone once said that if you could reason with a religious mind, then there would be no religious minds.  I found out for myself that it is so true.

My own position is that of an atheist, having rejected the very idea of a deity many many years ago. My    limited scientific education led me to a very different understanding of the world and our position in it. The scientific process relies on questions, hypotheses, experiment and evaluation of evidence. Usually experiments provide part answers and open up new questions. It is about open mindedness and an ability to adjust belief on the basis of fresh evidence.

The discussion, went on for much longer than it should have and the only argument that the creationists could offer  revolved around a complete misunderstanding of the process of evolution. As in their eyes, evolution does not provide all of the answers, the process is rejected and in its absence there is a need for a creator.  One of them even quoted the laws of thermodynamics, the second  of which states that matter cannot be created or destroyed, whilst stating that everything must have been created by god. She could not see the irony in that.

My repeated challenges to their viewpoint resulted in personal attacks on me, which I do not mind, but then to be accused of being aggressive, simply for restating unanswered questions was a step too far. Entering any sort of discussion with people who distort the truth to suit their ends is futile. These people live in a different world to me and have minds that are so blinkered by doctrine that they have lost the ability to debate effectively. I will try hard to steer clear in the future.

Music

I have been listening to Striggio's Mass in 40 parts and Thomas Tallis' Spem in Alium, and again my mind has turned to  people with big ideas.  Music, for me, is as near as can be to a "spiritual" experience and to have the imagination and creativity to produce work of this magnitude is simply amazing.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Cn7ZW8ts3Y

Both works were written in 40 parts and demonstrate an ability to hear a complexity of harmony that is extraordinary. As it happens both works are based on religious texts, which mean nothing to me, but the music is overwhelmingly beautiful.

I once heard the Tallis in an art gallery in Ottawa. A room had been transformed into a chapel and an "Artist" had arranged 40 loudspeakers on stands around the room. Each part had been recorded separately and to stand in the centre of the room gave an all round experience.

Beethoven was recorded as being totally deaf by the time that he completed his Ninth Symphony and so he must have been able to hear the complete work in his head. To listen to that piece is an amazing experience anyway, but to know that the creator was deaf adds a new dimension.

Music has amazing power and its influence on emotions and to some extent behaviour is not to be underestimated. Perhaps musicians should rule the world.

Hair today gone tomorrow

Today, Oscar is booked in for his first ever hair cut.  It is getting out of hand and it even annoys him sometimes and so his parents have arranged for a potentially traumatic event.

Until I escaped home, I was sent every two weeks, to have my hair cut, and in those days it was for a short back and sides. I can still smell the barbers shop and have vivid memories of sitting for what seemed hours, waiting for my turn. Every adult customer, when shorn, was asked the same question before they left. "Anything for the weekend sir?" and now and then, discrete exchanges would take place as condoms, not drugs, were traded.

The hair once scarily shortened was plastered with brylcream or something similar, and half a crown was handed over. The outside air always felt so cold and my scalp felt like sandpaper, my ears protruding like a small pair of wings. It wasn't until teenage years that I dared to rebel and insist that the barber took less off and made some attempt to create a style.

Leaving home was liberating in so many ways and I stopped visiting hairdressers altogether.  I guess that someone must have trimmed it from time to time but I have no real recollection of that and by the time I started teaching, my hair was long and blonde. It stayed that way until it started to grey.

Now there is a lot less for a hairdresser to do and I am back to regular attendance, though not every two weeks. The half crown bill has multiplied a hundred times and more and i am pretty sure that condoms are no longer available.

Big ideas

Yesterday, Oscar came round as he often does, and being a creature of habit, headed straight for the toy box and the bag of bricks that I made for him.  That and the plastic digger are his favourites and only the temptations of Toy Story and "Buzz Light tits" can distract him from this.  He usually drags me down to floor level and says something like - "Granddad build a house." or it may be a wall or a boat or a space rocket, and I can usually comply or bluff. This is usually followed by him demolishing whatever I am building, with the digger, and then we start all over again. Yesterday he floored me by asking me to build a planet.  I know that he imagines that Granddad can do anything, but I had to admit defeat on that one.

It got me to think about big ideas, and the ability of some to think, not just outside of the box but also outside of their own experiences, and just how does this come about?  Do we all have that innate talent? Is it beaten out of us from an early age by being told what we cannot do? I know that my parents had that tendency and maybe their parents before them were made constantly aware of their own limitations and those placed upon them by society and circumstances.

I look at major constructions with a sense of awe. To see something as mundane as a motorway junction from the air is an inspiration. Someone imagined it and made it happen. Skyscrapers mushroom all over the world and each one is an amazing achievement of man's ingenuity and vision. We routinely fly all over the world in fragile aluminium tubes, taking for granted the genius that went into building a device that can carry hundreds of people at great heights and speed.

The history of humanity contains records of individuals who have been inspired to create on huge scales and I admire those who have had the courage to put their visions into effect. Even those architects that built religious buildings are worthy of huge respect and admiration, even though the learning process may have been costly in human life.

We owe our children a future, and only by allowing them imagination and hope, can their minds be freed to imagine. Our education system is not doing that. We force feed them with carefully selected information, like geese being prepared for Fois Gras, and blinker them with lies and dogma. We divide them on cultural and religious grounds and brand them as successes or failures on the evidence provided by inadequate and irrelevant paper exercises.

I wish that I had sufficient vision to imagine building a planet and I hope that Oscar's imagination will not be stifled before he has a chance to grow. Who knows, we may need new planets one day.

Mark

It was november in 1968 when my brother Mark was killed. I was at college and that day is forever etched into my memory.  I remember being awoken by the sub warden knocking at my door early that sunday morning, and i could tell by his face that something was not right. He told me that there was a phone call for me and that I could take it in his flat.  I dressed hastily and lumbered down the 14 flights of stairs, not waiting for the lift, wondering what could possibly have happened. I cannot recall the chain of thoughts that passed through my mind but I do remember the overwhelming sense of dread.

As I picked up the phone, my mother's voice sounded so far away; she was having difficulty in speaking and then she told me that Mark, on his motorcycle, had been in a collision with a car on his way home the previous night, and had died immediately.  I felt a numbness and told her that I'd come home as soon as possible, knowing that I had no money for tickets.  I went back to my room, locked myself in  and collapsed onto the bed. I cried that morning more than I had ever done, and when there were no more tears I put on my coat and went for a walk in the rain. I wanted to be alone, I needed time to sort out my head and the rain seemed to help.  By the time I got back to my room, I was soaked to the skin and cried out.  Only late in the day did word get out and my friend Dave rescued me from my despair.

I have never felt so desolate as I did that day, and dismal november days like today remind me of it. Mark would be approaching his sixty first birthday now, had he not been out that night, or had ridden more carefully than he did. As it happened he was approaching his eighteenth birthday when he died.

I still think of him and what he might have become.

What's in a name?

This has been a good week. On monday night Matilda Georgie weighed in at eight pounds fifteen ounces in old money.  She is a lovely little thing and both mother and baby are doing well. It feels good to have both a grandson and a granddaughter and I am so happy for all of the family.

My great grandmother was Annie Matilda, though I suspect that had no influence on the choice of the name; in fact looking back through the family tree, it would seem that there was another Matilda in the dim and distant past.

Matilda Georgie does have a link with her brother whose name is Oscar Bailey. Their mother is a fan of the movie - It's a Wonderful Life - and the lead character - George Bailey.  We will be watching it again this festive season as we always do, but this time with a real sense of completion.

Welcome to the world Matilda - I hope that it improves as you grow older.

Strange Rash

I feel rather fed up at the moment. For years now I have had a recurring problem, an inexplicable complaint that has been described by the medical profession as ideopathic. That mean that they have no clue as to what is the cause and therefore can offer no treatment.  It is spasmodic and I can go up to  year without any occurence, but now it is back.  It starts, almost always, as a small red patch in the centre of my left palm. It itches like crazy and then rapidly spreads to both hands and often the back of my scalp. In really bad outbreaks my body gets covered in hives and nothing I can do makes any difference. I have tried quadruple doses of powerful antihistimines and they just seem to make it worse, so I just have to ride it out, hoping that it will recede soon. I also feel unwell in a way that is so hard to put into words. The itching palms is awful and keeps me awake at night, but the worst thing is when it spreads to my feet. Thankfully they are pretty well itch free right now, but I dread that coming back.  The itching is strange and subcutaneous and always gets worse at night. Last night I was up every hour, more or less on the hour, running my hands under the cold tap, and as a result I am also sleep deprived.
I have had allergy tests and they prove negative, and I can see no external event that could act as a trigger. So anyway I feel pretty crabby