One of my worst fears was realised today.
Wednesday used to be a turning point in the week and thanks to one who was a friend, I think of it as hump day, even though my life has few humps these days, mostly I am freewheeling down the long hill. Anyway it started out ok, and believe it or not, the sun shone for a while and I could actually leave the house. So i took the opportunity to go and see my old friend Liz. I haven't seen her in a while, partly due to weather and partly idleness on my part. Anyway, she is fine, at least no worse than last time I saw her.
When i came home i decided to catch up on one or two things that needed to be done. One of which was taking out the vegetable waste to the compost bin. I opened the lid and my heart sank as i saw the leaves moving. I poked and prodded the pile - I really don't know why I do it - and of course the inevitable happened. A rat the size of a small horse, leapt out of the debris and disappeared between the bin and the house wall. Now if you have read my blog you will know that I hate and fear rats, more than anything else. I'd prefer it to be occupied by a lion, and so my mind replayed the last rat v me scenario. The rat won every round and I eventually gave up and moved house. Now i have to face the same problem over again. First I'll buy a trap and the little swine will learn how to get the bait off it or how to spring it without being caught. I'll get my fingers trapped again and then I'll resort to poison. That will be thoroughly ignored, or my rat will be one of the supersods that are resistant to it and so I'll be feeding it at great expense, while it gets fat and laughs at me.
I was quite pleased with my attempts at composting and now I feel a little differently about even opening the lid. Yet another of life's joys has deserted me.
ps i wonder if boiling water would do the trick? Or should I hire a cat?
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
deluge
Today it is raining once more. The sky is grey and the ground waterlogged. I don't envy those that have to be out in it, especially those whose living depends on being in the great outdoors.
I am indoors of course and at present am sanding down the walls of the hallway. Dust is the order of the day and I am covered in it. Because i hate wearing a face mask, my lungs are pretty well inundated too, so no doubt I will pay the penalty for that at a later date. In between sanding sessions I take breathing breaks and dive into my study hoping not to take the clouds of dust with me. This is my bolt hole really and my access to the rest of the world. here I can sit and think, or sometimes just sit, and as long as there is electrical power i can communicate to people that I know and care about.
It struck me that as i blog away, there are plenty of others out there who at some time in my life have meant so much to me and yet now, i don't even know if they are alive or dead. In all probability many friends from the dim and distant past are no longer with us and to many, their passing has gone unrecorded. The same will happen with me. When i shuffle off this mortal coil, there will be some who will miss me, of that I am sure. But the majority of people that I have come across in my life will not even know that I have passed on, unless I have advance notice and can email some of them at least. But most of us die un-noticed by the majority of our friends and acquaintances and that is a little sad.
People drift into our lives all the time, most drift out again and may never leave a trace of their visit. Others stay and others still, leave and either take something with them or leave huge scars that are constant reminders of their passing. Everyone that we interact with touches us in some way, and in some cases people have touched me without ever having met in the flesh. Physicality is just a part of who we are, but the main part, the real us, is deeply rooted in the mind. It is the mind that collects the scars as well as the joys and the memories.
I am very lucky to have shared in the lives of some truly wonderful people. Many of whom will stay in my life as long as I breathe, and I celebrate the roles that they have played and the roller coasters of emotions that they have shared with me. None of them will be forgotten. Well not just yet anyway.
Even rainy days have their bright side.
I am indoors of course and at present am sanding down the walls of the hallway. Dust is the order of the day and I am covered in it. Because i hate wearing a face mask, my lungs are pretty well inundated too, so no doubt I will pay the penalty for that at a later date. In between sanding sessions I take breathing breaks and dive into my study hoping not to take the clouds of dust with me. This is my bolt hole really and my access to the rest of the world. here I can sit and think, or sometimes just sit, and as long as there is electrical power i can communicate to people that I know and care about.
It struck me that as i blog away, there are plenty of others out there who at some time in my life have meant so much to me and yet now, i don't even know if they are alive or dead. In all probability many friends from the dim and distant past are no longer with us and to many, their passing has gone unrecorded. The same will happen with me. When i shuffle off this mortal coil, there will be some who will miss me, of that I am sure. But the majority of people that I have come across in my life will not even know that I have passed on, unless I have advance notice and can email some of them at least. But most of us die un-noticed by the majority of our friends and acquaintances and that is a little sad.
People drift into our lives all the time, most drift out again and may never leave a trace of their visit. Others stay and others still, leave and either take something with them or leave huge scars that are constant reminders of their passing. Everyone that we interact with touches us in some way, and in some cases people have touched me without ever having met in the flesh. Physicality is just a part of who we are, but the main part, the real us, is deeply rooted in the mind. It is the mind that collects the scars as well as the joys and the memories.
I am very lucky to have shared in the lives of some truly wonderful people. Many of whom will stay in my life as long as I breathe, and I celebrate the roles that they have played and the roller coasters of emotions that they have shared with me. None of them will be forgotten. Well not just yet anyway.
Even rainy days have their bright side.
Monday, 19 November 2007
थे रिंग ऑफ़ fire
I remember my first curry very well. I came from a household that not only had little experience of anything exotic, but who were negatively discriminating in their approach to anything foreign. My first curry, real one that is, was experienced in the Bombay Restaurant, located almost next to the King's theatre in Southsea. The year was 1967 and I think that the cost of the meal was around ten shillings. In today's money that is about fifty pence, and it seemed a lot at the time.
I had for some reason attended a drama course audition that evening along with a friend, and as things tend to, they got a little out of hand. Before i knew what was happening, I was being auditioned too and damn me if I wasn't given a part in Under Milkwood. My Pakistani impression seemed as close to Welsh as anyone else's attempts and I was suddenly a member of the dramatic society. We all trooped down through the older parts of Southsea and there i was initiated into the fine cuisine of the east. From that point i was hooked, and still am, on all things spicy and firmly believe that I suffer withdrawal symptoms if deprived for any length of time.
By today's standards the Bombay was pretty basic and would struggle to escape the eyes of the public health people. The walls in parts were spattered with strange stains and to this day, I believe that some were blood!
It was a denizen for students, but also for other local lowlife, and so there were periodic conflicts - let's face it, no-one likes students except other students, and so we were seen as the enemy by many locals. We were never deterred however and would frequent our equivalent of an opium den whenever we could afford it, and sometimes even when we couldn't. I remember walking the three miles down to the Bombay after midnight, to pick up a few poppadoms and some free chutneys, just because we felt like it. It became a home from home over the months that followed and we became known well by the management, who strangely, although we were students, seemed to like us. Maybe they saw us as fellow persecuted minorites.
In those days of course it became the macho thing to eat the hottest thing that you could. It was supposed to impress, I am not sure who it was supposed to impress but to climb to the heights of the hottest on the menu was the aim of some of us.
The Vindaloo was ok. Having graduated through, the milder Kormas, and byrianis, we weaned ourselved onto the Madras and the Dansak before attempting the Mighty slopes of the Vindaloo. The secret is to keep going once you have started. If you drink water or stop for a breather you are lost without hope, and many failed before the halfway stage. To complete a vindaloo is an achievement and it is not for the faint hearted. The tell tale signs that someone had had a vindaloo the night before was that the next day they did not emerge from the toilet until mid afternoon, and all one could hear were moans and groans emanating from the cubicles. The vindaloo bites twice and the second is far worse than the first.
I did try the main peak one day - The Tindaloo and was so drunk that I managed to finish it. The next morning is best not spoken of. Suffice it to say that I remembered the meal for several days.
There was one time when we were sober and enjoying a sensible curry, when some really drunken locals came in and ordered the Tindaloo. Or ears pricked up - we thought we were the only ones to attempt this. The meal duly arrived and we watched in awe as this guy, shovelled the food in without batting an eyelid. He called the waiter over and complained that it wasn't hot enough. Open mouthed we waited for the next event. Minutes passed while the plate was taken away, and then the waiter returned, followed by the kitchen staff who watched and waited for this guy to eat. He did so while everyone gazed on in some sort of bizaare admiration.
I often wondered how he felt the following day.
I had for some reason attended a drama course audition that evening along with a friend, and as things tend to, they got a little out of hand. Before i knew what was happening, I was being auditioned too and damn me if I wasn't given a part in Under Milkwood. My Pakistani impression seemed as close to Welsh as anyone else's attempts and I was suddenly a member of the dramatic society. We all trooped down through the older parts of Southsea and there i was initiated into the fine cuisine of the east. From that point i was hooked, and still am, on all things spicy and firmly believe that I suffer withdrawal symptoms if deprived for any length of time.
By today's standards the Bombay was pretty basic and would struggle to escape the eyes of the public health people. The walls in parts were spattered with strange stains and to this day, I believe that some were blood!
It was a denizen for students, but also for other local lowlife, and so there were periodic conflicts - let's face it, no-one likes students except other students, and so we were seen as the enemy by many locals. We were never deterred however and would frequent our equivalent of an opium den whenever we could afford it, and sometimes even when we couldn't. I remember walking the three miles down to the Bombay after midnight, to pick up a few poppadoms and some free chutneys, just because we felt like it. It became a home from home over the months that followed and we became known well by the management, who strangely, although we were students, seemed to like us. Maybe they saw us as fellow persecuted minorites.
In those days of course it became the macho thing to eat the hottest thing that you could. It was supposed to impress, I am not sure who it was supposed to impress but to climb to the heights of the hottest on the menu was the aim of some of us.
The Vindaloo was ok. Having graduated through, the milder Kormas, and byrianis, we weaned ourselved onto the Madras and the Dansak before attempting the Mighty slopes of the Vindaloo. The secret is to keep going once you have started. If you drink water or stop for a breather you are lost without hope, and many failed before the halfway stage. To complete a vindaloo is an achievement and it is not for the faint hearted. The tell tale signs that someone had had a vindaloo the night before was that the next day they did not emerge from the toilet until mid afternoon, and all one could hear were moans and groans emanating from the cubicles. The vindaloo bites twice and the second is far worse than the first.
I did try the main peak one day - The Tindaloo and was so drunk that I managed to finish it. The next morning is best not spoken of. Suffice it to say that I remembered the meal for several days.
There was one time when we were sober and enjoying a sensible curry, when some really drunken locals came in and ordered the Tindaloo. Or ears pricked up - we thought we were the only ones to attempt this. The meal duly arrived and we watched in awe as this guy, shovelled the food in without batting an eyelid. He called the waiter over and complained that it wasn't hot enough. Open mouthed we waited for the next event. Minutes passed while the plate was taken away, and then the waiter returned, followed by the kitchen staff who watched and waited for this guy to eat. He did so while everyone gazed on in some sort of bizaare admiration.
I often wondered how he felt the following day.
Friday, 16 November 2007
Tripe
I don't know what drives me to do things. I never know that, and the reason I say this is that I am listening to Leonard Cohen, Suzanne, a song that I love,and one that has so many memories attached to it. So why did i suddenly get the urge to write? I literally have nothing that I want to say. Many people think about our lenny, as i am sure no-one calls him to his face, as a dreary and depressing singer, whose songs are best taken with plenty of razor blades. Ok he tends towards the melancholy on occasions and yes i confess that I am feeling a little that way today, but that is ok and i know that by the time i have finished the first bottle of wine all will be different.
I spent a part of today designing a christmas card of all things. That could account for a lot. The only reason i do it is because most of the cards we send are so bloody awful, i get embarrassed to send them. Oddly I don't get embarrassed sending out my own designs but I try not to include the usual hypocritical and insincere crap that i associate with this time of year. My greetings are succinct and yes i do wish my friends well and hope that they have a happy 25th of december, but not just that day. What is so bloody special about one day in the year?
Len is now singing so long Marianne, he does it so well and his pain is so easy to feel. Only a man in real agony could write a song like that. Ironic isn't it that I should only have happy memories associated with him.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
चरिटी बेगिंस अत होम
I have been asked to design some posters and flyers for the local community club who are asking the membership to dig deep into their pockets in order to raise money for some new windows. I will of course enjoy the challenge and produce something that will suit their needs.
It made me think about the fund raising that goes on all of the time now. It seems that there is never a day that is not devoted to some special case or another, and it is impossible to walk the streets without being collared for a donation to any charity that you can imagine. Has it always been like this? or are we suffering from a glut of open hands, applying a type of blackmail that eases money from many who can ill afford to part with it.
Many door to door collectors focus on the less well of as they know that they are more likely to get contributions from them. The National Lottery sells more tickets to those on benefits than to anyone else and I guess that is why, by and large that the poor stay poor and the rich don't!
I donate to charity and could probably afford to give more but i do find it wearisome when i get pleas through the post, over the telephone, people at the door, on the radio, on the TV, even for goodness sake in the pubs, where dubious people come around selling roses at inflated prices via a haze of emotional blackmail and alcoholic fuzz. When they have gone the Salvation Army come around with their Watchtower, hoping to prick the consciences of the merrymakers on a weekend night.
There must be more charity collectors than there are contributors, especially if you count the sellers of Big Issue and why is it, I'd like to know that they always have dogs and they all wear a neck scarf and they all look the same?
I know that most charities are functioning well and that they do a great job by and large but I just feel totally and utterly bombarded by the constant fire, to the extent that I hate to answer the phone or even the door - well it's my excuse anyway, So if you call and get no answer, I am working on the posters and can't hear you!
It made me think about the fund raising that goes on all of the time now. It seems that there is never a day that is not devoted to some special case or another, and it is impossible to walk the streets without being collared for a donation to any charity that you can imagine. Has it always been like this? or are we suffering from a glut of open hands, applying a type of blackmail that eases money from many who can ill afford to part with it.
Many door to door collectors focus on the less well of as they know that they are more likely to get contributions from them. The National Lottery sells more tickets to those on benefits than to anyone else and I guess that is why, by and large that the poor stay poor and the rich don't!
I donate to charity and could probably afford to give more but i do find it wearisome when i get pleas through the post, over the telephone, people at the door, on the radio, on the TV, even for goodness sake in the pubs, where dubious people come around selling roses at inflated prices via a haze of emotional blackmail and alcoholic fuzz. When they have gone the Salvation Army come around with their Watchtower, hoping to prick the consciences of the merrymakers on a weekend night.
There must be more charity collectors than there are contributors, especially if you count the sellers of Big Issue and why is it, I'd like to know that they always have dogs and they all wear a neck scarf and they all look the same?
I know that most charities are functioning well and that they do a great job by and large but I just feel totally and utterly bombarded by the constant fire, to the extent that I hate to answer the phone or even the door - well it's my excuse anyway, So if you call and get no answer, I am working on the posters and can't hear you!
Monday, 12 November 2007
speed
For some reason the web seems very slow today. We have become very impatient and expect everything to happen instantly and no longer are we prepared to wait for anything. It seems that we all want everything and we want it yesterday.
As a child, I was brought up to be very patient. Partly through having spent a long time in bed, but also because we had very little to anticipate, and almost no money. In those days if you wanted something you waited until you could afford to buy it. No-one was foolish enough to lend you money and mostly it was a case of living hand to mouth. Expectations were low.
I fished a lot, largely as an escape, and in all weathers, i would wander the riverbanks looking for the elusive or even non existant big fish. They rarely appeared but it didn't seem to matter much. Time went by and eventually I guess i grew up. Some may argue that I never did, but I don't really care what anyone thinks anymore.
I have bought yet another computer. Not because I needed one but because I rather fancied one and besides, I may not be around by the time the next upgrade comes along and so I just bought it. Partly because it is bigger and sexier than the old one, but also because it is faster and will help me to do very little but I will be able to do it so much faster. It is still a Mac and has a lovely 24 inch screen, so I can see much more of the hardly anything that I do. Planning for the time when eyesight fails one might say.
So it is fast and powerful and yet I still want it to be faster and bigger and more powerful still. I do not yearn for a fast car or much else really but that extra speed could save me whole nanoseconds every day and just think of the use that I could put them to. Whoever said that life was futile?
As a child, I was brought up to be very patient. Partly through having spent a long time in bed, but also because we had very little to anticipate, and almost no money. In those days if you wanted something you waited until you could afford to buy it. No-one was foolish enough to lend you money and mostly it was a case of living hand to mouth. Expectations were low.
I fished a lot, largely as an escape, and in all weathers, i would wander the riverbanks looking for the elusive or even non existant big fish. They rarely appeared but it didn't seem to matter much. Time went by and eventually I guess i grew up. Some may argue that I never did, but I don't really care what anyone thinks anymore.
I have bought yet another computer. Not because I needed one but because I rather fancied one and besides, I may not be around by the time the next upgrade comes along and so I just bought it. Partly because it is bigger and sexier than the old one, but also because it is faster and will help me to do very little but I will be able to do it so much faster. It is still a Mac and has a lovely 24 inch screen, so I can see much more of the hardly anything that I do. Planning for the time when eyesight fails one might say.
So it is fast and powerful and yet I still want it to be faster and bigger and more powerful still. I do not yearn for a fast car or much else really but that extra speed could save me whole nanoseconds every day and just think of the use that I could put them to. Whoever said that life was futile?
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
remembrance
November is a time of remembrance, for Europe at large as well as for me personally. In November both my brother and my father died, and of course, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we remember those who died in wars that were meant to change the world forever.
I recently drove accross France to Germany, and on that trek along the pristine French Motorways, came upon frequent reminders of those conflicts as whe whizzed through the locations of ancient battles and historic sites that are forever linked with the tragic deaths of countless men and women. There is something very moving about the vast plots filled with identical graves, filled with the remains of persons mutilated and butchered in the name of ........ what exactly? Wars to end wars? It doesn't seem to work does it? Looking at the sheer numbers of dead, makes one grateful; to them for their sacrifice, though I guess many must have not been there through any choice, and grateful that I will never have to kill another human being in the name of someone else.
How many lies were told to those sent to die?
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas!Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I recently drove accross France to Germany, and on that trek along the pristine French Motorways, came upon frequent reminders of those conflicts as whe whizzed through the locations of ancient battles and historic sites that are forever linked with the tragic deaths of countless men and women. There is something very moving about the vast plots filled with identical graves, filled with the remains of persons mutilated and butchered in the name of ........ what exactly? Wars to end wars? It doesn't seem to work does it? Looking at the sheer numbers of dead, makes one grateful; to them for their sacrifice, though I guess many must have not been there through any choice, and grateful that I will never have to kill another human being in the name of someone else.
How many lies were told to those sent to die?
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas!Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Reunions
Looking back over my blog history, I notice that I have been very inconsistent in the frequency of my entries. I am not sure why, though I guess that I have used this vehicle to gt things of my chest and by and large it has been of benefit. On the other hand there have been times when it has felt so utterly futile, and such a waste of time. However on balance I have to say that the plusses outweigh the minuses and I will try hard to get down to writing more.
I had got as far as College days, and I still see them as some of the most influential, if not happiest days of my life.
The re-union weekend went well and although the old college has long since gone the way of all things, the Halls of Residence are still there and still in use. Some sweet talking to the bursar, got us into the building and a very kind assistant gave us a tour, even letting us into our old rooms. How odd to stand in that room on the seventh floor, seeing a view that had changed little in all those years. The rooms had changed, not only did they seem smaller - they were smaller as they have added en-suite facilities that we never had. I think I preferred it the way it was, but then I would wouldn't I?
The city was much the same too, and many of the old haunts were still recognisable. We even had a Curry in the old Bombay Restaurant, no longer the Bombay but the food was excellent and the service wonderful.
Maybe in 40 years we'll have another reunion, but I don't suppose it will be in the same world.
I had got as far as College days, and I still see them as some of the most influential, if not happiest days of my life.
The re-union weekend went well and although the old college has long since gone the way of all things, the Halls of Residence are still there and still in use. Some sweet talking to the bursar, got us into the building and a very kind assistant gave us a tour, even letting us into our old rooms. How odd to stand in that room on the seventh floor, seeing a view that had changed little in all those years. The rooms had changed, not only did they seem smaller - they were smaller as they have added en-suite facilities that we never had. I think I preferred it the way it was, but then I would wouldn't I?
The city was much the same too, and many of the old haunts were still recognisable. We even had a Curry in the old Bombay Restaurant, no longer the Bombay but the food was excellent and the service wonderful.
Maybe in 40 years we'll have another reunion, but I don't suppose it will be in the same world.
Saturday, 27 October 2007
le Chat a le Lion D'Or
Some people believe in conspiracy theories, and there are many who do not. There are those who believe that the American moon landings never happened, and that they were the product of some Hollywood studio. Some believe that Diana Spencer and Dodi Fayed were murdered by the Royal family, and that JFK was assassinated by the Republican party. In order for a conspiracy to work and to remain undetected for such long periods, would require a huge amount of careful planning, a lot of luck, and to have very few people in the know. Inevitably, if enough people know the truth, then the truth will out so long as someone is still digging.
I just came back from a trip to Freiburg, pronounced Fry - bourg, I am reliably informed by a resident. The trip was planned, paid for and organised well in advance and nothing was left to chance. Well strictly speaking that isn't true, as I shall explain in a moment.
We were dues to set out last thursday, the plan being to stay the weekend with my daughter and her husband, before setting off for the tunnel on sunday. Last wednesday, we had a call from aforementioned offspring, informing us of the death of one of here best friend's husband. He had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour seven years previously, but even so, his untimely death had a great impact on all those who knew him. I had had a conversation with him only a month before, when we talked about a shared love of Pink Floyd. The discussion was alittle odd as he couldn't remember what he had said in the previous 5 minutes, but we understood each other pretty well.
Anyway, clearly that put a spoke in the wheel of the perfect plan, and departure was delayed so that daughter could come down to us and spend some time with her bereaved friend. Ferries were cancelled and new ones booked...............so on the friday afternoon we set out again, and headed for the late afternoon ferry. All went well until the moment that we were signalled to drive onto the boat. The car refused to start! I pulled the car out of the loading lane, opened the bonnet so as to look like someone who recognised what was under there, and gazed vacantly into the gleaming technology that we take so much for granted every day.
The nice men at the terminal diagnosed a flat battery and produced a booster charger. We started the engine but the ferry had gone, so I drove around for half an hour to charge us up again. We caught the next boat and hoped that the engine would start at the other end. It did! We got to daughter's house and had a nice evening belated celebrating her birthday. The following day we set out to explore Maidstone. Not somewhere that I'd recommend, but it was dry and not too cold and passed the day. After having driven back to daughter's place, I discovered a flat tyre and because it had been driven on, and had a screw in it, it had to be replaced at huge cost! £170 for a tyre?? I couldn't believe it, and the comment from the mechanic about Ferrari tyres costing £1000 each was not exactly helpful.
The new day dawned and we set off for the Tunnel. The tyres looked ok, but now I was expecting another disaster to strike so, the journey started as a worry. The drive across France and into the Fatherland is a little over 500 miles and as we had already covered 100 getting to France in the first place, we decided to stop overnight en route.
Verdun has always been linked in my mind to the great war and treaties etc - Not any more!
We pulled off the motorway into Verdun and as is our wont, passed dozens of hotels before deciding that we'd better stop. The Lion D'Or was in a side street, not far from a war cemetary and it's only endearing feature was that it was open, and had a room. No it had all it's rooms empty! The owner, chamberperson, cook, concierge, whatever, was a tired and dishevelled Frenchman, that made Basil Fawlty look like a kindly saint. Hegave us a key, we didn't sign in, and he told us that if we wanted le petit déjeuner, it would be at 8, but clearly he didn't care much for that or for the English either. We went to the room - dark cold and dingy but it looked clean enough. There was no dinner - not to oneself - don't ever expect dinner in France on a sunday night! We wandered into Verdun and found a Vietnamese restaurant open and had a warm meal there.
Retiring early after a long day and collapsing into a very short bed with few blankets, sleep came reluctantly and when it did, it was doomed not to last. At 2am I was awoken by the sound of a cat miaowing outside the door. I turned over blocking the sound from my good ear and tried to sleep again. No chance at all, the bloody cat went on and on and on, unceasing bloody noise until at 7.30 I gave up and got up. Showered and the rest, I won't go into details, I ventured out of the room to find the sodding cat hiding behind a curtain on the landing. It was black and abou 4 inches long. How it made so much noise and created so much misery I will never understand. Maybe it was a reincarnation of one of the poor bastards who died here all those years ago and was seeking revenge. The last laugh was almost on me as i took the cases down to the car. i opened the front door and the little bugger shot out of the hotel straight over the busy main road. It missed becoming a very flat cat by nanometers and vanished into some bushes. I hope that it is still there, though i suspect that it's role is to make sure that English guests do not sleep. Clearly the landlord had no problems in that department as by 8.15 there was no sign of life in the dining room or at reception. Unscrupulous people might have just left the keys and gone but no- we waited and eventually he stumbled down the stairs in a half awake state and within half an hour had reluctantly assembled the makings of a continental breakfast. By the time it arrived, any original interest in food had evaporated so we paid the bill and left.
The Hotel in Pfaffenweiler was wonderful. Clean, light ,airy and warm even though the outside temperatures were 4 degrees.
The Black Forest is beautiful and arriving felt good. That night we had a really good meal in the hotel restaurant and a good night's sleep.
Next morning I awoke with a terrible cold and have had it since!
Next time I plan a holiday - someone please remind me that even though I may not be paranoid, that there IS somebody out there who has it in for me.
ps - the journey back was uneventful, but it would be wouldn't it?
I just came back from a trip to Freiburg, pronounced Fry - bourg, I am reliably informed by a resident. The trip was planned, paid for and organised well in advance and nothing was left to chance. Well strictly speaking that isn't true, as I shall explain in a moment.
We were dues to set out last thursday, the plan being to stay the weekend with my daughter and her husband, before setting off for the tunnel on sunday. Last wednesday, we had a call from aforementioned offspring, informing us of the death of one of here best friend's husband. He had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour seven years previously, but even so, his untimely death had a great impact on all those who knew him. I had had a conversation with him only a month before, when we talked about a shared love of Pink Floyd. The discussion was alittle odd as he couldn't remember what he had said in the previous 5 minutes, but we understood each other pretty well.
Anyway, clearly that put a spoke in the wheel of the perfect plan, and departure was delayed so that daughter could come down to us and spend some time with her bereaved friend. Ferries were cancelled and new ones booked...............so on the friday afternoon we set out again, and headed for the late afternoon ferry. All went well until the moment that we were signalled to drive onto the boat. The car refused to start! I pulled the car out of the loading lane, opened the bonnet so as to look like someone who recognised what was under there, and gazed vacantly into the gleaming technology that we take so much for granted every day.
The nice men at the terminal diagnosed a flat battery and produced a booster charger. We started the engine but the ferry had gone, so I drove around for half an hour to charge us up again. We caught the next boat and hoped that the engine would start at the other end. It did! We got to daughter's house and had a nice evening belated celebrating her birthday. The following day we set out to explore Maidstone. Not somewhere that I'd recommend, but it was dry and not too cold and passed the day. After having driven back to daughter's place, I discovered a flat tyre and because it had been driven on, and had a screw in it, it had to be replaced at huge cost! £170 for a tyre?? I couldn't believe it, and the comment from the mechanic about Ferrari tyres costing £1000 each was not exactly helpful.
The new day dawned and we set off for the Tunnel. The tyres looked ok, but now I was expecting another disaster to strike so, the journey started as a worry. The drive across France and into the Fatherland is a little over 500 miles and as we had already covered 100 getting to France in the first place, we decided to stop overnight en route.
Verdun has always been linked in my mind to the great war and treaties etc - Not any more!
We pulled off the motorway into Verdun and as is our wont, passed dozens of hotels before deciding that we'd better stop. The Lion D'Or was in a side street, not far from a war cemetary and it's only endearing feature was that it was open, and had a room. No it had all it's rooms empty! The owner, chamberperson, cook, concierge, whatever, was a tired and dishevelled Frenchman, that made Basil Fawlty look like a kindly saint. Hegave us a key, we didn't sign in, and he told us that if we wanted le petit déjeuner, it would be at 8, but clearly he didn't care much for that or for the English either. We went to the room - dark cold and dingy but it looked clean enough. There was no dinner - not to oneself - don't ever expect dinner in France on a sunday night! We wandered into Verdun and found a Vietnamese restaurant open and had a warm meal there.
Retiring early after a long day and collapsing into a very short bed with few blankets, sleep came reluctantly and when it did, it was doomed not to last. At 2am I was awoken by the sound of a cat miaowing outside the door. I turned over blocking the sound from my good ear and tried to sleep again. No chance at all, the bloody cat went on and on and on, unceasing bloody noise until at 7.30 I gave up and got up. Showered and the rest, I won't go into details, I ventured out of the room to find the sodding cat hiding behind a curtain on the landing. It was black and abou 4 inches long. How it made so much noise and created so much misery I will never understand. Maybe it was a reincarnation of one of the poor bastards who died here all those years ago and was seeking revenge. The last laugh was almost on me as i took the cases down to the car. i opened the front door and the little bugger shot out of the hotel straight over the busy main road. It missed becoming a very flat cat by nanometers and vanished into some bushes. I hope that it is still there, though i suspect that it's role is to make sure that English guests do not sleep. Clearly the landlord had no problems in that department as by 8.15 there was no sign of life in the dining room or at reception. Unscrupulous people might have just left the keys and gone but no- we waited and eventually he stumbled down the stairs in a half awake state and within half an hour had reluctantly assembled the makings of a continental breakfast. By the time it arrived, any original interest in food had evaporated so we paid the bill and left.
The Hotel in Pfaffenweiler was wonderful. Clean, light ,airy and warm even though the outside temperatures were 4 degrees.
The Black Forest is beautiful and arriving felt good. That night we had a really good meal in the hotel restaurant and a good night's sleep.
Next morning I awoke with a terrible cold and have had it since!
Next time I plan a holiday - someone please remind me that even though I may not be paranoid, that there IS somebody out there who has it in for me.
ps - the journey back was uneventful, but it would be wouldn't it?
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Blasts from the past
This weekend sees a very significant anniversary for me. I am going to meet up with my oldest and dearest friend in the city where we went to college. I have no doubt that we will revisit all the old haunts and be terribly disappointed when they are no longer there, or changed beyond recognition. I am sure that we will tell all the old stories and be transported back to a youth that we wish that we still have, or that we wish that we had mis-spent differently.
College days were very special and the memories lie deep and are well rooted. Some things are best forgotten but that is not really a possibility until senility wipes out what is written only in our minds. I find it very sad that old age and death remove, from the earth, treasure box after treasure box of memories that can never be replaced. People say that we should not look backward but forward, and though I can see the sense in that, as we get older, there is far more to look back on than there is to look forward to, and there is much pleasure to be gained from reliving the good memories.
My course at college was Junior/secondary Biology, which meant that we had to study a whole host of subjects as well as Education and our subject of choice. The idea being that we would be prepared to teach accross a wide age range, and thus there was a necessity to be as versatile as possible. The course was not great in terms of its educational value I have to say, and most people could get by with a minimal amount of effort. The real learning took place in the three teaching practices, and not surprisingly, these were the times when some people failed and were thrown out. I don't recall anyone having to leave on the basis of a failed exam.
For general subjects we were placed into "Curriculum groups" and these were fairly random in their make up. I guess that they wanted each group to have representatives from all subject areas. Anyway much of the week, we were a unit and moved around from department to department, suffering the joys of a range of tutors.
We had lectures in Maths, English, Art, Music, PE, Drama and RE and were expected to pass in all of them. It wasn't hard, though you did need to turn up now and then i order to be recognised. My friend managed to turn up to two PE lectures atthe beginning of the course and then hung up his kit. I think he still has the shorts - they never needed washing.
Mostly these sessions were seen as social gatherings, though some tutors did engage us, and attendance for their sessions were pretty good. I have fond memories of Art, Drama and Maths, and I have to say that I enjoyed PE and never missed a session. In those days i was quite athletic and enjoyed playing team sports such as basketball, hockey and athletics. I never had the legs for football.
Our resident lunatic tutor, was in the Art department. I'll call him Dennis as that was his name. He was an enthusiastic potter among other things and I think that he found our particular group quite hard to handle. Never in the history of the college had so many cynics been brought together. They say that all education is subversive. We certainly were. Is it me I wonder? but I have always found myself in subversive groups! Dennis's lectures were fun though I don't think we ever learned anything curricular. It did give me inroads into the typography department however and that kindled a life long interest in type and layout.
I became the only one who could use the ancient presses and soon became responsible for printing all the tickets for social events, posters and invitations too. There were no word processors of computers then and it was all done by hand. Images were done in linocuts or hand drawn, I wasn't able to use silk screen, type was all hand set and the presses all manual. I loved the typography and spent many happy hours in there by myself. Eventually though, I managed to break one of the presses in a moment of exuberance and was banned from typography forever.
The real joy of college though is the people that you grow up with. And i guess that that is what we were there for. To learn from each other and to grow up. Some did that very quickly, and I believe that I have yet to meet that objective.
I am looking forward to our mini re-union and although nostalgia is not what it once was, we will revel in the past for a whole day, which will no doubt terminate in a curry!
College days were very special and the memories lie deep and are well rooted. Some things are best forgotten but that is not really a possibility until senility wipes out what is written only in our minds. I find it very sad that old age and death remove, from the earth, treasure box after treasure box of memories that can never be replaced. People say that we should not look backward but forward, and though I can see the sense in that, as we get older, there is far more to look back on than there is to look forward to, and there is much pleasure to be gained from reliving the good memories.
My course at college was Junior/secondary Biology, which meant that we had to study a whole host of subjects as well as Education and our subject of choice. The idea being that we would be prepared to teach accross a wide age range, and thus there was a necessity to be as versatile as possible. The course was not great in terms of its educational value I have to say, and most people could get by with a minimal amount of effort. The real learning took place in the three teaching practices, and not surprisingly, these were the times when some people failed and were thrown out. I don't recall anyone having to leave on the basis of a failed exam.
For general subjects we were placed into "Curriculum groups" and these were fairly random in their make up. I guess that they wanted each group to have representatives from all subject areas. Anyway much of the week, we were a unit and moved around from department to department, suffering the joys of a range of tutors.
We had lectures in Maths, English, Art, Music, PE, Drama and RE and were expected to pass in all of them. It wasn't hard, though you did need to turn up now and then i order to be recognised. My friend managed to turn up to two PE lectures atthe beginning of the course and then hung up his kit. I think he still has the shorts - they never needed washing.
Mostly these sessions were seen as social gatherings, though some tutors did engage us, and attendance for their sessions were pretty good. I have fond memories of Art, Drama and Maths, and I have to say that I enjoyed PE and never missed a session. In those days i was quite athletic and enjoyed playing team sports such as basketball, hockey and athletics. I never had the legs for football.
Our resident lunatic tutor, was in the Art department. I'll call him Dennis as that was his name. He was an enthusiastic potter among other things and I think that he found our particular group quite hard to handle. Never in the history of the college had so many cynics been brought together. They say that all education is subversive. We certainly were. Is it me I wonder? but I have always found myself in subversive groups! Dennis's lectures were fun though I don't think we ever learned anything curricular. It did give me inroads into the typography department however and that kindled a life long interest in type and layout.
I became the only one who could use the ancient presses and soon became responsible for printing all the tickets for social events, posters and invitations too. There were no word processors of computers then and it was all done by hand. Images were done in linocuts or hand drawn, I wasn't able to use silk screen, type was all hand set and the presses all manual. I loved the typography and spent many happy hours in there by myself. Eventually though, I managed to break one of the presses in a moment of exuberance and was banned from typography forever.
The real joy of college though is the people that you grow up with. And i guess that that is what we were there for. To learn from each other and to grow up. Some did that very quickly, and I believe that I have yet to meet that objective.
I am looking forward to our mini re-union and although nostalgia is not what it once was, we will revel in the past for a whole day, which will no doubt terminate in a curry!
Monday, 24 September 2007
Pain
I am playing an old Vinyl record of J J Cale and wondering what the hell I can write about today. I know that once I stop writing for any length of time, that starting again becomes less and less of a probability. Blues music is wonderul but one thing that it doesn't do is to raise a smile. It is about pain and loss and maybe that is why it appeals. If we can engage in someone else's pain, maybe it makes ours seems less.
I was reading some Jonathan Miller last night and he was talking about body image and various sensations, including physical pain. Body image is a very strange concept, and he is so right when he talks about our own built in image that never seems to change. Inside i feel the same as I did when I was eighteen, and yet whenever I look into the mirror, I step back mentally, not recognising what my bodyhas become, and not liking it much either.
Pain is a part of out body image and has evolved as a means of protection. Without pain we would self destruct in no time at all. There are cases of people born without pain reception and they have a tough time of it. Toddlers chew anything and without pain, this includes tongues and fingers as well as any other body part that teeth can access. Without pain, we'd continue to walk on broken legs, would ignore rotten teeth and most illnesses and ailments. We know our bodies and we know when things are not as they should be.
In extremis, people may lose touch with their body image and then trange things can happen. Sensations may be perceived but not necesarily conected to the body map. Amputees often suffer phantom pains in limbs that no longer exist, and that is something which must be pretty horriffic. Imagine having an itch in a foot that is no longer there.
In Hard Times, by Charles Dickens, Mrs Gradgrind's death scene includes
"Have you a pain Mother?"
"There's a pain somewhere in the room, but I cannot be certain that I have got it."
We can, to a limited extent dissociate ourselves from pain and the odd illegal substance may help; while some people can manage without. Accupuncturists claim that they can remove pain to the e xtent that some have had surgery without any other form of anaesthetic.
Pain is hard to recall in full. Perhaps that is just as well. I was trying to remember the most painful experiences of my life, and I guess that I have been luckier than some. The earliest pain that I can recall, was at Grammar school. I must have been 13 or 14 and was picked on by an older boy, who for no obvious reason, kneed me in the balls. I went down like sack of potatoes and can still feel an attenuated version of the agony now. It took me a day to recover from that.
Later on, as a result of the TB I had suffered as a child, I was tormented by Arthritis in the hip. This pain is both acute and chronic, and what is more it rarely goes away, and as the months go by it takes it's toll. That sort of pain is pure misery and it becomes all consuming, to the extent that it becomes you. Analgesics do little and besides they have their side effects too.
I was fortunate in having the necessary treatment to remove that pain once and for all. Not everyone is so fortunate, and must live their lives in misery.
Well J J has finished and I have to turn him over. I budgetted for one side but I have over run and will stop before I suffer with RSI.
I was reading some Jonathan Miller last night and he was talking about body image and various sensations, including physical pain. Body image is a very strange concept, and he is so right when he talks about our own built in image that never seems to change. Inside i feel the same as I did when I was eighteen, and yet whenever I look into the mirror, I step back mentally, not recognising what my bodyhas become, and not liking it much either.
Pain is a part of out body image and has evolved as a means of protection. Without pain we would self destruct in no time at all. There are cases of people born without pain reception and they have a tough time of it. Toddlers chew anything and without pain, this includes tongues and fingers as well as any other body part that teeth can access. Without pain, we'd continue to walk on broken legs, would ignore rotten teeth and most illnesses and ailments. We know our bodies and we know when things are not as they should be.
In extremis, people may lose touch with their body image and then trange things can happen. Sensations may be perceived but not necesarily conected to the body map. Amputees often suffer phantom pains in limbs that no longer exist, and that is something which must be pretty horriffic. Imagine having an itch in a foot that is no longer there.
In Hard Times, by Charles Dickens, Mrs Gradgrind's death scene includes
"Have you a pain Mother?"
"There's a pain somewhere in the room, but I cannot be certain that I have got it."
We can, to a limited extent dissociate ourselves from pain and the odd illegal substance may help; while some people can manage without. Accupuncturists claim that they can remove pain to the e xtent that some have had surgery without any other form of anaesthetic.
Pain is hard to recall in full. Perhaps that is just as well. I was trying to remember the most painful experiences of my life, and I guess that I have been luckier than some. The earliest pain that I can recall, was at Grammar school. I must have been 13 or 14 and was picked on by an older boy, who for no obvious reason, kneed me in the balls. I went down like sack of potatoes and can still feel an attenuated version of the agony now. It took me a day to recover from that.
Later on, as a result of the TB I had suffered as a child, I was tormented by Arthritis in the hip. This pain is both acute and chronic, and what is more it rarely goes away, and as the months go by it takes it's toll. That sort of pain is pure misery and it becomes all consuming, to the extent that it becomes you. Analgesics do little and besides they have their side effects too.
I was fortunate in having the necessary treatment to remove that pain once and for all. Not everyone is so fortunate, and must live their lives in misery.
Well J J has finished and I have to turn him over. I budgetted for one side but I have over run and will stop before I suffer with RSI.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Comms
In my youth, communication was about talking to people, mostly face to face. I was never very good at it and kept my self to myself as much as i could. Being inside one's own little world can be a great comfort.
If you wanted to talk to someone who lived more than a bike ride away, you wrote letters, and that was something else that I loathed. I remember being forced to write letters to relatives, that were by no means close, and struggling to find anything to say. We didn't have a telephone, and any phone calls were made from a public call box halfway down the village. To make a call, you had to put in 4 old pennies, wait to be connected and if successful, press button A. If unsuccessful you pressed button B, and if you were lucky, you got your money back. Long distance calls had to be booked in advance, and were extraordinarily expensive, and therefore reserved for emergencies.
Bad news always came by means of a telegram, which meant that the woman at the post office got to hear it before you did, and that probably meant that the whole village found out pretty quickly.
We did have a radio, but TV came later, and living in the village, newspapers were like hens teeth. Things were pretty basic, and i don't recall it being a problem.
The other day, i was involved in a very near miss, while driving. A woman, shot out in front of me from a junction, and how I missed her I just don't know. She was of course on her cell phone, and oblivious to anyone else on the road. I am afraid that I gave chase and pulled her off the road to tell her what i thought about her driving, and she seemed to think that she hadn't done anything wrong. A strange perception.
Mobile phones are so ubiquitous now that we all have them and seem to become more dependent on them as time goes by.
Mine tends to sit in my desk drawer most of the time, though if I am going to be away, I do take it with me and sometimes will switch it on. Of course, it never, or rarely rings, and so because of that i often forget where it is. I don't make calls and so I don't get them either, it is a bit catch 22 i guess.
On the other hand, i am a big user of electronic mail and enjoy email contact with the world in general. I love to receive email, and have no objection to spam, though having said that I seem to be spam free at the moment. Email is direct and simple and most people are pretty good at responding. It is also less intrusive than a telephone, though I have known individuals to stop a conversation in order to read a mail. I used to be a devotee of Napster and MSN, and found meeting strangers fascinating. Second life is my current interest and a link to a strange world occupied by some very nice and some not very nice people.
Information overload is a growing problem, and the bombardment can only increase in volume and intensity. It would seem that we have no excuses any more for not keeping in touch with our friends.
I still loathe writing letters by hand and recently realised that handwriting is hard work.
This is my first entry for a while and I am aware that I have little new to say. I hope that I can find the will to write more effectively next time.
If you wanted to talk to someone who lived more than a bike ride away, you wrote letters, and that was something else that I loathed. I remember being forced to write letters to relatives, that were by no means close, and struggling to find anything to say. We didn't have a telephone, and any phone calls were made from a public call box halfway down the village. To make a call, you had to put in 4 old pennies, wait to be connected and if successful, press button A. If unsuccessful you pressed button B, and if you were lucky, you got your money back. Long distance calls had to be booked in advance, and were extraordinarily expensive, and therefore reserved for emergencies.
Bad news always came by means of a telegram, which meant that the woman at the post office got to hear it before you did, and that probably meant that the whole village found out pretty quickly.
We did have a radio, but TV came later, and living in the village, newspapers were like hens teeth. Things were pretty basic, and i don't recall it being a problem.
The other day, i was involved in a very near miss, while driving. A woman, shot out in front of me from a junction, and how I missed her I just don't know. She was of course on her cell phone, and oblivious to anyone else on the road. I am afraid that I gave chase and pulled her off the road to tell her what i thought about her driving, and she seemed to think that she hadn't done anything wrong. A strange perception.
Mobile phones are so ubiquitous now that we all have them and seem to become more dependent on them as time goes by.
Mine tends to sit in my desk drawer most of the time, though if I am going to be away, I do take it with me and sometimes will switch it on. Of course, it never, or rarely rings, and so because of that i often forget where it is. I don't make calls and so I don't get them either, it is a bit catch 22 i guess.
On the other hand, i am a big user of electronic mail and enjoy email contact with the world in general. I love to receive email, and have no objection to spam, though having said that I seem to be spam free at the moment. Email is direct and simple and most people are pretty good at responding. It is also less intrusive than a telephone, though I have known individuals to stop a conversation in order to read a mail. I used to be a devotee of Napster and MSN, and found meeting strangers fascinating. Second life is my current interest and a link to a strange world occupied by some very nice and some not very nice people.
Information overload is a growing problem, and the bombardment can only increase in volume and intensity. It would seem that we have no excuses any more for not keeping in touch with our friends.
I still loathe writing letters by hand and recently realised that handwriting is hard work.
This is my first entry for a while and I am aware that I have little new to say. I hope that I can find the will to write more effectively next time.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
In the absence of my own thoughts
I am Very Bothered
I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.
Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.
-- Simon Armitage
I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.
Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.
-- Simon Armitage
Thursday, 13 September 2007
Thought for the day
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
An explanation but not an excuse
I am aware that when one writes, there is a risk involved. Probably many risks, but one that springs to mind, is that it is easy to offend others. I am no Jeremy Clarkson, who seems to make a living out of being obnoxious, but I guess that inadvertently I may have said things that others find innappropriate or hurtful. I have no wish to effect anyone in a negative sense and do not set out with malicious intent.
When I write, it is simply a stream of consciousness, brought on by whatever I have absorbed in the recent past. Sometimes I'll begin, knowing something of what i am about to say, but often it is just what comes into my head there and then.
I have had a good morning, after a not so good start. and with a haircut to look forward to, today looks like being ok. I saw my first student of the year today and she is a delight, so that was a good restart to the day. I enjoy the challenge of teaching, and still find my subject to be fascinating. As with most things, I find that the more I know, the more I know how little i know, and that is always humbling.
I have in front of me a pile of plant bits and pieces, the residue of our lesson and it feels good to be able to share knowledge with another human being.
When I write, it is simply a stream of consciousness, brought on by whatever I have absorbed in the recent past. Sometimes I'll begin, knowing something of what i am about to say, but often it is just what comes into my head there and then.
I have had a good morning, after a not so good start. and with a haircut to look forward to, today looks like being ok. I saw my first student of the year today and she is a delight, so that was a good restart to the day. I enjoy the challenge of teaching, and still find my subject to be fascinating. As with most things, I find that the more I know, the more I know how little i know, and that is always humbling.
I have in front of me a pile of plant bits and pieces, the residue of our lesson and it feels good to be able to share knowledge with another human being.
Monday, 10 September 2007
Virtuality
I was trying to think hw long it is since I had a haircut. I know I toyed with the idea of shaving my head some while ago and it was a good few weeks before that. Needless to say I am in dire need now. I have gone off the idea of something like a grade one or less, what with summer being about done and all that, but having shorter hair makes aspects of daily life easier.
I have never been too bothered by my appearance, and have no "Style" at all. I dress for comfort and for me a pair of jeans and tee shirt is all I need to wear. I can wear a suit if I have to and I do have some othet clothes I think, somewhere, but as I see very few people anyway it doesn't seem to be of any importance.
This has carried through to Second Life, where one invents oneself again, and imagination is the only limit. I still tend towards black tee shirt and jeans and that again seems to be my comfort zone. Having said that, I met a lovely lady yesterday, who has talked me into doing something about that and I have already begun to redesign. I want to thank her for her words and her generosity in supporting me and I hope to make the most of her help. Oh that things were so easy in reality.
Change is hard. Change has a nasty habit of biting in all the wrong places and causing problems that one never even considers. We all live in boxes of our own construction and breaking out of them, while being liberating, can of course set dominoes falling that were best left undisturbed. The fallout from that can continue for years after the event and I guess that it takes a very selfish approach if that is to leave one unscathed.
I stepped out of my box once, and although I am back inside and the lid nailed shut, the aftermath is sustained. It echoes around me and I have a constant battle, attempting to disregard it. Being selfish can be hard too, though it seems to be no problem for some. I sometimes wish that I could disengage myself.
Meeting people in second life has so far been a wonderful experience and has done much to restore my faith in the goodness of people. For those out there who have never visited, it is worth a try; there is a new community out there and you too can remodel yourself, should you feel so inclined.
I have never been too bothered by my appearance, and have no "Style" at all. I dress for comfort and for me a pair of jeans and tee shirt is all I need to wear. I can wear a suit if I have to and I do have some othet clothes I think, somewhere, but as I see very few people anyway it doesn't seem to be of any importance.
This has carried through to Second Life, where one invents oneself again, and imagination is the only limit. I still tend towards black tee shirt and jeans and that again seems to be my comfort zone. Having said that, I met a lovely lady yesterday, who has talked me into doing something about that and I have already begun to redesign. I want to thank her for her words and her generosity in supporting me and I hope to make the most of her help. Oh that things were so easy in reality.
Change is hard. Change has a nasty habit of biting in all the wrong places and causing problems that one never even considers. We all live in boxes of our own construction and breaking out of them, while being liberating, can of course set dominoes falling that were best left undisturbed. The fallout from that can continue for years after the event and I guess that it takes a very selfish approach if that is to leave one unscathed.
I stepped out of my box once, and although I am back inside and the lid nailed shut, the aftermath is sustained. It echoes around me and I have a constant battle, attempting to disregard it. Being selfish can be hard too, though it seems to be no problem for some. I sometimes wish that I could disengage myself.
Meeting people in second life has so far been a wonderful experience and has done much to restore my faith in the goodness of people. For those out there who have never visited, it is worth a try; there is a new community out there and you too can remodel yourself, should you feel so inclined.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
What's in a name?
I apologise in advance for any offence - but hell you don't have to read it.
I was thinking this morning about the number of people that come into and out of our lives, and often, all that we remember are their names. I must have met thousands of children in my teaching life, and the names come back to me, as do the faces. My problem is matching the two lists.
Parents often don't think too hard about the names they give to their offspring, and kids may well be branded fro life with names that they hate. (I know this from personal experience.)
One of the worst combinations I ever heard of was a local family whose surname happend to be Royd, who named their daughter Emma. How cruel can you get? Another that springs to mind was the Carte family and their teenage son Orsen. I know this sounds like an exerpt from "I'm sorry I haven't a clue" but they are true.
One of my jobs when I was teaching was the setting of new intake students. I can remember looking down the lists and identifying many of the lower ability kids by their forenames. The Waynes, Shanes, Carlys, Sharons and Tracys often wound up together. (I have to say that I did in fact use their reports and not their names for the setting process)
As one's teaching career goes by, names become attached to personality types and, it is a mental picture that once formed is hard to remove. Negative images tend to stick, and there are some forenames that my own brain has stereotyped irrevocably.
Not all names of course have negative connotations, some are very agreeabele and I link with wonderful people. Some stand out as they are the only ones that I have met, but these are few and far apart. I only know one Edith, Maureen, Zena, Luke, Edmund and Gabrielle, and most of these are delightful people
Names also have a habit of coming back to haunt, because of events that have taken place in ones life. Names such as Anne, Michael, and Jack still have strong negative influences.
Maybe kids should be given numbers or temporary names until they are old enough to choose one for themselves. Then I guess we'd have some intersting school registers.
I was thinking this morning about the number of people that come into and out of our lives, and often, all that we remember are their names. I must have met thousands of children in my teaching life, and the names come back to me, as do the faces. My problem is matching the two lists.
Parents often don't think too hard about the names they give to their offspring, and kids may well be branded fro life with names that they hate. (I know this from personal experience.)
One of the worst combinations I ever heard of was a local family whose surname happend to be Royd, who named their daughter Emma. How cruel can you get? Another that springs to mind was the Carte family and their teenage son Orsen. I know this sounds like an exerpt from "I'm sorry I haven't a clue" but they are true.
One of my jobs when I was teaching was the setting of new intake students. I can remember looking down the lists and identifying many of the lower ability kids by their forenames. The Waynes, Shanes, Carlys, Sharons and Tracys often wound up together. (I have to say that I did in fact use their reports and not their names for the setting process)
As one's teaching career goes by, names become attached to personality types and, it is a mental picture that once formed is hard to remove. Negative images tend to stick, and there are some forenames that my own brain has stereotyped irrevocably.
Not all names of course have negative connotations, some are very agreeabele and I link with wonderful people. Some stand out as they are the only ones that I have met, but these are few and far apart. I only know one Edith, Maureen, Zena, Luke, Edmund and Gabrielle, and most of these are delightful people
Names also have a habit of coming back to haunt, because of events that have taken place in ones life. Names such as Anne, Michael, and Jack still have strong negative influences.
Maybe kids should be given numbers or temporary names until they are old enough to choose one for themselves. Then I guess we'd have some intersting school registers.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Time travel
I heard on the radio the other day, that some guy wants someone to give him 20,000 pounds, or was it 200,000? I can't remember, so that he can build a time machine. I don't know i f he has found, or ever will find, anyone daft enough to come up with the money, but I guess there is always someone who is both rich and stupid, so I wish him luck.
It has been said that time travel will never be a reality. This is based on the fact, that no-one has visited us from the future, so therefore, in the future there is no means of travelling to the past. If they ca only travel into the future, they'd have no way of getting back, so therefore the whole thing seems a bit unlikely.
What though, if we could travel in time? Would I want to go forward or back? There are days certainly when I would like to go back into the past and make changes to the things that I did or did not do, but on the other hand it would be interesting to look ahead and see what the future holds. I guess though, that knowing too much about the future, including the time and nature of one's demise, could have calamatous consequences, and would knowing what was going to happen, enable one to change the future? Maybe the future is only an illusion, much in the same way that the past is. We only really experience the present.
I can imagine our inventor friend picking up his money and vanishing, to a future that he already has planned, somewhere in the Caribbean. Punters beware.
It has been said that time travel will never be a reality. This is based on the fact, that no-one has visited us from the future, so therefore, in the future there is no means of travelling to the past. If they ca only travel into the future, they'd have no way of getting back, so therefore the whole thing seems a bit unlikely.
What though, if we could travel in time? Would I want to go forward or back? There are days certainly when I would like to go back into the past and make changes to the things that I did or did not do, but on the other hand it would be interesting to look ahead and see what the future holds. I guess though, that knowing too much about the future, including the time and nature of one's demise, could have calamatous consequences, and would knowing what was going to happen, enable one to change the future? Maybe the future is only an illusion, much in the same way that the past is. We only really experience the present.
I can imagine our inventor friend picking up his money and vanishing, to a future that he already has planned, somewhere in the Caribbean. Punters beware.
Monday, 3 September 2007
A rant
I have been following with some interest, the latest exchanges between the Atheists and the Theists, as argued by Richard Dawkins on the one side, and virtually everyone else on the other. Being of a similar mind to Dawkins, I have made myself take a look at the arguments put forward by some of his opponents, and, trying to be as open minded as it is possible to be, I have made an attempt to find an argument that is as convincing as his.
Yesterday I read an extract (and I know that it is not the whole book!) from an offering by John Humphries, whose intellect I also admire. One of the questions that he addresses, is Dawkin assertion that Religion is dangerous, and although he tends to agree that the "Mad Mullahs" that gather extremist Muslims around them, are a serious threat to world peace, in general, he finds himself at odds with the general idea. Now it is easy when putting together any argument, to put to one side, the facts that run counter you your own interpretation of events. We all do it, and to ignore the atrocities, conducted throughout history, and still going on, in the name of God, Allah, or whatever you like to call him/it.
He makes no mention of religious wars, the Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch trials, the torture and murders of Catholics by Protestants and vice versa. He ignores the years of conflict in Northern Ireland and the genocide of the Balkans.
Whether or not, there is a God, and as yet no-one has provided me with any supportive evidence for that assertion, organised religions, however benign they may appear, by definition are divisive, closed books, clubs to which only believers are entitled to membership. As such, their existence must lead to conflicts of interests and that is a danger.
It is time that the world grew up and began to look for solutions to the very real problems that we face today. We need to look at ourselves and at the fragile Earth upon which we live. The solutions are here, and it is for human beings to find them. Hoping for the intervention of a divinity is pointless and counterproductive. We are on our own and need to stop believing in fairy tales.
By all means, look at the night sky, or listen to music and wonder. But just because we don't understand something does not mean that supernatural forces are behind it.
Humphries says that people need a faith. Why? There are plenty of us who don't. Maybe it is time that the closed minded, entrenched religious zealots, were put in their place and asked for some real evidence to back up their assertions. A holy book is simply a book, and books can very easily mislead. Throw them away and let people think for themselves for the first time in human history.
Yesterday I read an extract (and I know that it is not the whole book!) from an offering by John Humphries, whose intellect I also admire. One of the questions that he addresses, is Dawkin assertion that Religion is dangerous, and although he tends to agree that the "Mad Mullahs" that gather extremist Muslims around them, are a serious threat to world peace, in general, he finds himself at odds with the general idea. Now it is easy when putting together any argument, to put to one side, the facts that run counter you your own interpretation of events. We all do it, and to ignore the atrocities, conducted throughout history, and still going on, in the name of God, Allah, or whatever you like to call him/it.
He makes no mention of religious wars, the Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch trials, the torture and murders of Catholics by Protestants and vice versa. He ignores the years of conflict in Northern Ireland and the genocide of the Balkans.
Whether or not, there is a God, and as yet no-one has provided me with any supportive evidence for that assertion, organised religions, however benign they may appear, by definition are divisive, closed books, clubs to which only believers are entitled to membership. As such, their existence must lead to conflicts of interests and that is a danger.
It is time that the world grew up and began to look for solutions to the very real problems that we face today. We need to look at ourselves and at the fragile Earth upon which we live. The solutions are here, and it is for human beings to find them. Hoping for the intervention of a divinity is pointless and counterproductive. We are on our own and need to stop believing in fairy tales.
By all means, look at the night sky, or listen to music and wonder. But just because we don't understand something does not mean that supernatural forces are behind it.
Humphries says that people need a faith. Why? There are plenty of us who don't. Maybe it is time that the closed minded, entrenched religious zealots, were put in their place and asked for some real evidence to back up their assertions. A holy book is simply a book, and books can very easily mislead. Throw them away and let people think for themselves for the first time in human history.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)