While Boffin's Away The Cats get less Play

No sooner than RHB trundled her suitcase down towards Newland Avenue, ultimate destination Italy for a week's R&R with Culham et al, I sneaked upstairs to my stash. I got the stuff, and mixed it. Real good. Although I admit to a flicker of guilt at breaking a promise, old addictions die hard, and I seem to have particularly addictive personality. Every relapse is the same - at first, there's a rush, adrenalin surging, and you cant wait for the next time so you just do it again. And again. The problem is, the more you do it, the worse it gets. THe worse it gets, the more you need to do more. It is, as classically described, a downwards spiral. The worst thing is, you know, you just know, that no matter how hard you try to hide what you've been doing, you will be found out, because the effects just cannot be hidden.

As you will have probably guessed from the aforementioned paragraph, I have, I confess, been at it again. Plastering that is. This time I plastered my front room and hallway. This time, the results of the plastering are not as bad as they were previously, in that a hallway is, generally speaking a room you pass through quickly, on the way elsewhere. Besides, there will be coats hung everywhere.

My solution to the front room is that we will treat it like an old fashioned English "parlour" . Effectively this means we will never go in to that room, as in days of Yore, even the smallest of English houses had parlours. Children and animals, husbands and close relatives, all were forbidden from ever entering the parlour. The reason is that it was always the 'best' room in the house, kept immaculately spotless, often with an unplayed piano and fancy Chinaware on display. Unerringly, the "display only" feature of the Chinaware was a good thing, as most of the stuff was unusable - plates with stupid ripples in, cup handles that a cat could not get it's paw through, bowls whose lower curves were specifically designed to bear no relationship at all to average spoon shape meaning that even if you were lucky enough (possibly Holy Communion) to grab a bowl of trifle, you could never eat it all due to spoon related inaccesibility. Licking the bowl, at least in the parlour, was forbidden. With the kind of logic that makes you wonder if our ancestors actually did any reflection, the parlour, best room in the house, was usually used to entertain people whom you did not like very much, like the Priest, snobby relatives, the Insurance man, and sadly, corpses during wakes.

I have to admit, I struggled with the correct word in the last sentence of the preceding paragraph when describing the corpse's prescence at a wake. It can hardly be claimed that they attend wakes, and in sounds as if they are a theatrical turn. At has the same problem as attend and for implies some activity on the corpses part. So I apologize retrospectively, during will have to do.

The sudden appearance of a parlour will hopefully be a welcome thing when the RHB gets home. We have been camping in our house since January, effectively living in the bedroom and I think we're getting used to it. Pavlovian animals that we both are, I think we would not know what to do with more useable space anyway, so the parlour, to me is an ideal solution.

A final note on this is that the plastering is not just self indulgence. I tried (OH how I tried) to get people in to do it, but there was no interest. Apparently, even in Credit Crunch Britain, the are some jobs that are just "too small". The appearance of plaster on our walls downstairs though, is no small thing for us. Completion of these rooms will be massive, and will allow us to getthe floor down finally. Once that is done, you are all invited to a Great Big Housewarming Party.

Anthromorphising Cats

The mighty Warrior was, in every sense alive; a brutal killing machine, dark nemesis of anything he met, deadly, silent, fearsome. He glided invisibly to the crack in the rocks at the end of the valley and searched, with a hunter's tuned senses, the terrain ahead - the unknown, and unknowable, savage country that screamed danger. But this was no time, or place for the fainthearted, the Warrior was committed, so with a mightly roar and a huge leap he sprung out of the crevass, landing on the valley floor. He was quite literally in a land no-one had ever seen.


I watch as Toshack, his little pink nose constantly sniffing, cautiously pushes the back door open with his paw, and after what seems like an age of hesitation,tail twitching, and with a kitten-like mewl little miaow, falls off the step and out of the back door. Like most animal owners, I suppose, I often wonder "What, anything, is the cat thinking?".



Suddenly the Warrior froze. A dark inimicable shape thrust out of the foliage that scattered untidly across the distant foothills. Knowing (with an instinct borne of a heritage of genetic research spawned in the Badlands of Ontario)that the deadly creature had seen him, the Warrior gave a mighty roar of defiance and screamed his challenge:

"I am Tiddly Om-Pom-Pom, otherwise known as Toshack the Pink! What manner of creature are you and what do you want? Know this well, Black Beast from Hell, I will sell my life dearly, as I have claimed this territory for the Red Haired God who gives me KittyBits. Salmon flavoured."

The creature paused in its headlong rush:

"I'm a cat, you idiot. Just like you. My name's Max, and I want to know what you think you were doing yesterday playing on my slide. And the day before that you were messing about in my paddling pool. "







I see Tosh and Max meet, and start hissing and yowling at eachother. For the last few weeks, as Tosh has gradually become bolder he's expanded his territory. Or at least tried to, because most of it is occupied by Max, a lovable little moggie owned by our excellent neighbours, John and Leila. In a very English conversation, we've discussed the specific Turf War between Max and Tosh('over the garden fence' as they say in the UK) by never actually referring to it:

"Hi Leyla! Beautiful day ! How's it going?"

"Oh, fine. Thought it might rain later, so just putting the washing out"

I glance upwards, and regret doing so as I am blinded immediately by a brilliant sun.

"Yeah. It could rain. I'm just letting the cats out now, in case it does".

"I've noticed their getting out more. How they doing?"

"Fine. Calli's a little nervous, but Tosh is beginning to throw his weight around."

"Well, when we moved in Max used to get beaten up all the time by next door's cat, then it stopped after a few weeks. After that, they got along fine. Anyway, must dash, see you later. Say 'hi' to Nel. "

Each culture has it's own way of communicating, but the English, like the Innuit, specialize in never saying anything directly, but communicating an awful lot while appearing to say absolutely nothing. Leyla and I come away from the conversation knowing that we've just reached agreement that any damage either cat causes the other will not be reflected by a deterioration between us as neighbours, and furthermore, we've agreed that neighbours who have "their noses put out of joint" by silly little things are a bit pathetic, and that if any issue does arise between us in future, we'll talk about it sensibly, and also we've agreed that we'll watch eachother's houses when one or the other is absent and that we're both a bit too busy to talk right now, but we'll have a word with our respective partners and get together for that cup of tea we've been saying we'll have. Furthermore, as advanced English speakers, we've agreed that the Obama Presidency might actually represent a ray of hope for humanity, Post-Modern Marxist analyses notwithstanding. It would be impolite at this stage in our neighbourly relationship to actually say any of this directly.

Meanwhile, Tosh and Max keep ratcheting up the tension. Max climbs onto our extension and sits, provocatively on Tosh's favourite window-sill. Tosh sneaks into Max's and eats all his food. There is, unfortunately, no meeting of minds to be found here. Some would say, that as these creatures are cats, there are no minds at all at work here, but I feel that is a trifle harsh. I do accept that humans are vastly superior and that one would have to trawl long and hard through the pages of history to find a dispute over territory between two human neighbours (or groups of people for that matter) that resulted in behaviour as shockingly violent as hissing loudly at one another.

The smaller of our two cats Callisandra is, unlike Toshack, completely unpredictable. This is possibly because she is as mad as a hatter. Incidentally, hatters were called "mad" because of the chemicals involved in the making of hats - things like mercury, lead and bromine, which eventually led to madness. Calli, unfortunately has no occupational related excuse - she is just plain crazy. She is by far the smallest cat in the neighbourhood, but this does not stop displays of aggression that are fearsome to behold. In the photos that follow, she spots two cats in the neighbour's garden who are cautiously encountering eachother, engaging in the ritualistic dominance/submissive behaviours that allow a balance of power to proceed, uninterrupted by psychopaths. Calli spots the peace process unfolding, gets curious, and then from 6 feet away starts hissing, spitting and growling with all the venom of a 5lb cat in full attack mode.







RHB is slightly critical of my anthromorphising the cats, perhaps a bit worried that I am spending too much time alone, but I've tried anthromorphising humans and it is just so much more believable with cats. At present, due to being on easter vacations, I spend about 16 hours a day oin the cats company, not counting sleeping. I wish I could reprot that they are endlessly fascinating, complex creatures, but alas, like the humans with whom they co-habit they just want a nice place in the sun to sleep, some food and a relatively easy life. Complications arise mainly through their own stupidity - as I mentioned earlier, anthromorphising cats is very beleivable.

Selling Out

Quick note - YNWA has gone commercial. I might have mentioned this before, but Blogger runs this thing called Adsense, which, they say, presents tasteful, carefully tailored advertisements on your blog.

As an experiment, I have decided to try Adsense to see if their publicity - namely that adverts will be blog specific and porn free, and also not feature those annoying floaty adverts that you cannot get away from - is true. What really intrigues me is how they go about navigating blog-specifity for this particular blog, and decide from that what the demographic is. I think we all know that on the whole, those reading this probably constitute the worse set of consumers in history, and are therefore a marketeers nightmare. Seeing what adverts are appropriate for us lot should be interesting.

In order to be completely transparent, I should mention that, theoretically at least, I get paid whenever anyone clicks on the advert. It's up to you guys if you do, or do not, as the adverts are based on a similar system to the royslty payments that musicians operate under, and the amount of readers of this blog are so small that even if everyone clicks on the adverts, the money rasied in five years would probably be insufficient to buy a smallish cake, for the YNWA re-union, in the unlikely event that we ever have a re-union. If however, we do end up making a few bucks, we'll have a vote and donate the proceeds to some charity or other worthwhile cause like a bank, or politician.

Education is Procrastination

I would rather climb Everest without oxygen, go to a student party, watch daytme television, or become a children's entertainer that write the essay I am currently working on. The essay's title is:

With reference to published material and to your action plan from Assignment 1, evaluate and reflect on the development of your study skills during the module. Include an analysis of your learning style and an evaluation of how this might have impacted upon the development of your study skills.

and it is supposed to be 3000 words. Upon reflection it may be that this assignment title is actually a stroke of genius, because if you are actually able to write 3000 words about this, and have it make any kind of sense at all, then the University will have undoubtedly uncovered genius in it's midst.

The deadline is May, and my initial throwaway remark to RHB was that I'd "dash the thing off in a coupla days" in order to get rid of it from my schedule. That was three weeks ago, and even the pleasure of getting under the skin of Learning Styles Theory is limited because clearly that cannot be the whole essay. I still have to write something about the other stuff.

On another topic, lets talk football. Every year, sometime around August, I copy and paste "A Cautious Whiff of Optimism", one of only two posts (per year) I allow myself about football generally and Liverpool specifically. You can find "A Cautious Whiff of Optimism" here

http://ywna.blogspot.com/2008/08/cautious-whiff-of-optimism.html

The second post I allow myself annually usually follows around now, when I deny all responsibility for the first post as Liverpool slump to their (by now) customary fourth in the English Premiership and runners up or semi-finalists in the European Champions League. This year, however, may be different, so I am going to allow myself the luxury of deferring my withdrawal of "A Cautious Whiff of Optimism" until the end of April.

Just as the intense cold of the Younger Dryas reluctantly gave way to the warmer wetter climate of the early Holocene, Spring begins to arrive in Hull. The days get longer almost imperceptibly, and there's a flush of optimism around. Oam DeePOH (AKA B&Q) starts to sell the English version of barbeques, devices which, as Canadian friends who were unfortunate enough to be invited to our first barbeque in Halifax will remember, consist of aluminum foil trays filled with just enough charcoal to heat one sausage to a the optimum temperature for e-coli to flourish. Even this process takes several hours, which is a reasonable explanation for the massive quantities of beer that are consumed during this intensely climate-inappropriate behaviour.

Spring, though, does not allow acts falsely performed in it's name to stop the relentless progress. It has a duty to perform after all, namely preparing itself (at least in the East Riding of Yorkshire) to usher in, and welcome, the slightly warmer, dampish summer. Life in England, for many people, consists of a cycle of disappointed perpetual regret, mostly weather related.

For the Crosstowner, however, Spring signals liberation. Irrepressible velocipede that it is, my trusty steed loves Spring and cannot wait to get out of the door. The wheels turn more freely, the gears shift slickly, and the frame becomes rigid and muscular as it shakes off the torpor of Winter. This bike knows that freedom beckons, and it passes on its optimism unselfishly. The rider begins to dream of lonely open roads in Northern Scotland. But before the empty Highlands can be visited, there is a University term to complete. Unlike the endless treadmill of employment, or the yawning chasm of unemployment, though, the process of completing a semester is pleasurable, albeit without drama. Predictability, which readers might remember was our Ace of Spades in Operation Sloth, has set in over the past few weeks. Progress is being made on our renovations - slow and steady, and my University days are productive - made more so by settling on a routine.

I push the Crosstowner across the threshold of our rotten front door frame and cycle the fourty yards to the end of our street. With routine has come familiarity, so it is no surprise that I'm joined by a sprightly older gentleman, also on a bike, also waiting to turn left. We nod silent acknowledgement. My co-cyclist, whom I will call Alf, also goes to the University every Thursday and also parks his bike in the racks next to the Post Modernist nightmare that is the Social Sciences building. Alf is a quintessentially English vision. His bike, the Champion, is a Raleigh tourer, drop-down handlebars, rear-panniers, greyish green. Alf, and the Champion, are traditionalists - 10 gears, lever shift mounted on the lower part of the mainframe, solid welds. Alf's outfit is old school - shiny brown leather shoes, greyish-green worsted trousers clipped tight with steel bicycle clips, waxed jacket, flat cap, grey hair. But the complete abscence of chrome, lycra, aluminum, titanium and plastic is misleading - Alf is very fit, despite being early sixties, thin as a whippet, clear blue piercing eyes. He looks so healthy it makes me wish I had been a hardy Methodist.

As the traffic clears, Alf and I push off. The routes to the University are simple; left down Newland Avenue, left down Cottingham Road, right into the University, then ahead with a slight right to the Social Sciences building. There is a minor variation that can be chosen, which consists of taking the backstreets that run parallel to Newland as you head towards Cottingham. The advantage of this is the route is relatively traffic free, while the disadvantage is you have to jink through a short alleyway pretty soon after the left we are about to take, in order to reach the freedom of the backstreets. I push off ahead of Alf, slipping through the gears with a simple twist of the handlebar mounted shift, while Alf fumbles through his gears, but as the road narrows to pass under the railway bridge, I slow and see Alf passing leisurely. He's taken the middle of the road, braving oncoming traffic and sails through, making the cars ahead slow to let him pass. Alf gives me a jaunty wave.

Through the narrowing at the bridge, the quicker shifts of the Crosstowner catch me up to Alf, and I flick my left hand as I pass him. My progress is interrupted by a pedestrian crossing though, and I stop dutifully, allowing the good people of Hull, who shop continually it seems, to trek across the road, their environmentally friendly hemp shopping bags full of pre-packed groceries. Alf catches up and passes me as the pedestrian crossing clears. I accelerate, gently, but with a minor degree of urgency, although I am simulataneously trying to look nonchalant. In truth, I am panicking slightly - it is not very far to our mutual destination. Suddenly, with a quick peek behind him towards me, Alf hops off his bike and runs towards the alleyway, heading for the backstreets. On time, and on schedule,with welcome predictability, pretence is dropped. The race is well and truly on.

I choose to stick with Newland, surging down the street, riding the median and timing my intersections with pedestrian crossings so that I only have to slow, not stop completely. I glimpse left at the first gap in the houses that I meet and through the gap in the houses, see Alf, head down, powering along the empty backstreet. At Cottingham Road, desperation setting in, I jump the lights, throw the Crosstowner into top gear and sprint down the centre of the highway like Djamolodine Abdoujaparov, the famous 'Terror from Tashkent', in the 13th stage of the 1998 Giro Tour of Italy. I see Alf emerge onto Cottingham ahead of me, but knowing that turns mean gear shift mean slowing down for Alf, I surge on. Alf glances right and responds, kicking hard for the car park.

My last chance is a desperate gamble, so I swing the Crosstowner onto the other side of the road, jump the kerb and the low stone wall surrounding the University, switch down a gear and hare across the expansive grass lawn in front of the Dean office. I make the car park about two seconds ahead of Alf, but his route has taken him closer to the bike racks, so he skids to a halt, and, in the same balletic movement, dismounts. To the victor the spoils.

We both lock up our bikes, an activity which, as this is England, takes a little time. Wheels, saddles, lights, water bottles, pannier racks and, in Alf's case, bike pumps, are removed then all locked together. The result is sculptural, but the time it takes allows us to catch our breath. I finish and walk towards my lecture, passing Alf. An unwritten rule exists every Thursday morning that there should be no acknowledgement at all of our race, so I nod briefly. Alf looks up "Lovely day" he says. I agree.

I dream of Gondwanaland............

The article you can find by going to

http://www.modernghana.com/newsp/205223/1/pagenum1/indian-explorer-questions-africa-origin-theory.html#continue

defies criticism. I had thought that my dazzling tripoch (or is it 'tiptop'?) Civilization - Why? , Evolution -When?? and Apocalypse- How??? were sole examples of brilliant theories that had just 'come' to people, almost without thinking. And the article written by Mr Bakshi does seem to confirm that he put almost no thought whatever into his theory, which just goes to prove how great ideas like this dont really need loads of research and stuff - you mostly have to go with the first thing you think of. As I have indicated before, the trick is to get some evidence later.

However, in getting the evidence later, you do have to be very careful. Science is full of tragedy and cautionary tales, as anyone recently and deservedly elevated to Full Professorship will advise those who may not know. My advice is that you read the story about the coelocanth on either of the pages below.

http://scienceweek.com/2003/sb030704.htm


http://homepages.ed.ac.uk/snee/fishy.pdf

Having now read the stories, I sincerely hope that readers understand this piece of Scientific advice - If you're going to fake your evidence, FOR GOODNESS SAKE DONT GET CAUGHT.

The Mercury Model

I have to admit that the new research programme on which I have embarked is in many ways even more difficult than my epic anthropological research. My new project has its origins in the massive waves of nausea that overcame me when I read the title of my final term paper, due at the end of the current semester, which was something like:

"Evaluate how your learning style has developed over the first year of your programme and reflect on how this might make you be more better at gittin an edercashun.."

Nevertheless, as a dutiful student I took a questionnaire, designed to assess my Preferred Learning Style. I was disappointed to find that I was a "Reflector", so I took another questionnaire, designed by different authors. This time I found to my satisfaction that I was a Pragmatist. Seeking confimation of this diagnosis, I took a few more questionnaires, and found that I was, variously, A Diver, A Doer, An Actionist, A Ponderer, A Deep Study, A Skim Reader, Pre-Operational and after one test, taken while imbibing several draughts of the amber nectar, I was declared a high functioning Rhesus Monkey.

My scepticism, already at Condition Amber, was subsequently raised to Condition Red. Further reseacrh was indicated. After all, my reasoning went, tests, if measuring the same thing, should deliver at least a modicum of consistency - it would be most alarming if, during the course of some routine medical tests, you were to discover that the various measurements taken had shown that you had a healthy blood pressure, despite being clinically dead according to the ECG machine. Questions, one assumes, might be raised.

I therefore have been investigating the Theories of Learning Styles. One point of call on the journey has been the people over at "The European Learning Style Information Network" Conference (ELSIN). The 78 major models of Learning Styles are discussed, reviewed and 'workshopped' wih many serious papers, published in peer reviewed journals resulting. In all fairness, the Learning Style model is an interesting one, and the originators of these models, are mainly serious scientists who had interesting things to say. However, over time, new research sheds light on the machinations of all things scientific, and just as the Flat Earthers woke up one day to discover they were sitting on a disc, it has become apparent over the last decade that for Learning Styles, the jig is, as they say, up. Academic life, as anyone who may have been recently elevated to the ranks of, say, Professor, will be able to tell you, is tough.

I trawl through the proceedings of the various ELSIN conferences, looking for words like "empirical", "tested", "evidence" and so on, but alas, alack, I find no such words. My search ends when I find a paper which may perhaps hint at the direction that these Experiental Learning Styles enthusiasts are heading. The paper investigates a realm of Science that I have frequently advocated my Scientist friends to follow, mainly on the basis of a simple profit/loss equation.

The abstract from the 'paper' starts promisingly enough "Within our common humanity we are all unique...........". This is difficult to refute, so I continue to read ".........One key difference is our style of thinking and learning and we propose that this can be described in considerable depth and detail from data derived from date of birth.........." Hmmm, this is getting hard to follow. I wonder where they are going with this, so I read on "...............This presentation will introduce our original work, Mercury Model, an astrological approach to the identification and description of learning styles. ......."

I pause and check the ELSIN website homepage http://www.elsin2008.com/fulcrum.html?ep=6 and find that the aims are described as:


The aims of ELSIN are to:

* further opportunity for research and development in learning and cognitive styles and strategies of learning and thinking
* promote collaboration with practitioners in various contexts
* enable the dissemination of information about learning and cognitive styles and strategies of learning and thinking
* promote international collaboration in research and development
* facilitate events that help to realise these aims

Nowhere do I find the words "clutching at straws", nor any reference to barrels, particularly scraping the bottom thereof, but in another conference presentation I find reference to a report by Dr Coffield. Dr Coffield, you may remember, conducted a thorough examination into Learning STyles theories and concluded that for all 73 of the buggers, the evidence was, at best, weak. Dr Coffield was not invited back, neither were any of the neurocoscientist whose names had previoulsy graced the Conference Schedule in the early part of ELSIN's life, and had presented papers that initially had titles like "Steady On, Now!" and "Hang on, Guys. Let's not Get Too Excited here". Later, as Neuroscience investigated Learning in more detail, Neuroscientist papers came to have titles like "Time Out", or "I think there's a bit of a Problem" and "Hey Guys, can we just hunker round, we seem to be a bit lost? ".

All of this could be seen as amusing, but it does not really affect anyone does it? I will answer my own question immediately. Actually it does. It affects the Education Policy of this country. In fact, Learning styles IS the Education Strategy of this country, as the notion of Learning Styles has been wholeheartedly endorsed by this country's Education Department. The principle, boldly stated, that "every child has a different learning style" is now part of Government policy, and educators are instructed to begin teaching according to it's beliefs. Is this a bad thing? Yes is the answer. Particularly when you consider the effect that stupid or bad psychological theory can have.

Take Hans Eysenck, for example. Eysenck's notorious theories on so-called IQ led to some disastrous results, most notably the use of his theories to "demonstrate" that there were links between intelligence and race, and gave rise to routine school based administration of IQ tests in the UK (called the '11 plus' tests), tests that streamed pupils at the age of 11. Given that a three tier system of education was operating in the UK at the time (Grammar, Secondary Modern and Comprehensive were the school categories)the effect of all this was that kid's future's were effectively decided at that tender age. 'Clever' kids (and therefore future doctors, lawyers, leaders) went to Grammar School, while the 'thickies' who failed, went to Comprehensive Schools. It was widely accepted that kids from Comprehensives were the future bricklayers and tanners of this country. One consequence of this was that for a long time Comprehensive Schools were persistently underfunded, and tended to predominate in blue collar areas. It goes without saying, or should do, that the eventual success of many kids from Comprehensive Schools, is not only a testament to some great schools overcoming the disadvantages built into an inequitable system, but also non-empirical proof of what a load of old crap the notion of IQ testing of 11 year olds actually is.



The problem with Learning Styles Theory is that it does the same thing as IQ tests, namely categorize people. I personally would have no objection to any of this if there was any validity to these theories. The fact is though, like IQ tests, no one really knows what Learning Style inventories are actually measuring, and the neuroscientific evidence contradicts the Mr Kolb (the proponent of Learning Styles) and his model. In other words, the UK's Education system is once agian launching itself into a voyage of the unknown, which, when you consider what is at stake, is ridiculous.

A final point should be made. ELSIN's links page points you in the direction of

http://www.issid.org/issid.html

The editor in chief of ISSID was S.B.G Eysenck. Their approach to research is revealing:

The editors are concerned with both genetic and environmental causes, and they are particularly interested in possible interaction effects. Ultimately they believe that human beings are bio-social organisms and that work on individual differences can be most fruitfully pursued by paying attention to both these aspects of our nature. They believe that advances are more likely to be made by the use of the hypothetical-deductive method, though empirical data based on sound research and providing interesting new findings, would of course not be rejected simply because they might not have a good theoretical underpinning.

I love emphasis on the "Hypothetical-deductive" approach. When I was a kid, this was called guessing, and it is probably how I passed the 11 plus.