"Oft/frequently/often/consistently" I declare/say/announce/whisper/express, (most usually when acolytes/students/pupils/learners/neophytes are struggling with the ridiculous/preposterous/astonishing fact that the words "knight" and "night" sound exactly the same) ".........this........" - I gesture wildly, often at an offensively difficult word to teach (and concept to understand) such as 'since' ' ".....this happens in English. But despair ye not! For, that very difficulty you are experiencing is what makes English such a flexible, and ultimately (I hope you will find) beautiful language." The discussion that follows is one full of praise for the learners' persistence in mastering what can be a difficult language and for the language itself, which is flexible enough to allow sentences such as 'I go bad' to be understood in at least three different ways.
At this point, digress I should for a paragraph or two, permission? I do have a massive admiration for the English language - it allows us to talk to cats, it allows Sal to swear at my fireplace without bothering to give it a gender, RHB to excoriate things and Grasshopper to be "gosh darned knackered", and yours truly to write nonsense. (In her defence, and before a protracted law suit is launched I should rush to add that I've never heard Grasshopper use 'knackered' right next to 'gosh darned' in a sentence, but she has the potential). However, even my massive admiration for English, and my affection for League Tables, cannot allow me to claim that English is the "the best [language] in the World", which is what the UK's new Education Minister recently did at a party rally.
I was watching the new Education Minister's speech at his party's rally with a degree of interest. Not, I should add, that I have (anymore) a particular interest in the Conservatives, as my current view is a minor variance on the Churchillian position that our (current) formulation of democracy is the worst form of Government apart from every other. The variance I would suggest in that statement is that the sentence should stop at the word "apart". For yours truly, minor ideological differences between UK political parties are about as significant as a disagreement at a child's party whether to have jelly or trifle for desert. Thus whether a Party calls itself Labour or Conservative matters to me not a jot - they are equally unwelcome. So normally watching any of them on television is a waste of time better spent watching 'Survivor', 'Celebrity WifeSwap' or perhaps 'Masterchef'.
However, the recently elected Government have caught the eye, because it has promised to embark on a system of power, wealth and equity redistribution whose scope is breathtakingly impressive. The scale of the planned changes to the UK's economy as a whole, social life at every level and Government support for the ill, the old, the weak and the poor is massive, unprecedented, revolutionary.Unfortunately perhaps, the re-distribution seems to be in the un-preferred direction - namely upwards (demographically speaking) and Southwards (where their power base is). All the talk is of cuts - benefit cuts, heating support for elderly people cuts, job cuts, wage cuts and, crucially for my interests, education cuts. So my interest in this person's speech was twofold:
a. How stupid was it of me to decide to get involved in Education (you get blamed for every ill of society, told you are living in an Ivory Tower and get paid neither overtime or a salary that reflects the additional work you actually do) when I should have chosen banking (you can ruin a countries economy, get paid for it, rapidly forgiven and then carry on as you where)?
b.From a wider perspective, should I wait until riots engulf the country before fleeing back to Canada or wait until the removal of the Harpon tyranny and restoration of democracy there?
Predictably perhaps, the speech revealed nothing of substance, unless you count a deep feeling of unease substantial. It was a typical party conference speech - playing to the prejudices of his audience and absent of content. However, he did make the claim that "English Literature is the best in the world". Naturally, as the UK's (joint) second best academic, and lifelong Celtic FC fan I am interested in rankings. So, in an intensive five minute search of Google and Wikipedia, I decided to research the claim as I was interested in what evidence might support it. A list of Nobels (I am still waiting for the letter re: Civilization: Why???? trilogy) by nationality seemed the best place to find the answer. Unfortunately, for the Minister, the Nobels dont help his argument - the Germans (8) and the French (14) far outstrip the UK's number of Nobel prizes for Literature (5 or 6 depending on whether George Bernard Shaw is counted as English or Irish). So I tried searching for the best selling books of all time. Again, our minister has no support there, as the Bible, Words of Mao T'se Tung and the Quran all outstrip the next best sellers - the Harry Potter series. Potter is by far the best selling fiction phenomenon, and perhaps, I thought, after some reflection, the Minister is referring to this, and perhaps he meant "English Literature is the one I like the best". Whether Harry Potter is something a nation should be particularly proud of or not is surely a matter of subjectivity, and in deciding what to read, there is absolutely nothing wrong with subjectivity, nor with Harry Potter. But if an Education Minister for the eight richest (I looked up a list) country in the World cannot tell the difference between "my favourite" and "the best" then what chance do my learners have in the revolution that is coming??
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
May you live in interesting times
Watch this
Read this
Today I have little time to explain this to my friends not acquainted with football as I have just, finally, completed my summer's programme of work, having returned from LOndon last night at 1.30am. But these links provide a back story for a series of events that have interrupted sleep, caused worry and endless discussion for the last three years. Although YWNA is named (sort of) after our club's most well known song, these pages infrequently refer to the sport - as I've mentioned before, there are many other websites that "do" football better.
As tiredness is a major factor at the moment I will write no more for now, except to say what has happened to LFC are a perfect example of why the common business practise of "leveraged buy-outs' should be illegal.
Read this
Today I have little time to explain this to my friends not acquainted with football as I have just, finally, completed my summer's programme of work, having returned from LOndon last night at 1.30am. But these links provide a back story for a series of events that have interrupted sleep, caused worry and endless discussion for the last three years. Although YWNA is named (sort of) after our club's most well known song, these pages infrequently refer to the sport - as I've mentioned before, there are many other websites that "do" football better.
As tiredness is a major factor at the moment I will write no more for now, except to say what has happened to LFC are a perfect example of why the common business practise of "leveraged buy-outs' should be illegal.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Creative Anarchy
"WAKE UP AND GIVE ME THE SAT-YOU F***** M**** T***. WAKE UP!!!!" I shout, then repeat the exercise. Futilely, if there is such a word. I should rush to assure family members that the 'F**** M***T***" in question is not RHB, and this is not a retelling of the incident that occurred merely a week ago when, en route to a family party, we managed to get lost with a sat nav AND a map because she disagreed with the sat-nav. Alas, humourous as RHB's ability to get lost is, and as taleworthy as her ability to cause an argument in an otherwise unoccupied elevator might be, today's F******** etc etc is Icksy, my erstwhile work supervisor, who has not made an appearance in these pages for a while.
For those who dont know, I worked with Icksy for a period some time ago. He is small, with an appearance that, as a youth, would have been called 'urchin-like'. As an adult, a diet of pie, chips and beans, poor dental hygiene and stress levels through the roof mean that he looks more 'goblin-like' than 'urchin like'. His facial colouring travels through a palette of reds in the course of a day - from 'raw beetroot', through 'indigo sunrise' and 'sierra rocks' and back again. His dental hygiene is wanting, to say the least and his mood throughout the day(s) ranges between 'angry', 'belligerent', 'unhelpful', 'sulky' and 'unpleasant'. His digestive system appears non-functioning and he is apparently sick throughout the whole weekend with 'food-poisoning' (apparently a sandwich in the hotel), 'bad water' (apparently London's water is 'bad'), a bad cold (apparently different germs in London caused by immigrants)and a massive migraine (apparently a bad nights sleep and elevated noise levels in London). On top of all of this, and perhaps worse of all, he mumbles in his strong Yorkshire dialect, so not only can I not hear what he is saying, but I would'nt understand it even if I could. The whole effect, from my perspective, is that I have to spend 48 hours in the company of a dying Klingon with ill-fitting false teeth, the only difference being that where Klingons are (rightly) famed for their ruthless efficiency, Icksy is a walking definition of the word 'hapless'.
Why, you ask yourselves, would the joint second best academic in UK, (coincidentally Hull's leading scenic carpenter) be working with this specimen? Mostly, its because the company I work for has once again been re-structured. The trickle down effect of this is that instead of another freelance colleague being employed to travel to London on a mission essential to the company, regular workshop staff have been drafted in because they dont get paid overtime. I assume this seems a more efficient use of resources to the company (where people = resources. This notion is a misreading of human society so acute it deserves another post of its own about modern day project management) so at the end of a forty hour week, Icksy is informed that he is travelling with me to London to work the weekend. The results of this efficiency have been that I have had to work with a miserable, inefficient, error prone, bad tempered small person for almost 24 hours straight.
We are en route to yet another emergency pick-up of supplies (caused by him), this time a full hour's drive away across London, to a location neither of us have ever been before, Icksy has fallen asleep in the passenger seat of our 7.5 truck cradling the sat nav like a teddy bear. The visual display cannot be seen from the driving seat (my location)and because this is a big truck, and he is very little, he is too far away for me to reach over and slap repeatedly until conciousness returns, as this would result in an alarming loss of control of the vehicle. And, the stupid midget has disabled the volume, because, he said later, it was "distracting" him. We are on a motorway, approaching a junction where several options present themselves and I have no idea which junction to take. (Note: Our overseas readers should be aware that in the UK it is not permissable to stop on motorways, even with the stated aim of pummelling one's companion). The wrong choice, could add another hour onto our journey and we have a deadline to be back onsite which is already tight.
I guess recklessly, take the ramp and head in a new direction. Ten miles down the road there are services, so I swing in. Once in the car park, I line the truck up precisely with a row of trees and press the accelerator pedal. The resultant necessary hard braking nearly catapults Icksy out of his seat and through the cab window.
"Prick" I say, jerk the sat nav from his hands, and accelerate out the car-park. Icksy, fully awake now, looks confused, but that is the natural set of his face and I'm in no mood for explanations. Rejoining the motorway, the sat nav tells me that through sheer luck, I took the correct exit, so I continue en route. Five minutes later Icksy informs me, as he has at approximately fifteen minute intervals throughout the previous twenty four hours, that he has "bad guts" and needs a washroom. "We've just been to a services, why didnt you go then?" I ask him maliciously, and carry on. He starts moaning, holding his stomach, interspersing his groans, farts and burps with "Sorry".
The only redeeming feature of the whole weekend is that during it, Icksy actually has to try to install objects at the exhibition hall he has personally built. This is redeeming because my job is to try to install, at various venues, the objects Icksy has built in his workshop. Despite numerous debriefs, friendly hints and advice, he has consistently failed to consider my 'onsite' world in his construction techniques leading to every install being much more difficult than it should be. Naturally, one hates the sitcom phrase "Welcome to my world" but for once it seems appropriate as he rebuilds yet another desk.
For those who dont know, I worked with Icksy for a period some time ago. He is small, with an appearance that, as a youth, would have been called 'urchin-like'. As an adult, a diet of pie, chips and beans, poor dental hygiene and stress levels through the roof mean that he looks more 'goblin-like' than 'urchin like'. His facial colouring travels through a palette of reds in the course of a day - from 'raw beetroot', through 'indigo sunrise' and 'sierra rocks' and back again. His dental hygiene is wanting, to say the least and his mood throughout the day(s) ranges between 'angry', 'belligerent', 'unhelpful', 'sulky' and 'unpleasant'. His digestive system appears non-functioning and he is apparently sick throughout the whole weekend with 'food-poisoning' (apparently a sandwich in the hotel), 'bad water' (apparently London's water is 'bad'), a bad cold (apparently different germs in London caused by immigrants)and a massive migraine (apparently a bad nights sleep and elevated noise levels in London). On top of all of this, and perhaps worse of all, he mumbles in his strong Yorkshire dialect, so not only can I not hear what he is saying, but I would'nt understand it even if I could. The whole effect, from my perspective, is that I have to spend 48 hours in the company of a dying Klingon with ill-fitting false teeth, the only difference being that where Klingons are (rightly) famed for their ruthless efficiency, Icksy is a walking definition of the word 'hapless'.
Why, you ask yourselves, would the joint second best academic in UK, (coincidentally Hull's leading scenic carpenter) be working with this specimen? Mostly, its because the company I work for has once again been re-structured. The trickle down effect of this is that instead of another freelance colleague being employed to travel to London on a mission essential to the company, regular workshop staff have been drafted in because they dont get paid overtime. I assume this seems a more efficient use of resources to the company (where people = resources. This notion is a misreading of human society so acute it deserves another post of its own about modern day project management) so at the end of a forty hour week, Icksy is informed that he is travelling with me to London to work the weekend. The results of this efficiency have been that I have had to work with a miserable, inefficient, error prone, bad tempered small person for almost 24 hours straight.
We are en route to yet another emergency pick-up of supplies (caused by him), this time a full hour's drive away across London, to a location neither of us have ever been before, Icksy has fallen asleep in the passenger seat of our 7.5 truck cradling the sat nav like a teddy bear. The visual display cannot be seen from the driving seat (my location)and because this is a big truck, and he is very little, he is too far away for me to reach over and slap repeatedly until conciousness returns, as this would result in an alarming loss of control of the vehicle. And, the stupid midget has disabled the volume, because, he said later, it was "distracting" him. We are on a motorway, approaching a junction where several options present themselves and I have no idea which junction to take. (Note: Our overseas readers should be aware that in the UK it is not permissable to stop on motorways, even with the stated aim of pummelling one's companion). The wrong choice, could add another hour onto our journey and we have a deadline to be back onsite which is already tight.
I guess recklessly, take the ramp and head in a new direction. Ten miles down the road there are services, so I swing in. Once in the car park, I line the truck up precisely with a row of trees and press the accelerator pedal. The resultant necessary hard braking nearly catapults Icksy out of his seat and through the cab window.
"Prick" I say, jerk the sat nav from his hands, and accelerate out the car-park. Icksy, fully awake now, looks confused, but that is the natural set of his face and I'm in no mood for explanations. Rejoining the motorway, the sat nav tells me that through sheer luck, I took the correct exit, so I continue en route. Five minutes later Icksy informs me, as he has at approximately fifteen minute intervals throughout the previous twenty four hours, that he has "bad guts" and needs a washroom. "We've just been to a services, why didnt you go then?" I ask him maliciously, and carry on. He starts moaning, holding his stomach, interspersing his groans, farts and burps with "Sorry".
The only redeeming feature of the whole weekend is that during it, Icksy actually has to try to install objects at the exhibition hall he has personally built. This is redeeming because my job is to try to install, at various venues, the objects Icksy has built in his workshop. Despite numerous debriefs, friendly hints and advice, he has consistently failed to consider my 'onsite' world in his construction techniques leading to every install being much more difficult than it should be. Naturally, one hates the sitcom phrase "Welcome to my world" but for once it seems appropriate as he rebuilds yet another desk.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
On the road
I have only the vaguest idea where I am. This is not, I should rush to assure the reader, a repeat of the occasion, roughly fifteen years ago, when I briefly became a mentalist and was unsuccessful in finding RHB in our one bedroom apartment for over two hours - a situation that led to the prescribed ingestion of copious amounts of valium, and is a story perhaps for another time, involving as it does a picnic, pork chops, emigration and a warehouse in deepest Wales - rather this current lack of orientation is entirely technological in origin, and sanely work related.
The reason I have no idea where I am is that just five day after our bike ride, I am working once more for my previous employers, work that involves installing a travelling exhibition for a large company at various venues across the UK. Such employment has always been slightly discombobulating as the daily sequence is similar to a rock and roll tour: highway-venue-hotel-drink-venue-highway but in my previous UK incarnation, an enjoyable part of every day, (and practically the only intellectual exercise achieved) was route planning via the use of out-of-date physical maps. A century later, and the efficiencies of satellite aided navigation mean that all I know, and heartily resent, is that I am in a very pretty little village that is, as I later tell RHB, "not far from Birmingham". East, West, South, North, town names, visible landmarks,signposts, road identifiers such as 'A46', friendly passers by giving directions - all are forgotten and forbidden navigational tools in the era of sat-nav. All a driver knows is a postcode then "turn left", "turn right" and "take the exit". So I have, and now I 'have reached my destination'.
I turn off the unlit country road into the driveway of the destination - a hotel my employers have pre-booked for me, and stop my vehicle, sighing. I open up my faux leather LFC crested notebook and turn to a list I have made over the previous three days. The list is titled "Debrief items for discussion with Project Manager". A quick scan to ensure this entry is not a repeat of a previous one, and I write:
'Item 26: To admin: Do NOT, under any circumstances, book hotels for conference installers where the descrption of the hotel includes the words "quaint", "barn", "rural", "ivy", "duck pond", "Ye", "hideaway", "historic","tranquil". '
I replace the notebook in my bag, start the engine and go to disengage the brake. A thought strikes me, so I cancel that action, retrieve the notebook and add to my entry:
"NOTE; This does not imply that I dont appreciate your sentiments in booking me into these hotels. Its just that when you mentioned you'd put additional effort into booking me 'nice hotels' for this trip, I was thinking jacussi, penthouse, sauna."
This addition is necessary, I think, because it is possible that the debrief I intend to conduct may, even if only by virtue of its length, cause some minor offence within the company. I dont want to sour things unnecessarily, but I can already see how other entries might be seen as criticism. For example, Item One concludes:
"... so never send this idiot out on the road with me again"
While Item Five helpfully advises:
" .......when constructing display boxes incorporating tv screens that are supposed to have hinged rear panels for access to the integrated DVD players, ensure your workshop doesnt glue, screw and pin said access panel permanently closed with screw holes filled, sanded and painted. I feel that the words "Access panel do not fix" that were written in bold across the aforementioned panel provided a sufficient clue to your production manager that these additional fixings were unnecessary. The placement of a DVD player on a shelf behind the access panel, might I feel, have provided additional information if only because his own empirical attempts to activate said DVD player via a remote control through 18mm of solid MDF should have proved unsuccessful. What I find mystifying is not only that your workshop has done this to all five boxes incorporating access panels, tv's and DVD players, but that your production manager claims to have tested these DVD players by watching 45 minutes of home produced pornography - 'Bertha's Birthday', I beleive - after they were assembled. Such an achievement, if true, implies a mastery over natural laws suggestive that he may be better occupied in research at one of the better universities.."
Noting mentally that I may have to edit my list somewhat, I release the brake and attempt to manoeuvre my 7.5 tonne lorry down the narrow unlit driveway. There is a right angle turn 50 metres down the driveway so as I concentrate on not demolishing a 500 year old ivy covered barn with the tail end of my truck as it swings round, I simultaneously must avoid plunging through the historic pond directly ahead and must also line the vehicle up to cross the quaint bridge past that. This involves a lot of low gear work so the tranquility of the rural night is shattered by the roar of a diesel engine at high revs. Barn owls flee in panic at the noise and a the pounding of hooves is evidence of a cattle stampede in a field nearby. After half and hour of this, the driveway is negotiated and the truck is parked, matter out of place, in front of "Ye Olde Station: The Perfect Hideaway".
I climb out of the cab and walk to the front door. It is nine pm and I am ravenously hungry. The prospect of a home cooked farmhouse meal is tantalising. Unfortunately, a lightning bolt awaits. With trembling hands I unstick the piece of paper taped to the oaken front door:
"Hello Mr Nickson. Your office said to expect you at eight. Waited half an hour, but as you are the only guest tonight, have gone home. Tried to reach you but no phone signal. Will return at ten thirty to see if you have arrived. If you are hungry there is a very good restaurant near Coleshill. Just follow the A56 south west. Its about ten miles, so only a fifteen minute drive. My home phone is 98763632."
I return to the cab, open my notebook and amend my notes. I cross out the numeral "26" from my most recent entry and write, and underline, in words, "ITEM NUMBER ONE".
The reason I have no idea where I am is that just five day after our bike ride, I am working once more for my previous employers, work that involves installing a travelling exhibition for a large company at various venues across the UK. Such employment has always been slightly discombobulating as the daily sequence is similar to a rock and roll tour: highway-venue-hotel-drink-venue-highway but in my previous UK incarnation, an enjoyable part of every day, (and practically the only intellectual exercise achieved) was route planning via the use of out-of-date physical maps. A century later, and the efficiencies of satellite aided navigation mean that all I know, and heartily resent, is that I am in a very pretty little village that is, as I later tell RHB, "not far from Birmingham". East, West, South, North, town names, visible landmarks,signposts, road identifiers such as 'A46', friendly passers by giving directions - all are forgotten and forbidden navigational tools in the era of sat-nav. All a driver knows is a postcode then "turn left", "turn right" and "take the exit". So I have, and now I 'have reached my destination'.
I turn off the unlit country road into the driveway of the destination - a hotel my employers have pre-booked for me, and stop my vehicle, sighing. I open up my faux leather LFC crested notebook and turn to a list I have made over the previous three days. The list is titled "Debrief items for discussion with Project Manager". A quick scan to ensure this entry is not a repeat of a previous one, and I write:
'Item 26: To admin: Do NOT, under any circumstances, book hotels for conference installers where the descrption of the hotel includes the words "quaint", "barn", "rural", "ivy", "duck pond", "Ye", "hideaway", "historic","tranquil". '
I replace the notebook in my bag, start the engine and go to disengage the brake. A thought strikes me, so I cancel that action, retrieve the notebook and add to my entry:
"NOTE; This does not imply that I dont appreciate your sentiments in booking me into these hotels. Its just that when you mentioned you'd put additional effort into booking me 'nice hotels' for this trip, I was thinking jacussi, penthouse, sauna."
This addition is necessary, I think, because it is possible that the debrief I intend to conduct may, even if only by virtue of its length, cause some minor offence within the company. I dont want to sour things unnecessarily, but I can already see how other entries might be seen as criticism. For example, Item One concludes:
"... so never send this idiot out on the road with me again"
While Item Five helpfully advises:
" .......when constructing display boxes incorporating tv screens that are supposed to have hinged rear panels for access to the integrated DVD players, ensure your workshop doesnt glue, screw and pin said access panel permanently closed with screw holes filled, sanded and painted. I feel that the words "Access panel do not fix" that were written in bold across the aforementioned panel provided a sufficient clue to your production manager that these additional fixings were unnecessary. The placement of a DVD player on a shelf behind the access panel, might I feel, have provided additional information if only because his own empirical attempts to activate said DVD player via a remote control through 18mm of solid MDF should have proved unsuccessful. What I find mystifying is not only that your workshop has done this to all five boxes incorporating access panels, tv's and DVD players, but that your production manager claims to have tested these DVD players by watching 45 minutes of home produced pornography - 'Bertha's Birthday', I beleive - after they were assembled. Such an achievement, if true, implies a mastery over natural laws suggestive that he may be better occupied in research at one of the better universities.."
Noting mentally that I may have to edit my list somewhat, I release the brake and attempt to manoeuvre my 7.5 tonne lorry down the narrow unlit driveway. There is a right angle turn 50 metres down the driveway so as I concentrate on not demolishing a 500 year old ivy covered barn with the tail end of my truck as it swings round, I simultaneously must avoid plunging through the historic pond directly ahead and must also line the vehicle up to cross the quaint bridge past that. This involves a lot of low gear work so the tranquility of the rural night is shattered by the roar of a diesel engine at high revs. Barn owls flee in panic at the noise and a the pounding of hooves is evidence of a cattle stampede in a field nearby. After half and hour of this, the driveway is negotiated and the truck is parked, matter out of place, in front of "Ye Olde Station: The Perfect Hideaway".
I climb out of the cab and walk to the front door. It is nine pm and I am ravenously hungry. The prospect of a home cooked farmhouse meal is tantalising. Unfortunately, a lightning bolt awaits. With trembling hands I unstick the piece of paper taped to the oaken front door:
"Hello Mr Nickson. Your office said to expect you at eight. Waited half an hour, but as you are the only guest tonight, have gone home. Tried to reach you but no phone signal. Will return at ten thirty to see if you have arrived. If you are hungry there is a very good restaurant near Coleshill. Just follow the A56 south west. Its about ten miles, so only a fifteen minute drive. My home phone is 98763632."
I return to the cab, open my notebook and amend my notes. I cross out the numeral "26" from my most recent entry and write, and underline, in words, "ITEM NUMBER ONE".
Friday, 3 September 2010
Broken Britain: The Ride Of Hope.
Dateline: Ride minus ONE day
Location: Large Mansions, Kitchen/Bicycle Storage Area.
"Wow, Nel" I enthuse "Bob the Bike (from Bob's Bike's) is great. A full service in preparation for my ride only cost me $23.00. Bob's doing a similar Coast to Coast route on Saturday, so I think he's sympathetic to touring cyclists and gave me a great deal"
"That's nice" say RHB.
Dateline: Ride plus TWO days
Location: Mile 74 somewhere between Silloth and Carlisle on the deserted Cumbrian Coast.
"What I dont understand," says Skarra, helpfully, "What I really dont understand, is why you didnt get the bike serviced before we left".
I insist, again, that I did. And I detail my conversation with Bob the Bike, whereby I explained the route, duration, expected terrain, weather and approximate speed of our expedition. And that I needed a full service, pointing Bob to regions of concern - the brakes, wheel balance, gears and interactions thereof.
I then return my attention to my rear wheel which is boasting three loose spokes. When I have decided what to do about that, I can turn my attention to the front brake cable, and then the failing gears - other victim of Bob's discount maintenance. Skarra is a time-served boffin, and is therefore relentless in his pursuit of logic and hence cannot understand how it can be that I claim to have paid for a bike service, yet the bike gives every appearance of having had no treatment prior to our venture other than being assaulted with a large mallet. However, the breed Skarra typifies - psychologists - are a sensitive crew, trained in the ways of the mind. They know when a rider might need not to be doubted, but supported. So he offers sympathy:
"You know, this maintenance work you had done is so bad, it makes you wonder whether the whole bike is going to collapse under you on a steep downhill". He laughs sympathetically shaking his head "The luck you've had so far, it would probably happen right in front of an articulated lorry on a blind bend. Are you sure that your emergency brake repair is safe? Looks a bit ropey to me. Sheesh, that Bob!". With these comforting words he tuts and wanders off for an ice-cream.
Most of this conversation occurs somewhere along the Cumbrian coast. It is an amazing place, with an air about it of being lost in time. From the windy little village of Seascale, past the Sellafield nuclear power plant where armed police cradle machine guns(still an alarming sight in the UK), through the charming resort of Maryport up to Silloth, locals, whether in cafes or bars, garages or at emergency bike repair stops are friendly and interested. Even in Whitehaven, which only several months ago was subject to a mass murder, there is chat and advice. The pace of life seems slow, even to someone used to Hull's village-like atmosphere, and the advice (directions, weather, how to ride, what to go and see) is, like most village-borne advice, completely useless. We leave Cumbria with the sense that most of the people we speak to have never been anywhere else and dont see the need to do so. IN talking to us, they're just being friendly. It is the closest I've ever been to experiencing the unreality of Chatwin's Patagonia.
Dateline: Ride Day One
Location : Barrow in Furness Railway Station
"What I dont understand" says Skarra "What I really dont understand, is how we can have booked tickets for ourselves on this train, with seat reservations, and booked our bikes on the trains at the station, and have tickets for said reservations only to be told that those reservations are meaningless".
"Now, now " says the guard of the 14.36 Barrow to Ravenglass "The reservations arent meaningless, its just that there are too many people on the train. So you cant get on."
"You mean" I say "We cant get on with our bikes?"
"No" says the guard "You cant get on at all. Train's full"
I'm trying to make sense of what I'm being told. It feels vaguely familiar.
"Do all of those people" Skarra points at the single carriage train, which, at the moment resembles more a mobile sardine tin than a method of transport "Do all those people have reservations?"
"Probably not" says the guard, "But they were here before you. If you'd been here before them, we could have accepted your reservations. But we still could'nt have taken them bikes. Your best bet is to wait for the next train. You'd be first then, and the guard would probably accept your reservations. Still, that's no guarantee you could get those on" - he nods at the bikes as if they are back engineered alien technology, fresh out of Area 51.
Suddenly the engine driver appears, full of authority, and with the demeanor of someone who once knew someone who rode a bicycle and therefore can relate to wierdos, he announces he will try to get the bikes in his cab. The assembled crowd of Cumbrians (about fifty) give a small cheer and he grabs my bike and proceeds to attempt to ram it into his cabin, with the pointless optimism of someone who has never moved a piece of furniture in his life. He obviously has less chance of succeeding that the crowd of farmers and race-goers have of sobering up before Christmas but perseveres for several minutes. Then, with a few comments about "over-sized bikes", "just not made right" and (mysteriously) "its a train not a bus" he abandons his efforts and flings the bike back at me.
Dateline : Ride Day Three
Location : Somewhere in Northumbria, near Hadrian's Wall
We are on a deserted country road and have been riding for a few hours, and having argued ourselves to a standstill on the origins of agriculture, are discussing the current fad for sponsorship. It seems, we agree, that practically anyone who indulges themselves in vacations like the one we are having, feels the need to get t-shirts printed, whip up some press coverage and raise money for a 'worthy' cause as part of the process. The reality is that cycling coast to coast, snorkeling across the Irish Sea or playing poker non-stop are, like all human recreations, simply indulgences of the participants - but a wierd mass-guilt seems to have grown whereby people feel the need to justify such activities by getting "sponsored" to do them. It is unfathomable, but we feel we are missing something by not having a 'point' to our ride. So we decide to call it Broken Britain: The Ride of Hope and occupy sometime during the next few days speculating on how big the welcoming committee will be when we reach Newcastle, and discussing the good we are doing bringing hope to a blighted nation.
This however, doesnt really make us feel any worthier so attention is returned to the utterly selfish passtimes of measuring each climb, enjoying the silence, spotting birds in the hedgerows, and towards the end of each day, thinking about the meal ahead.
Dateline : Ride Day Five
Location : Downhill towards Newcastle
It takes about a day and a half to climb to the highest elevation on Hadrian's Wall by a circuitous route. And it takes about an hour and a half to descend to sea-level at breathtaking full speed. Descending on a bike looks easy, and up to a point it is - you just stop pedalling. But with some experience, you learn that there is an art to descending - techniques to employ, and lines to take that result in a faster ride. And it only gets really exciting when you are just at the limits of your ability to control the bike, but - and this is very important - are aware that you are at those limits. At that point - when it is just stupid to even attempt to apply the brakes - there are decisions to make. Such as whether to lean even steeper into the corners, whether to crouch down lower, whether to start thinking about what will happen if the chain flys loose and gets jammed in the gears. At some points in the descent, we went way past that point, and it really did become a ride of Hope.
Dateline: Final Day on the Road.
The ride through Newcastle is horrible. Horrible because its through an identikit urban landscape. And horrible because we have to keep getting off to cross intersections. But mostly horrible because Red Bull has happened to Newcastle. In addition to being a favourite drink of alcoholics and heroin addicts, Red Bull are responsible for making sports like cycling, skateboarding, and even running, a fashion accessory. I dont really care about other hobbies, but the impact on such a Grand Old Man as cycling is to be regretted, and in Newcastle, once a favourite, down to earth Northern town, Bullites are everywhere. Throughout the rest of our ride, the on-road camarderie has been as it ever was. Passing cyclists wave at eachother, or you chat for a few kilometres if going in the same direction. In Newcastle however, steely eyed, lycra-clad, square-jawed Bullites overtake too close relentlessly. Approaching riders in this seasons 'must have' cycling shoes pretend to mess with their gears as we pass, refusing eye contact. Frantic 'exciting' heavy rock music pous from headphones and these boys look as if they want to look like they mean business. Personally, I doubt if, inbetween watching the 'Dave' TV channel, and flying off to Bucharest to 'grab a quick break' they've ever had the time to ride more than the ten mile poser ride along this horrible river path. There's a whole sporting culture developed of unfit, ill-informed ignorami (the plural of ignoramus) who, in the future will be fat lazy forty year olds, still drinking Red Bull and watching 'Dave TV' but with state of the art bikes gathering dust in the garage along with their snowboards, wind-surfers, skateboards and weights benches. The stuff should be banned.
Dateline: Evening of return to Hull
Location: Neighbour's back garden
"Hi, where've you been all week?" asks a friendly neighbour.
We are celebrating someone's birthday, and while I would rather be in a hot bath applying lanolin to some aching limbs, there is also a chance to talk, a little, about our adventures.
"Oh, you know. Just riding coast to coast. HAdrian's Wall actually. About 200 miles. Pretty cool".
"Wow" says the neighbour " That sounds brilliant. What charity did you do that for?"
Location: Large Mansions, Kitchen/Bicycle Storage Area.
"Wow, Nel" I enthuse "Bob the Bike (from Bob's Bike's) is great. A full service in preparation for my ride only cost me $23.00. Bob's doing a similar Coast to Coast route on Saturday, so I think he's sympathetic to touring cyclists and gave me a great deal"
"That's nice" say RHB.
Dateline: Ride plus TWO days
Location: Mile 74 somewhere between Silloth and Carlisle on the deserted Cumbrian Coast.
"What I dont understand," says Skarra, helpfully, "What I really dont understand, is why you didnt get the bike serviced before we left".
I insist, again, that I did. And I detail my conversation with Bob the Bike, whereby I explained the route, duration, expected terrain, weather and approximate speed of our expedition. And that I needed a full service, pointing Bob to regions of concern - the brakes, wheel balance, gears and interactions thereof.
I then return my attention to my rear wheel which is boasting three loose spokes. When I have decided what to do about that, I can turn my attention to the front brake cable, and then the failing gears - other victim of Bob's discount maintenance. Skarra is a time-served boffin, and is therefore relentless in his pursuit of logic and hence cannot understand how it can be that I claim to have paid for a bike service, yet the bike gives every appearance of having had no treatment prior to our venture other than being assaulted with a large mallet. However, the breed Skarra typifies - psychologists - are a sensitive crew, trained in the ways of the mind. They know when a rider might need not to be doubted, but supported. So he offers sympathy:
"You know, this maintenance work you had done is so bad, it makes you wonder whether the whole bike is going to collapse under you on a steep downhill". He laughs sympathetically shaking his head "The luck you've had so far, it would probably happen right in front of an articulated lorry on a blind bend. Are you sure that your emergency brake repair is safe? Looks a bit ropey to me. Sheesh, that Bob!". With these comforting words he tuts and wanders off for an ice-cream.
Most of this conversation occurs somewhere along the Cumbrian coast. It is an amazing place, with an air about it of being lost in time. From the windy little village of Seascale, past the Sellafield nuclear power plant where armed police cradle machine guns(still an alarming sight in the UK), through the charming resort of Maryport up to Silloth, locals, whether in cafes or bars, garages or at emergency bike repair stops are friendly and interested. Even in Whitehaven, which only several months ago was subject to a mass murder, there is chat and advice. The pace of life seems slow, even to someone used to Hull's village-like atmosphere, and the advice (directions, weather, how to ride, what to go and see) is, like most village-borne advice, completely useless. We leave Cumbria with the sense that most of the people we speak to have never been anywhere else and dont see the need to do so. IN talking to us, they're just being friendly. It is the closest I've ever been to experiencing the unreality of Chatwin's Patagonia.
Dateline: Ride Day One
Location : Barrow in Furness Railway Station
"What I dont understand" says Skarra "What I really dont understand, is how we can have booked tickets for ourselves on this train, with seat reservations, and booked our bikes on the trains at the station, and have tickets for said reservations only to be told that those reservations are meaningless".
"Now, now " says the guard of the 14.36 Barrow to Ravenglass "The reservations arent meaningless, its just that there are too many people on the train. So you cant get on."
"You mean" I say "We cant get on with our bikes?"
"No" says the guard "You cant get on at all. Train's full"
I'm trying to make sense of what I'm being told. It feels vaguely familiar.
"Do all of those people" Skarra points at the single carriage train, which, at the moment resembles more a mobile sardine tin than a method of transport "Do all those people have reservations?"
"Probably not" says the guard, "But they were here before you. If you'd been here before them, we could have accepted your reservations. But we still could'nt have taken them bikes. Your best bet is to wait for the next train. You'd be first then, and the guard would probably accept your reservations. Still, that's no guarantee you could get those on" - he nods at the bikes as if they are back engineered alien technology, fresh out of Area 51.
Suddenly the engine driver appears, full of authority, and with the demeanor of someone who once knew someone who rode a bicycle and therefore can relate to wierdos, he announces he will try to get the bikes in his cab. The assembled crowd of Cumbrians (about fifty) give a small cheer and he grabs my bike and proceeds to attempt to ram it into his cabin, with the pointless optimism of someone who has never moved a piece of furniture in his life. He obviously has less chance of succeeding that the crowd of farmers and race-goers have of sobering up before Christmas but perseveres for several minutes. Then, with a few comments about "over-sized bikes", "just not made right" and (mysteriously) "its a train not a bus" he abandons his efforts and flings the bike back at me.
Dateline : Ride Day Three
Location : Somewhere in Northumbria, near Hadrian's Wall
We are on a deserted country road and have been riding for a few hours, and having argued ourselves to a standstill on the origins of agriculture, are discussing the current fad for sponsorship. It seems, we agree, that practically anyone who indulges themselves in vacations like the one we are having, feels the need to get t-shirts printed, whip up some press coverage and raise money for a 'worthy' cause as part of the process. The reality is that cycling coast to coast, snorkeling across the Irish Sea or playing poker non-stop are, like all human recreations, simply indulgences of the participants - but a wierd mass-guilt seems to have grown whereby people feel the need to justify such activities by getting "sponsored" to do them. It is unfathomable, but we feel we are missing something by not having a 'point' to our ride. So we decide to call it Broken Britain: The Ride of Hope and occupy sometime during the next few days speculating on how big the welcoming committee will be when we reach Newcastle, and discussing the good we are doing bringing hope to a blighted nation.
This however, doesnt really make us feel any worthier so attention is returned to the utterly selfish passtimes of measuring each climb, enjoying the silence, spotting birds in the hedgerows, and towards the end of each day, thinking about the meal ahead.
Dateline : Ride Day Five
Location : Downhill towards Newcastle
It takes about a day and a half to climb to the highest elevation on Hadrian's Wall by a circuitous route. And it takes about an hour and a half to descend to sea-level at breathtaking full speed. Descending on a bike looks easy, and up to a point it is - you just stop pedalling. But with some experience, you learn that there is an art to descending - techniques to employ, and lines to take that result in a faster ride. And it only gets really exciting when you are just at the limits of your ability to control the bike, but - and this is very important - are aware that you are at those limits. At that point - when it is just stupid to even attempt to apply the brakes - there are decisions to make. Such as whether to lean even steeper into the corners, whether to crouch down lower, whether to start thinking about what will happen if the chain flys loose and gets jammed in the gears. At some points in the descent, we went way past that point, and it really did become a ride of Hope.
Dateline: Final Day on the Road.
The ride through Newcastle is horrible. Horrible because its through an identikit urban landscape. And horrible because we have to keep getting off to cross intersections. But mostly horrible because Red Bull has happened to Newcastle. In addition to being a favourite drink of alcoholics and heroin addicts, Red Bull are responsible for making sports like cycling, skateboarding, and even running, a fashion accessory. I dont really care about other hobbies, but the impact on such a Grand Old Man as cycling is to be regretted, and in Newcastle, once a favourite, down to earth Northern town, Bullites are everywhere. Throughout the rest of our ride, the on-road camarderie has been as it ever was. Passing cyclists wave at eachother, or you chat for a few kilometres if going in the same direction. In Newcastle however, steely eyed, lycra-clad, square-jawed Bullites overtake too close relentlessly. Approaching riders in this seasons 'must have' cycling shoes pretend to mess with their gears as we pass, refusing eye contact. Frantic 'exciting' heavy rock music pous from headphones and these boys look as if they want to look like they mean business. Personally, I doubt if, inbetween watching the 'Dave' TV channel, and flying off to Bucharest to 'grab a quick break' they've ever had the time to ride more than the ten mile poser ride along this horrible river path. There's a whole sporting culture developed of unfit, ill-informed ignorami (the plural of ignoramus) who, in the future will be fat lazy forty year olds, still drinking Red Bull and watching 'Dave TV' but with state of the art bikes gathering dust in the garage along with their snowboards, wind-surfers, skateboards and weights benches. The stuff should be banned.
Dateline: Evening of return to Hull
Location: Neighbour's back garden
"Hi, where've you been all week?" asks a friendly neighbour.
We are celebrating someone's birthday, and while I would rather be in a hot bath applying lanolin to some aching limbs, there is also a chance to talk, a little, about our adventures.
"Oh, you know. Just riding coast to coast. HAdrian's Wall actually. About 200 miles. Pretty cool".
"Wow" says the neighbour " That sounds brilliant. What charity did you do that for?"
 |
| Hadrians Wall |
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Hadrian's Wall
As with the last few weeks, time remains of the essence - a rare, exotic essence, hard to find and very precious. Tonight's missive will therefore be as short as the last few, but there are a few topics to address.
Hadrian's Wall cycle ride;
First item is that tomorrow morning, myself and Mosside Paul - ie ace guitarist and keyboard wizard comprising the other half of Cheek to Cheek, Paul Skarrat - are off on a journey who's outcome, presently is unknown. Months ago, feeling the need to experience the wind in our hair, the freedom of the road and miles of tramacadam crumbling beneath our wheels, we committed to ride Hadian's Wall cycleway. 174 miles of bridle paths, small roads, cycleways and ramblings meander across the hills of Norhtumbria in Northern England, roughly following the path of the wall constructed by the great Roman. The route, designed to avoid four wheeled vehicular traffic, is unbelievably convoluted. When we discussed the ride, and then booked the hostels and inns whence we would be staying, training rides were planned, a strict diet was to be observed and stamina was to be built. With about twenty four hours till we start riding, a sad tale of a summer bereft of training for the ride has unfolded. I have made furniture, done some work in Leeds,bone hiking in Scotland, gone to a wedding, visited a lighthouse, planted a few bushes, got drunk a few times and spent a total of about four hours a week on the bike. I suspect pain, particularly in the bum region, is on the horizon.
Into the hills with Brad and Amelia.
HAvent yet had time to organise these shots into an album, but we did a bit round Lochnagar a few weeks back. Brad and Amelia were scoping out a new climb here. For those interested this is Creag an Dubh Loch. I took some shots of the scenery on the way in :
Work:
AT the last moment, after a very quiet summer, my friends Luke and Tom called me in for some work in Leeds. As usual it was long days and the project is one of the more challenging ones I have been involved in. That occured last week, and so further delayed preparations for the ride. Still the physical nature of the work, and the the three hour per day commute was good stamina training.
Knobblies:
After two years of negotiations with the UK National Health Service, I recieved a phone call from my doctor's surgery that a letter awaited at his surgery in respect of an appointment to fix my knees. I hot footed it down to the surgery, picked up the letter, raced home and opened it. To my dismay, contained within was not an appointment date, but a direction along with a password and user name to a website where, it promised, I could choose a date for my appointment. I logged on and flew through the onscreen instructions, anxious to get these knee problems finally resolved. On entering my password and user name, however, the website opened a new window, proudly displaying the name, address and phone number of HUll's muscularskeleto clinic. The onscreen directions told me to call the number. So I telephoned the number and a human voice answered. I explained my quest. The , listener, after checking my details politely congratulated me that I had successfully registered with the clinic and said a letter would be sent to me with the appointment date. Hesitantly I enquired why I could not arrange a date there and then, over the phone. The answerer confirmed that this was possible but not allowed:
"Its the rules, I'm afraid..." she explained. A letter was promised within a few weeks.
It has been three weeks since this conversation. Mentally I am prepared to return to my own doctor when I return from the wall to repeat the whole operation.
Hadrian's Wall cycle ride;
First item is that tomorrow morning, myself and Mosside Paul - ie ace guitarist and keyboard wizard comprising the other half of Cheek to Cheek, Paul Skarrat - are off on a journey who's outcome, presently is unknown. Months ago, feeling the need to experience the wind in our hair, the freedom of the road and miles of tramacadam crumbling beneath our wheels, we committed to ride Hadian's Wall cycleway. 174 miles of bridle paths, small roads, cycleways and ramblings meander across the hills of Norhtumbria in Northern England, roughly following the path of the wall constructed by the great Roman. The route, designed to avoid four wheeled vehicular traffic, is unbelievably convoluted. When we discussed the ride, and then booked the hostels and inns whence we would be staying, training rides were planned, a strict diet was to be observed and stamina was to be built. With about twenty four hours till we start riding, a sad tale of a summer bereft of training for the ride has unfolded. I have made furniture, done some work in Leeds,bone hiking in Scotland, gone to a wedding, visited a lighthouse, planted a few bushes, got drunk a few times and spent a total of about four hours a week on the bike. I suspect pain, particularly in the bum region, is on the horizon.
Into the hills with Brad and Amelia.
HAvent yet had time to organise these shots into an album, but we did a bit round Lochnagar a few weeks back. Brad and Amelia were scoping out a new climb here. For those interested this is Creag an Dubh Loch. I took some shots of the scenery on the way in :
Work:
AT the last moment, after a very quiet summer, my friends Luke and Tom called me in for some work in Leeds. As usual it was long days and the project is one of the more challenging ones I have been involved in. That occured last week, and so further delayed preparations for the ride. Still the physical nature of the work, and the the three hour per day commute was good stamina training.
Knobblies:
After two years of negotiations with the UK National Health Service, I recieved a phone call from my doctor's surgery that a letter awaited at his surgery in respect of an appointment to fix my knees. I hot footed it down to the surgery, picked up the letter, raced home and opened it. To my dismay, contained within was not an appointment date, but a direction along with a password and user name to a website where, it promised, I could choose a date for my appointment. I logged on and flew through the onscreen instructions, anxious to get these knee problems finally resolved. On entering my password and user name, however, the website opened a new window, proudly displaying the name, address and phone number of HUll's muscularskeleto clinic. The onscreen directions told me to call the number. So I telephoned the number and a human voice answered. I explained my quest. The , listener, after checking my details politely congratulated me that I had successfully registered with the clinic and said a letter would be sent to me with the appointment date. Hesitantly I enquired why I could not arrange a date there and then, over the phone. The answerer confirmed that this was possible but not allowed:
"Its the rules, I'm afraid..." she explained. A letter was promised within a few weeks.
It has been three weeks since this conversation. Mentally I am prepared to return to my own doctor when I return from the wall to repeat the whole operation.
Friday, 6 August 2010
Dilithium Crystals
I walk into the small store, just past the railway arches. The store's walls abound with the sharp glittering tools necessary for the trade. The owner, a smallish, tidy gentleman nods in my direction:
"Morning, Alf " I chirrup "How's tricks?"
"Not so bad" says Alf "Bit busy, but that's Friday's for you in this game. What can I do for you? The usual?"
I affirm Alf's suggestion - not that I have a great variety of choice - and sit on one of the stools. Alf's rapidly to work, a true craftsman, and shortly he's done. I examine the results carefully - not that given the limited scope for invention I would seriously contemplate alternatives - and issue thanks to Alf for his services.
"No problem, Martin. See you next week."
Arriving back at the house, I insert one of the new keys Alf has just cut, making sure it works properly. Naturally it does, after all, Alf has had so much practice cutting my lost keys that he could probably do it by hand without using the one remaining original (actually a third or fourth generation model from the key supplied with our fornt door lock).
Next , I start work on another key, this time the computer variety. Recent troubles with the very instrument this note is being scrawled upon have meant that the computer has had to go away to computer hospital. It has been recieved back, but the problems remain so next week it is back into the University to be repaired again. 'What, I wonder' you may muse ' Might be this technical glitch?' And if computer literate you might, for want of something better to do, consider the options - hard drive, drivers, sound card, applications, operating systems. And if you were to communicate these concerns to yours truly you would be repeating the actions of one Red Haired Boffin. Quite how fruitless such ponderings are, at least when expressed to yours truly, can be illustrated by this reconstructed conversation.
"Nel. Its brokened."
"What is, my cherub?"
"The 'puter thing. It broked and now it wont work"
"What happened, my dove?"
"Last week it worked. THis week it dont work. I hate it?"
"Let me see if I can help you darling. What happens when you boot up?"
"UH?"
"What happens when you start it up?
"Nuttin"
"Have you loaded any software recently? ANy new applications?"
"?"
"Did you touch anything other than the "ON" switch I labelled for you?"
"'ourse not. 'Ust typed summat.Now it broke. That 'puter - it dont like me"
"Oh, you silly sausage. Computers are just a series of on/off switches. They dont have any personal preferences.....you should'nt get frustrated like you did last time. You did'nt ....well... hit it again did you?"
AT this point in the conversation, I jump up dramatically, point to the skyline above the houses opposite and shout "Look !!! Aliens are landing! "
RHB is un-decived and laughs indulgently. "Dont worry my little freckleless one. I'll sort it out. You go and play your guitar."
Two hours later, a Tasmanian Devil stalks into the room where am diligently practising my scales, and between hyperventilations, screeches "WHERE IS YOUR BIGGEST HAMMER??? THE ONE YOU USED ON CONCRETIA??"
SOmewhat alarmed, I dive into my tool kit and provide the required instrument which is then snatched out of my hand. The hammer leads the way back down stairs as a furious psychologist practises, assessing how much swing she can achieve. In a flash I realise what she is intending, so I pass her on the stairs, grab the nearest available cat and place it on my computer. Rapidly returning to sanity (on sight of a small furry creature), and with bulging eyes gradually returning to normal, RHB lowers the hammer. "THis computer really hates you doesnt it? WHich" she continues " I dont mind, except that it seems to think I have something to do with you and now it hates me as well."
In other news, there are two agenda items of note. THe first is that Cheek to Cheek have been commisioned to record a movie soundtrack. I am of course, perfectly serious about this. Whether our soundtrack gets accepted or not is another matter, but the local charity I work for is making a film and we are doing the soundtrack, so that has kept us busy.
The second agenda item is that the best health service in the world has finally accepted that having torn ligaments/tendons/cartilage is a problem for a not-quite-fifty year old. After second, third and even fourth opinions, and two years of wrangling, I have been able to persuade the local hospital to take the first steps to repairing the damage which lurks around my knees. Previously, under the best health service in the world, the fact that walking was, occasionally, so painful as to make the act not worthwhile, has been deemed "not a serious enough problem", "not treatable", "tolerable and not urgent" and "an attempt to claim disability benefit". Now however, I have been able to persuade a consultant that it is at least worth the while of the best health service in the world to conduct a minor surgical procedure to rectify the problem. [Note: a friend from a different country had a similair problem and was fixed within six months].
Finally, the table pictured at he top of this, by now totally random post, is one we made entirley form recycled materials. The local university was throwing out its old lab benches, so I spent two days skip=diving and pulling out large chunks of usuable 100 year old mahogany and oak. What the picture shows is a former physics lab bench, which is now our dining room table. We are very proud of it and look forward to scratching it up with friends in the near future and for some time to come.
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