Inspired by all the diverse ethnic eateries in Shepherd's Bush and the fact I don't like burgers and fries, what if all the USAnian-style outlets were Middle Eastern or Asian instead?
* Pitta Hut
* McDhansak
* Bhaji King
* Samosa-U-Like
* Kashmiri Fried Chicken
* Naanway
* Lassi Republic
* Sherbuts
* Costa Kulfi
We could also have the West Indian Patty Company (though I do like the variations on Cornish pasties) and the Aberdares Smokie House (Kenyan goat cuisine).
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Snickets, Spiders and Shibboleths
Saturday we ambled to Chiswick and found Lemony Snicket Vol 9 (only 1 more needed!) and the complete Philip Pullman trilogy as well as an unread copy of the Cryptonomicon. Billy had a yummers rhubarb crumble tart in Carluccio's and I had their hot chocolate, which is thick and gooey like melted milk chocolate. I think I shall do some Xmas shopping in there for bro-in-law who loves to cook.
On Sunday, circumstances (including tube closures) conspired against us and we missed the Zombie march. Instead, we went to Tate Britain to admire the huge spider sculpture and I poured scorn upon a big crack in the floor of the Turbine Hall (though pouring cement into it might have removed this unsightly trip hazard). The Tate call it Shibboleth, but I call it time to phone some structural engineers about a subsidence problem. We walked from Westminster, along the river, around Blackfriars, past the Mermaid Theatre and up to St Pauls.
In the evening we went to Matmos at the Shepherd's Bush Hall. As well as waves of electronic music and patterns of mutating dots on the screen, we watched a contact mic being played over a man's body and poked in his hear, and a degraded clip of porn movie where the art was in the effects of VHS-breakdown rather than in the bloke's improbably large tackle.
Monday (a day off!) we went to Hummus Bros on Wardour Street, Soho. Their hummous is garlic-free and they offer a little tub of lemon and garlic dressing to sprinkle on it. We got some nice bowls of hummous and toppings plus thick wholemeal pittas and some tabbouleh.
On the way back I bought the first volume in the definitive Peanuts collection. I have many of the original UK Peanuts paperbacks (and some of the pre-Peanuts L'il Folks cartoons), but this is the first time the entire cartoon collection has been compiled in chronological order. It starts with Charlie Brown, Violet, Patty (not Peppermint Patty), Shermy and a puppy-like Snoopy. Schroeder arrives later as a baby with his toy piano. Then Lucy appears. Snoopy at this point only occasionally has thought bubbles and he walks on all fours. Book 1 covers 1951-1952. Schulz retired in 2000.
On Sunday, circumstances (including tube closures) conspired against us and we missed the Zombie march. Instead, we went to Tate Britain to admire the huge spider sculpture and I poured scorn upon a big crack in the floor of the Turbine Hall (though pouring cement into it might have removed this unsightly trip hazard). The Tate call it Shibboleth, but I call it time to phone some structural engineers about a subsidence problem. We walked from Westminster, along the river, around Blackfriars, past the Mermaid Theatre and up to St Pauls.
In the evening we went to Matmos at the Shepherd's Bush Hall. As well as waves of electronic music and patterns of mutating dots on the screen, we watched a contact mic being played over a man's body and poked in his hear, and a degraded clip of porn movie where the art was in the effects of VHS-breakdown rather than in the bloke's improbably large tackle.
Monday (a day off!) we went to Hummus Bros on Wardour Street, Soho. Their hummous is garlic-free and they offer a little tub of lemon and garlic dressing to sprinkle on it. We got some nice bowls of hummous and toppings plus thick wholemeal pittas and some tabbouleh.
On the way back I bought the first volume in the definitive Peanuts collection. I have many of the original UK Peanuts paperbacks (and some of the pre-Peanuts L'il Folks cartoons), but this is the first time the entire cartoon collection has been compiled in chronological order. It starts with Charlie Brown, Violet, Patty (not Peppermint Patty), Shermy and a puppy-like Snoopy. Schroeder arrives later as a baby with his toy piano. Then Lucy appears. Snoopy at this point only occasionally has thought bubbles and he walks on all fours. Book 1 covers 1951-1952. Schulz retired in 2000.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
It's Metal, Jim. But Not As We Know It
A couple of albums I got recently based entirely on reviews in heavy metal mags:
Escape from Woolwich Arsenal - Machinochrist - it has some death vocals, but is a wonderful hybrid of samples, techno and metal and even some spoken word. It includes a hammer drill among the instruments. On headphones it messes with your mind as the bursts of rapid fire seem to come from everywhere. Quick! Dive for cover in the trenches! It is quite mad and quite wonderful.
The Butcher's Ballroom - Diablo Swing Orchestra - female vocals may not be new, but the mix of metal, swing, jazz and even didgeridoo are amazing. Totally looney and very listenable. This is heavy metal having fun!
Escape from Woolwich Arsenal - Machinochrist - it has some death vocals, but is a wonderful hybrid of samples, techno and metal and even some spoken word. It includes a hammer drill among the instruments. On headphones it messes with your mind as the bursts of rapid fire seem to come from everywhere. Quick! Dive for cover in the trenches! It is quite mad and quite wonderful.
The Butcher's Ballroom - Diablo Swing Orchestra - female vocals may not be new, but the mix of metal, swing, jazz and even didgeridoo are amazing. Totally looney and very listenable. This is heavy metal having fun!
Friday, October 26, 2007
Nappy Adverts Pander To The Perverted
Recently I got into an argument with a USAnian campaigning against images of nude/nearly nude children in Pampers adverts. Included in the campaign were medical images as found in textbooks and on medical sites. His reasoning? Such images hyper-sexualise children and pander to perves. I believe there's a serious hang-up if someone can't distinguish between innocent nakedness and provocative pornography and want to ban all nudity. The same sort of person sexualises breastfeeding of babies in public.
He does not accept that nudity (in adults or children) can be non-sexual. Apparently I am bad to transfer my beliefs in the existence of non-sexual nakedness onto children. Hang on! Children love to remove their own clothing and run round unclad; parents have to teach them to stay clothed and observe nudity taboos. Perves tend to be aroused by specific types of nudity (situations, activities) rather than nappy adverts and if they intend to abuse a child they aren't going to be deterred by the presence of clothing (I read one account of a man specifically turned on by young boys wearing grey school uniform shorts, but not by boys that were already naked).
My analogy is that with knife crime, we ban certain types of knives and we curtail the activities of the people that use those knives. We don't ban everyone from using all types of knives (bread knives, steak knives, carving knives) and make them eat with forks. By the same token, we specifically try to prevent pornographic images of children.
Strangely (to me) he didn't seem to have an issue with beauty pageants where 4 year old girls wear miniature versions of women's clothing, have hairstyles, jewellery and cosmetics that ape adult women and are taught to do bumps and grinds more suited to sleazy shows than to pre-schoolers. Those pageants bother me - they seem designed to titillate adults who like to see little girls dress and act sexily/sleazily. But then I'm a European and, like a number of other North European cultures, I consider nakedness a perfectly normal state of humankind and only certain types of nakedness sexually provocative.
Evidently I don't understand how the merest flash of a child's behind is hyper-sexualising the child while dressing them sexily and having them act sleazily for an audience is harmless dressing up.
He does not accept that nudity (in adults or children) can be non-sexual. Apparently I am bad to transfer my beliefs in the existence of non-sexual nakedness onto children. Hang on! Children love to remove their own clothing and run round unclad; parents have to teach them to stay clothed and observe nudity taboos. Perves tend to be aroused by specific types of nudity (situations, activities) rather than nappy adverts and if they intend to abuse a child they aren't going to be deterred by the presence of clothing (I read one account of a man specifically turned on by young boys wearing grey school uniform shorts, but not by boys that were already naked).
My analogy is that with knife crime, we ban certain types of knives and we curtail the activities of the people that use those knives. We don't ban everyone from using all types of knives (bread knives, steak knives, carving knives) and make them eat with forks. By the same token, we specifically try to prevent pornographic images of children.
Strangely (to me) he didn't seem to have an issue with beauty pageants where 4 year old girls wear miniature versions of women's clothing, have hairstyles, jewellery and cosmetics that ape adult women and are taught to do bumps and grinds more suited to sleazy shows than to pre-schoolers. Those pageants bother me - they seem designed to titillate adults who like to see little girls dress and act sexily/sleazily. But then I'm a European and, like a number of other North European cultures, I consider nakedness a perfectly normal state of humankind and only certain types of nakedness sexually provocative.
Evidently I don't understand how the merest flash of a child's behind is hyper-sexualising the child while dressing them sexily and having them act sleazily for an audience is harmless dressing up.
Rancid Badger
In some parts of the web, "fox with mange" has become shorthand for "I think that photo is fake" (supplanting the old battle-cry of "Photoshop!") or "I think that supposedly mysterious or out-of-place beast has a mundane explanation" (mangy fox, grazing Dartmoor pony or out-of-focus Newfoundland dog). Now the phrase is becoming over-used, there are calls for alternatives. I believe "rancid badger" fits the bill nicely.
Back awhile, a co-worker saw a strange animal on the verge of the road. With its dark brown, silvery-grey and cream fur it didn't look like native or naturalised wildlife. It was too large and fat for a polecat-ferret or pastel mink and the wrong colour for everything else. Its ears were set wide apart and it had no neck. Getting out of his car, the observer noticed the creature didn't run away. Obese, sleeping Siamese cat? Surely not so close to a road. Then the smell hit him. It was a hot summer day and the mysterious animal was the bloating, upturned corpse of a badger. The "ears" were its back legs, sticking out from the ballooning corpse at obscene angles.
From then on any barely glimpsed creature (later identified as muntjac deer, pheasant, free-range Tamworth pig etc) would get an initial identification of "rancid badger".
So ... I see your fox with mange and raise you a rancid badger.
* Strangely, no-one ever seems to identify the type of mange - demodectic, sarcoptic (scabies) or notoedric? People need to know!
Back awhile, a co-worker saw a strange animal on the verge of the road. With its dark brown, silvery-grey and cream fur it didn't look like native or naturalised wildlife. It was too large and fat for a polecat-ferret or pastel mink and the wrong colour for everything else. Its ears were set wide apart and it had no neck. Getting out of his car, the observer noticed the creature didn't run away. Obese, sleeping Siamese cat? Surely not so close to a road. Then the smell hit him. It was a hot summer day and the mysterious animal was the bloating, upturned corpse of a badger. The "ears" were its back legs, sticking out from the ballooning corpse at obscene angles.
From then on any barely glimpsed creature (later identified as muntjac deer, pheasant, free-range Tamworth pig etc) would get an initial identification of "rancid badger".
So ... I see your fox with mange and raise you a rancid badger.
* Strangely, no-one ever seems to identify the type of mange - demodectic, sarcoptic (scabies) or notoedric? People need to know!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
One For The Trekkies/Trekkers* (Delete As Applicable)
AN ODE TO TREKNOLOGY
If the laser on your phasers are erasing hated enemies,
Or the groans of your opponent means his balls are on his knees,
And the doctor says your spots are signs of alien disease,
But arose with this diagnosis just to show he knows your needs;
You can check if you're a Trekker if you know Kirk's middle name,
And you can sing in Klingon at a party drinking game.
The holodeck is beckoning - you're reckoning on a game,
Of avoiding Vulcan mind-melds which make humanoids insane.
You talk to your computer when you boot her into life,
And you've got a Driver's License for the Starship Enterprise,
Your tribbles nibble kibble which was meant for your felines,
And you've got the diagnostics for a new cloaking device.
You've formed uneasy alliances with Kazons and Cardassians,
The Romulans are bombing 'em, the Bajorans are gassing 'em,
Your shuttles manage Warp Speed Twelve but other ships are passing 'em,
And long-range sensors show the scene the second it is happening.
Your mother thinks a Vulcan is a British bomber plane,
And your father thinks you're crackers, but he'd better think again,
You heckle all non-Trekkers who expect you to explain,
Your obsession with the series causing Star trek on the brain!
If the laser on your phasers are erasing hated enemies,
Or the groans of your opponent means his balls are on his knees,
And the doctor says your spots are signs of alien disease,
But arose with this diagnosis just to show he knows your needs;
You can check if you're a Trekker if you know Kirk's middle name,
And you can sing in Klingon at a party drinking game.
The holodeck is beckoning - you're reckoning on a game,
Of avoiding Vulcan mind-melds which make humanoids insane.
You talk to your computer when you boot her into life,
And you've got a Driver's License for the Starship Enterprise,
Your tribbles nibble kibble which was meant for your felines,
And you've got the diagnostics for a new cloaking device.
You've formed uneasy alliances with Kazons and Cardassians,
The Romulans are bombing 'em, the Bajorans are gassing 'em,
Your shuttles manage Warp Speed Twelve but other ships are passing 'em,
And long-range sensors show the scene the second it is happening.
Your mother thinks a Vulcan is a British bomber plane,
And your father thinks you're crackers, but he'd better think again,
You heckle all non-Trekkers who expect you to explain,
Your obsession with the series causing Star trek on the brain!
The Boy In the Striped Pyjamas (John Boyne)
The Boy In the Striped Pyjamas
This children's book, also available in an adults imprint, tells the story of nine year old Bruno who lives in Berlin during WWII. His father is a Commandant (his friends' fathers are grocers etc) and when the "Fury" comes to tea, Bruno's stern father is given a very important job. This means Bruno, his 12 year old sister Gretel (who is a Hopeless Case) and their parents must leave the comfortable 5-storey townhouse and move to a more austere home at "Out-With".
At Out-With, lonely and homesick, Bruno discovers a fence behind which all the people wear striped pyjamas. He knows he is not meant to approach the fence, but walking to a secluded section of fence he meets Shmuel, a boy his own age who lives on the other side. Shmuel is a German-speaking Polish Jew. The boys have much in common - homesickness, no-one to play with (Bruno can't understand why people the other side don't play) and armbands (Bruno thinks Shmuel's "star" armband that he wore before moving to the camp was much nicer than his father's swastika armband). Sometimes Bruno takes food, but he often feels peckish and eats it while walking, not realising that Shmuel and the others are being systematically starved. While Bruno grows, Shmuel appears to shrivel.
Shmuel, though Bruno's age, is less naive. He can't understand how father (Commandant) and son (Bruno) can be so different - one vicious and hate-filled and the other gentle and friendly. Bruno can't understand why Shmuel and the other children aren't allowed out to play with him. He also doesn't understand why his mother drinks so much medicinal sherry and lies down a lot, nor why a 19 year old soldier regularly visits her, but the visits stop after a big row between his parents.
When Shmuel's grandfather and father disappear, Bruno offers to help search. He leaves his clothes outside the fence, changes into cast-off striped clothing and crawls under the fence. His recently close-cropped hair help him go unnoticed. When the prisoners are herded together into buildings, the reader knows it must end in disaster. Only when Bruno's father finally understands why his son's clothes are outside a loose section of fence does he realise how Bruno vanished.
A worthwhile read for a view of Auschwitz from a child's limited understanding.
This children's book, also available in an adults imprint, tells the story of nine year old Bruno who lives in Berlin during WWII. His father is a Commandant (his friends' fathers are grocers etc) and when the "Fury" comes to tea, Bruno's stern father is given a very important job. This means Bruno, his 12 year old sister Gretel (who is a Hopeless Case) and their parents must leave the comfortable 5-storey townhouse and move to a more austere home at "Out-With".
At Out-With, lonely and homesick, Bruno discovers a fence behind which all the people wear striped pyjamas. He knows he is not meant to approach the fence, but walking to a secluded section of fence he meets Shmuel, a boy his own age who lives on the other side. Shmuel is a German-speaking Polish Jew. The boys have much in common - homesickness, no-one to play with (Bruno can't understand why people the other side don't play) and armbands (Bruno thinks Shmuel's "star" armband that he wore before moving to the camp was much nicer than his father's swastika armband). Sometimes Bruno takes food, but he often feels peckish and eats it while walking, not realising that Shmuel and the others are being systematically starved. While Bruno grows, Shmuel appears to shrivel.
Shmuel, though Bruno's age, is less naive. He can't understand how father (Commandant) and son (Bruno) can be so different - one vicious and hate-filled and the other gentle and friendly. Bruno can't understand why Shmuel and the other children aren't allowed out to play with him. He also doesn't understand why his mother drinks so much medicinal sherry and lies down a lot, nor why a 19 year old soldier regularly visits her, but the visits stop after a big row between his parents.
When Shmuel's grandfather and father disappear, Bruno offers to help search. He leaves his clothes outside the fence, changes into cast-off striped clothing and crawls under the fence. His recently close-cropped hair help him go unnoticed. When the prisoners are herded together into buildings, the reader knows it must end in disaster. Only when Bruno's father finally understands why his son's clothes are outside a loose section of fence does he realise how Bruno vanished.
A worthwhile read for a view of Auschwitz from a child's limited understanding.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
They's In Ur Hedz Rotting Ur Branez .....
Lolcatz iz in ur hedz, stealin ur branez
Kitty pidgin iz on ur web, making u insane,
Cos cute kittehz are reely kewl
When writin their kapshuns by lolcats roolz.
Oh lolcats kitteh
Why u cannot spell ur wordz?
Can u has grammar?
Kitty pidgin iz on ur web, making u insane,
Cos cute kittehz are reely kewl
When writin their kapshuns by lolcats roolz.
Oh lolcats kitteh
Why u cannot spell ur wordz?
Can u has grammar?
Chish and Fips
After a long stressful day at work I gave in to the urge for fish and chips. I've resisted the fish and chips urge for several weeks; I rarely eat chips (a few times a year). My memories of local chippie, Golden Fry, are well out of date. I remember them as doing good chips, but standards have gone badly downhill.
The chips were soggy and I chucked three quarters of the portion out on the lawn for the birds. The fish was much better, but had to be shared with the cat as per long-standing household agreement.
So, out of that potentially high calorie meal I consumed one quarter of a portion of chips and half of a "small cod" which reduces the guilt trip considerably. A big plus point (apart from the cat being very affectionate for the rest of the evening) is that it will be another few years before I feel like eating fish and chips again ... not even a Harry Ramsden's in Romford.
The chips were soggy and I chucked three quarters of the portion out on the lawn for the birds. The fish was much better, but had to be shared with the cat as per long-standing household agreement.
So, out of that potentially high calorie meal I consumed one quarter of a portion of chips and half of a "small cod" which reduces the guilt trip considerably. A big plus point (apart from the cat being very affectionate for the rest of the evening) is that it will be another few years before I feel like eating fish and chips again ... not even a Harry Ramsden's in Romford.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Carbon Tyremarks
I'm tired of hearing about Formula 1 wins and fuel irregularities.
People like myself who have no choice but to drive to work (unsociable hours, no public transport linking my home and work areas) are constantly paying higher fuel prices and road taxes and being condemned for our emissions and our part in global warming. If I didn't have a car, I would not be able to reach my workplace and there was no comparable job closer to home, it's that simple (I also don't want to spend half my life commuting to London).
Meanwhile, unnecessarily high-powered cars that consume unfeasible amounts of fuel race round a track and after umpteen pointless circuits they end up more or less where they started. What is the carbon footprints of those vehicles? Not just the fuel, but also the cost of making the tyres, the cost of transporting the racing cars to a track and all other associated manufacturing costs.
If governments were really serious about cutting down emissions, they should look at frivolous and wasteful vehicular activities. In terms of transportation, the vehicles achieving nothing. They just go round in in circles, burning fuel and rubber. My car gets me to and from a destination. Sometimes it carries passengers or goods (shopping, charity donations etc). It doesn't go pointlessly round in circles at high speed.
Let's cut the crap about "you're just a woman and don't understand it" or "technological advances". It's high time those vehicles were built and driven to modern regulations on recycling and emissions and they stopped doing unnecessary journeys - such as going round in circles.
People like myself who have no choice but to drive to work (unsociable hours, no public transport linking my home and work areas) are constantly paying higher fuel prices and road taxes and being condemned for our emissions and our part in global warming. If I didn't have a car, I would not be able to reach my workplace and there was no comparable job closer to home, it's that simple (I also don't want to spend half my life commuting to London).
Meanwhile, unnecessarily high-powered cars that consume unfeasible amounts of fuel race round a track and after umpteen pointless circuits they end up more or less where they started. What is the carbon footprints of those vehicles? Not just the fuel, but also the cost of making the tyres, the cost of transporting the racing cars to a track and all other associated manufacturing costs.
If governments were really serious about cutting down emissions, they should look at frivolous and wasteful vehicular activities. In terms of transportation, the vehicles achieving nothing. They just go round in in circles, burning fuel and rubber. My car gets me to and from a destination. Sometimes it carries passengers or goods (shopping, charity donations etc). It doesn't go pointlessly round in circles at high speed.
Let's cut the crap about "you're just a woman and don't understand it" or "technological advances". It's high time those vehicles were built and driven to modern regulations on recycling and emissions and they stopped doing unnecessary journeys - such as going round in circles.
Bluebeard's Egg (Margaret Atwood)
Bluebeards Egg is a collection of short stories with women as the main characters. Unfortunately, after several of the stories I gave up. None of tales inspired me. There's Loulou, a very sexual potter who supports a group of poets and former lovers in her home (even though they discuss how uneducated she is). Or Sally, a woman married to a dull man who works with heart doctors and whom she both adores and despises (for his dullness). Or the vindictive ex-girlfriend who abducts her boyfriend's cat and puts in in a garbage bin.
While I loved Oryx and Crake and The Handmaid's Tale, these stories did nothing for me. They were recommended for those who enjoyed Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, but while Carter's tales are twisted stories, Atwood's collection is merely dull, dealing with the minutiae of some very uninteresting lives.
While I loved Oryx and Crake and The Handmaid's Tale, these stories did nothing for me. They were recommended for those who enjoyed Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, but while Carter's tales are twisted stories, Atwood's collection is merely dull, dealing with the minutiae of some very uninteresting lives.
Oxfam Bookshop Nostalgia
The local Oxfam bookshop currently has a shelf of 1950s/60s hardback editions of pony books: Kit Hunter Show Jumper, Phantom Horse and suchlike. The names, and the dated styles of the covers, bring back memories. I had scores of those books, mostly 1970s paperback editions. If they have any Mary Gervaise "Pony School" books, I probably won't be able to resist temptation, though I'm sure I'll be really disappointed.
I'm only in the children's section in search of Lemony Snicket books for Billy. I've found most of them, including the Unauthorised Autobiography, at around £2 each. Only vols 9, 10 and 13 to go, so I'll have to run the gauntlet of the pony book memories for a bit longer.
I'm only in the children's section in search of Lemony Snicket books for Billy. I've found most of them, including the Unauthorised Autobiography, at around £2 each. Only vols 9, 10 and 13 to go, so I'll have to run the gauntlet of the pony book memories for a bit longer.
Monday, October 22, 2007
CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK and the Bold Crusader
If you've ever posted on newsgroups or forums, you'll have come across at least one of these characters. They are the ones who just can't stand being ignored or being wrong and they're going to SHOUT or talk in an exaggerated and repetitive fashion until they bludgeon you into agreeing with them (or ignoring them).
CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK shouts the whole of his messages in UPPER CASE. Like the stereotyped upper class twit military captain of 1940s movies, CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK isn't too well clue up on what he's posting about, but he wants your ATTENTION! He wants you to BAN DIHYDROGEN MONOXIDE or be outraged at THE EVIL BONSAI KITTENS IN BOTTLES.
Meanwhile, the Bold Crusader is up on his high horse and trampling over everyone else's contributions. He can't bear to be disagreed with and would hate you to miss his valuable, important and unarguable contribution so he posts it all in bold type. While others are content to bold salient points, the Bold Crusader puts everything in bold to bludgeon home his opinion. Even if he's wrong, he's going to trample over all other opinions with bold type.
CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK has the saving grace that he's probably about 15 years old and may grow up. The Bold Crusader however, will speak slowly and loudly and repeat himself because he's on a crusade ... until he's forcibly removed or the forum owner disables text formatting.
CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK shouts the whole of his messages in UPPER CASE. Like the stereotyped upper class twit military captain of 1940s movies, CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK isn't too well clue up on what he's posting about, but he wants your ATTENTION! He wants you to BAN DIHYDROGEN MONOXIDE or be outraged at THE EVIL BONSAI KITTENS IN BOTTLES.
Meanwhile, the Bold Crusader is up on his high horse and trampling over everyone else's contributions. He can't bear to be disagreed with and would hate you to miss his valuable, important and unarguable contribution so he posts it all in bold type. While others are content to bold salient points, the Bold Crusader puts everything in bold to bludgeon home his opinion. Even if he's wrong, he's going to trample over all other opinions with bold type.
CAPTAIN CAPSLOCK has the saving grace that he's probably about 15 years old and may grow up. The Bold Crusader however, will speak slowly and loudly and repeat himself because he's on a crusade ... until he's forcibly removed or the forum owner disables text formatting.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
African Humping Dogs
On Saturday, Billy and I went to Colchester Zoo. On my last few visits, the African Hunting Dogs had stayed at the far end of their enclosure, out of range of my lens. This time, I took my longest zoom lens, but the dogs were feeling positively exhibitionist!The ringtailed lemurs were bouncing all over the place, but I managed to snap one of them at rest.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Humans Can Lick Fingers Too
This one (in doggerel of course) is for friends from Snopes who sometimes drop in ....
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I ask my dog me safe to keep,
He lies beside my bed each night,
To keep me safe from any fright,
And when at night I hear a sound,
I reach my hand down to my hound.
And so that night I laid my head,
Weary, upon my pillowed bed,
And when I heard a noise so late,
And heart began to palpitate,
I stretched my hand to where he slept,
He licked it from beneath the bed.
That morning dawned and up I leapt,
But what had happened as I'd slept?
Possessions gone - the room was bare,
And faithful dog not anywhere!
Shell-shocked, stunned, a little bleary,
To the bathroom I went, teary.
There stretched out inside the tub,
Was darling doggy, drenched in blood,
His throat was slit, he'd been long dead,
So what had licked from 'neath my bed?
Upon the mirror, writ in red, a clue:
"Humans can lick fingers too".
Now, now, Murph, no dogs were harmed in the production of this urban legend doggerel
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I ask my dog me safe to keep,
He lies beside my bed each night,
To keep me safe from any fright,
And when at night I hear a sound,
I reach my hand down to my hound.
And so that night I laid my head,
Weary, upon my pillowed bed,
And when I heard a noise so late,
And heart began to palpitate,
I stretched my hand to where he slept,
He licked it from beneath the bed.
That morning dawned and up I leapt,
But what had happened as I'd slept?
Possessions gone - the room was bare,
And faithful dog not anywhere!
Shell-shocked, stunned, a little bleary,
To the bathroom I went, teary.
There stretched out inside the tub,
Was darling doggy, drenched in blood,
His throat was slit, he'd been long dead,
So what had licked from 'neath my bed?
Upon the mirror, writ in red, a clue:
"Humans can lick fingers too".
Now, now, Murph, no dogs were harmed in the production of this urban legend doggerel
Phone Scam Alert?
Wednesday evening I got a series of calls that sound like a scam. Normally the answerphone screens my calls, but I was expecting a call from my parents and answered it. The first few times there was brief silence and then the sound of ringing at the other end. That sounded like an autodialler (illegal in the UK, but overseas call centres use them) so I hung up.
The final time, therer was a voice (ethnic accent). The caller asked for my ex-husband by name. I say he left several years ago and assume it's either an agency he once lodged his CV with or one of the charities he was involved with. They sometimes follow up old lists with outdated contact deatils. Agencies/charities either apologise and hang up or ask if I have contact details (I don't). This caller didn't do either.
He claimed he was trying to find out who owned the phone line as there was "a problem with the number". He wouldn't specify the problem nor identify the company he represented. This meant he wasn't representing my phone provider (they wouldn't need to ask who owns the number!). I asked what he was selling and he kept asking who owned the number. I told him I'm registered with the Telephone Preference Service and hung up, having provided no personal details.
This individual evidently got hold of a previous occupant's name somehow, but why claim he was trying to find out who owned the phone number and why lie about there being "some sort of problem" with it? Evidently he was after personal details. I don't even give my name unless I can verify who is calling - even if that means phoning back on the Customer Service Number on my phone bill/bank statement/whatever.
Since debt collection agencies don't cold call (the company you owe money to first sends official warning that it has employed a debt collection agency to recover monies owed), my guess is a scam along the lines of "There's a problem with your number, your last payment didn't go through, please can you give me your bank details and we can process it right away."
It sounds like a new twist on the old "this is your bank calling" phone-phishing scam aimed at tricking you into giving credit card/bank account details.
The final time, therer was a voice (ethnic accent). The caller asked for my ex-husband by name. I say he left several years ago and assume it's either an agency he once lodged his CV with or one of the charities he was involved with. They sometimes follow up old lists with outdated contact deatils. Agencies/charities either apologise and hang up or ask if I have contact details (I don't). This caller didn't do either.
He claimed he was trying to find out who owned the phone line as there was "a problem with the number". He wouldn't specify the problem nor identify the company he represented. This meant he wasn't representing my phone provider (they wouldn't need to ask who owns the number!). I asked what he was selling and he kept asking who owned the number. I told him I'm registered with the Telephone Preference Service and hung up, having provided no personal details.
This individual evidently got hold of a previous occupant's name somehow, but why claim he was trying to find out who owned the phone number and why lie about there being "some sort of problem" with it? Evidently he was after personal details. I don't even give my name unless I can verify who is calling - even if that means phoning back on the Customer Service Number on my phone bill/bank statement/whatever.
Since debt collection agencies don't cold call (the company you owe money to first sends official warning that it has employed a debt collection agency to recover monies owed), my guess is a scam along the lines of "There's a problem with your number, your last payment didn't go through, please can you give me your bank details and we can process it right away."
It sounds like a new twist on the old "this is your bank calling" phone-phishing scam aimed at tricking you into giving credit card/bank account details.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Daily Mail Is Read By ...
Many in this corner of the blogosphere enjoy reviling those foaming loons at the Daily Mail, laughing at The Sun/Star or gasping at the Mirror and there are those in this neck of the woods who write for the Guardian. But who actually reads those papers?
IN BRITAIN ...
The Times is read by the people who run the country.
The Daily Mail is read by the wives of the people who run the country.
The Financial Times is read by the people who own the country.
The Express is read by the people who think this country should be run as it used to be run.
The Telegraph is read by the people who think it still is their country.
The Guardian is read by the people who think they should be runing this cuontry.
The Mirror is read by the people who think they are running this country.
The Morning Star is read by the people who think the country ought to be run by another country.
The Independent is read by the people who don't know who runs the country but are sure they're doing it wrong.
The Evening Standard is read by people who are less interested in who's running the country than in getting a seat on the train home.
The Star is read by people who don't care who runs the country as long as they do something scandalous.
The Sun is read by the people who don't care who runs the country as long as she's got big boobs and the semi-naked girl on page three is attractive.)
I'm not sure who reads the Metro, London Lite or London Paper apart from people riding on London Transport and those who wouldn't be seen dead with a celeb magazine, but the celeb pages of those freebie papers are permissible.
MEANWHILE, OVER IN CANADA ...
The Ottawa Citizen is read by the people who run the country.
The Toronto Sun is read by the people who don't give a damn who runs the country, as long as she's got big boobs.
AND OVER IN THE USA ...
The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.
The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the country.
The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the country and who are very good at crossword puzzles.
USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don't really understand The New York Times. They do, however, like their statistics shown in pie charts.
The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn't mind running the country - if they could find the time - and if they didn't have to leave Southern California to do it.
The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the country and did a far superior job of it, thank you very much.
The New York Daily News is read by people who aren't too sure who's running the country and don't really care as long as they can get a seat on the train.
The New York Post is read by people who don't care who is running the country as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably while intoxicated.
The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country but need the baseball scores.
The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren't sure there is a country - or that anyone is running it - but if so, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders are handicapped minority feminist atheist dwarfs who also happen to be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy provided, of course, that they are not Republicans.
The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at the grocery store.
... none of these is read by the guy in the big white building who is running the country into the ground.
IN BRITAIN ...
The Times is read by the people who run the country.
The Daily Mail is read by the wives of the people who run the country.
The Financial Times is read by the people who own the country.
The Express is read by the people who think this country should be run as it used to be run.
The Telegraph is read by the people who think it still is their country.
The Guardian is read by the people who think they should be runing this cuontry.
The Mirror is read by the people who think they are running this country.
The Morning Star is read by the people who think the country ought to be run by another country.
The Independent is read by the people who don't know who runs the country but are sure they're doing it wrong.
The Evening Standard is read by people who are less interested in who's running the country than in getting a seat on the train home.
The Star is read by people who don't care who runs the country as long as they do something scandalous.
The Sun is read by the people who don't care who runs the country as long as she's got big boobs and the semi-naked girl on page three is attractive.)
I'm not sure who reads the Metro, London Lite or London Paper apart from people riding on London Transport and those who wouldn't be seen dead with a celeb magazine, but the celeb pages of those freebie papers are permissible.
MEANWHILE, OVER IN CANADA ...
The Ottawa Citizen is read by the people who run the country.
The Toronto Sun is read by the people who don't give a damn who runs the country, as long as she's got big boobs.
AND OVER IN THE USA ...
The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.
The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the country.
The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the country and who are very good at crossword puzzles.
USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don't really understand The New York Times. They do, however, like their statistics shown in pie charts.
The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn't mind running the country - if they could find the time - and if they didn't have to leave Southern California to do it.
The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the country and did a far superior job of it, thank you very much.
The New York Daily News is read by people who aren't too sure who's running the country and don't really care as long as they can get a seat on the train.
The New York Post is read by people who don't care who is running the country as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably while intoxicated.
The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country but need the baseball scores.
The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren't sure there is a country - or that anyone is running it - but if so, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders are handicapped minority feminist atheist dwarfs who also happen to be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy provided, of course, that they are not Republicans.
The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at the grocery store.
... none of these is read by the guy in the big white building who is running the country into the ground.
Around a hundred years ago, London Zoo introduced a polar bear and a brown bear to each other. This was considered cute, hence the photos of cubs playing that appeared in old animal books. By raising the animals together they didn't view each other as cenemies or, one hoped, as food. Hagenbeck did the same in his Hamburg Tierpark, creating mixed displays to please visitors (the downside of this was when a big cat occasionally ate a Shetland pony). In due course, London Zoo bear pair became more than playmates. One of the resultant hybrid offspring is preserved in the Rothschild Zoological Museum.
It does look cute and cuddly doesn't it? That's one of the thinks about taxidermy of this age. The museum's gorilla is shown as a fierce animal while the polar bear sits looking like a genial clown.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Railway Jinx
Of late, I seem to be jinxing the local rail lines. Ignoring the usual array of engineering work between London terminals and East Anglian destinations, in the last few months my journeys have been disrupted by:
- person under train at Witham (after about 2 hours of waiting on the platfrom, a replacement bus service began)
- person under train at Kelvedon
- person under train at Chadwell Heath (I was on that train; I now know what "person under train" sounds like)
- graffiti artists killed by District Line train
- faulty level crossing at Ingatestone
- vehicle on track at Rivenhall
- stuck underground for an hour on Hammersmith & City Line Train due to power outage
- car hits rail bridge at Hockley (today)
- person taken ill at Liverpool Street (today)
- suspicious incident at Southend Victoria (complete with news reporter - just in case I was in any doubt about jinxing today's journey)
- train doors failing to operate (Southend to Wickford journey - to absolutely hammer home that today was a really bad day for me to travel by train!)
Feejee Mermaids
Not long ago, Alex over on Museum of Hoaxes posted a photo of the Feejee Mermaid from the American Museum of Natural History (history of the hoax here). I've seen a few of these monkey-fish fakes over the years, mainly in small museums as a kid (mum and dad took us to a lot of museums). I think at one point every self-respecting museum wanted its own mermaid! When the Platypus was first discovered and specimens sent back (probably not very well preserved and a bit tatty by the end of the voyage), these were immediately assumed to be fakes along much the same lines.
Here's the mermaid that is on display at the Science Museum in London (in the Science and Art of Medicine Gallery on the fifth floor). My last visit was with my old Vivitar digital, I must get some better shots with the somewhat better camera I now use.
Yes, I have been ferreting through my photo collection recently!
Here's the mermaid that is on display at the Science Museum in London (in the Science and Art of Medicine Gallery on the fifth floor). My last visit was with my old Vivitar digital, I must get some better shots with the somewhat better camera I now use.
Yes, I have been ferreting through my photo collection recently!
Car Got The Horn
The other day I tried to toot at Thenie to get her off the drive when I got home from work. Not a peep came from the car horn. The last time the horn got used was during the MoT check last November (I'm not an aggressive driver and my unsociable hours mean I'm driving at times when there's little other traffic around), so my father insisted it was a seized pressure sensor. It was service and MoT day today and my car now has a brand new horn unit! Far from wearing it out, we think it just pined away from lack of use .... I tooted it just to be sure it works, but I'm guessing it won't get used again till the next MoT!
According to my colleagues, my car "now has the horn". Sigh.
ETA: One of the back wheels is getting awfully hot and smelling of scorching - seems like a brake is binding following the service so I'd better take it back again.
According to my colleagues, my car "now has the horn". Sigh.
ETA: One of the back wheels is getting awfully hot and smelling of scorching - seems like a brake is binding following the service so I'd better take it back again.
An Array Of Elephants
The Natural History Museum in London is one of my favourite museums (coming a close second after the Rothschild Zoological Museum in Tring). One of the things it does really well is have small models of extinct animals next to full or partial fossil skeletons. Photographing specimens in zoos and museums is one of my favourite ways to relax (especially if I time my visit to avoid crowds) and I exchange the photos with friends in other countries. I photographed these models of prehistoric elephants at the Natural History Museum for a friend in the USA.
I also like photographing planes and trains in science and industrial museums, even if it does lead to me being called "an anorak"!
I also like photographing planes and trains in science and industrial museums, even if it does lead to me being called "an anorak"!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Otters Killed by Illegal Crayfish Trap
Three otters drowned after following a fish into an illegal crayfish trap set in the River Cam in Cambridgeshire. Environment Agency staff said the entry to the wire-mesh cage exceeded regulations so that otters could get in. The trap entrance was about 4 cm (1.5 inches) too big. The culprit (if caught) could be jailed. Preferably in an underwater jail with an entrance he can't get out of?
The First Chimpanzee: In Search of Human Origins (Cherfas and Gribbin)
The First Chimpanzee is a well-written book questioning the conventional view of human evolution. It's interesting that in the 5 or 6 years since it was published, some of our views have become aligned with the information in this book.
For decades, paleontologists have believe mankind split from the great apes around 18 million years ago and cited Ramapithecus as an ancestor. The molecular studies (DNA mutations accumulate at a steady rate) indicate that humans, gorillas and chimps underwent a 3-way split about 4 million years ago and this group split from orangs a little earlier still. This was vehemently denied by those scientists that insisted on viewing humans as a special case rather than an ape that has evolved rather more recently. The molecular data is calibrated against fossil data such as the start of the Quaternary age (which can be dated in geological strata). If we insist on human/ape split happening 18 million years ago, that would put the primate/mouse split at a time before mammals even existed!
The authors look at the differences and similarities in humans and apes. For example, anatomically we resemble brachiating apes in our gripping hands and in having dissimilar upper and lower limbs. Our skull alignment and size is consistent with neotony (retained juvenile characteristics). rather than gaining such characteristics after the split, we shared human-like features with the common ancestor of man, chimp and gorilla; but we are the only one out of the three to have retained these as adaptations to our environment. It's a pity this book was published before the information on Hox genes became available, though it does mention regulator genes that switch other genes on and off.
Rather than think of a linear progression from Dryopithecus, through Ramapithecus, through erectus, habilis and Neanderthal and finally to Cro-Magnon/modern man, the authors explain that primate evolution was a bush. Ramapithecus and Neanderthal were on other branches and left no modern descendents. This branching tree with humans as just one of many branches is the view now being shown on some documentaries. The recent discovery of diminutive hominids has forced a rethink although some scientists still try to fit the "hobbit" hominid into the old linear model by claiming it is a microcephalic dwarf rather than a different species.
For decades, paleontologists have believe mankind split from the great apes around 18 million years ago and cited Ramapithecus as an ancestor. The molecular studies (DNA mutations accumulate at a steady rate) indicate that humans, gorillas and chimps underwent a 3-way split about 4 million years ago and this group split from orangs a little earlier still. This was vehemently denied by those scientists that insisted on viewing humans as a special case rather than an ape that has evolved rather more recently. The molecular data is calibrated against fossil data such as the start of the Quaternary age (which can be dated in geological strata). If we insist on human/ape split happening 18 million years ago, that would put the primate/mouse split at a time before mammals even existed!
The authors look at the differences and similarities in humans and apes. For example, anatomically we resemble brachiating apes in our gripping hands and in having dissimilar upper and lower limbs. Our skull alignment and size is consistent with neotony (retained juvenile characteristics). rather than gaining such characteristics after the split, we shared human-like features with the common ancestor of man, chimp and gorilla; but we are the only one out of the three to have retained these as adaptations to our environment. It's a pity this book was published before the information on Hox genes became available, though it does mention regulator genes that switch other genes on and off.
Rather than think of a linear progression from Dryopithecus, through Ramapithecus, through erectus, habilis and Neanderthal and finally to Cro-Magnon/modern man, the authors explain that primate evolution was a bush. Ramapithecus and Neanderthal were on other branches and left no modern descendents. This branching tree with humans as just one of many branches is the view now being shown on some documentaries. The recent discovery of diminutive hominids has forced a rethink although some scientists still try to fit the "hobbit" hominid into the old linear model by claiming it is a microcephalic dwarf rather than a different species.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Memories and Leaky Secrets
My mum, bless her, has a selective memory. Aged 8 or 9 I went to Spar with her shopping list that included "potatoes". The assistant gave me new potatoes. Back home, Mum complained she'd wanted old potatoes. She added the word "old" to the shopping list intending to send me back to change them. When I complained she hadn't written "old potatoes" she showed me the list and said "it says old potatoes there" on there." She never accepted that she'd amended the list after I'd brought the wrong ones home. Adults are never wrong (even when they are) and life isn't fair. Needless to say, I never offered to run errands again.
Around the same time there was the "broken recorder incident". I was annoyingly tootling on my wooden descant recorder so mum smacked my hands with the recorder to make me stop. She doesn't remember this. I do - it hurt! It did not, however, damage the recorder. Being wood, it would have broken my hand first. Many years later, my sisters joked to her that she'd broken the recorder. She now clearly "remembers" hitting me with my recorder and breaking it and won't accept otherwise. A few years ago she jokingly bought me a plastic recorder to replace the one she'd "broken". Billy likes tootling annoyingly on it when he visits. This is not nearly annoying as mum bringing up the "broken recorder incident".
In my teens, my parents complained I couldn't keep a secret. Except I could. Unfortunately, mum often forgot who she'd told things to, especially during long, rambling phone conversations to relatives. For some reason, it was always me (the taciturn introvert) that must have let slip, never her, or dad or my chatty sisters. Things haven't changed. My parents recently accused me of telling my aunt something about my sister (my sister had herself told my aunt). A month later, having forgotten that auntie already knew, they accused me again and denied the previous occasion had happened. I got out my PDA and wrote it in the calendar while they complained I was wrong and there was nothing wrong with their memories. I don't talk to my aunt as often as I should, partly through fear of being accused of leaking yet another family secret.
Why do my parents insist on trivial things being pointlessly secret? One of my friends said it must be like living with the secret service. Is it a carryover from wartime "careless talk costs lives"? Paranoia? Nowadays, when they start a sentence "don't tell so-and-so ...." I tell them not to tell me. It annoys them, but at least future leaks won't be my fault. Except they'll "clearly remember" telling me. I love my folks dearly, but over the years I've become really fed up of being the family scapegoat over leaky secrets.
Around the same time there was the "broken recorder incident". I was annoyingly tootling on my wooden descant recorder so mum smacked my hands with the recorder to make me stop. She doesn't remember this. I do - it hurt! It did not, however, damage the recorder. Being wood, it would have broken my hand first. Many years later, my sisters joked to her that she'd broken the recorder. She now clearly "remembers" hitting me with my recorder and breaking it and won't accept otherwise. A few years ago she jokingly bought me a plastic recorder to replace the one she'd "broken". Billy likes tootling annoyingly on it when he visits. This is not nearly annoying as mum bringing up the "broken recorder incident".
In my teens, my parents complained I couldn't keep a secret. Except I could. Unfortunately, mum often forgot who she'd told things to, especially during long, rambling phone conversations to relatives. For some reason, it was always me (the taciturn introvert) that must have let slip, never her, or dad or my chatty sisters. Things haven't changed. My parents recently accused me of telling my aunt something about my sister (my sister had herself told my aunt). A month later, having forgotten that auntie already knew, they accused me again and denied the previous occasion had happened. I got out my PDA and wrote it in the calendar while they complained I was wrong and there was nothing wrong with their memories. I don't talk to my aunt as often as I should, partly through fear of being accused of leaking yet another family secret.
Why do my parents insist on trivial things being pointlessly secret? One of my friends said it must be like living with the secret service. Is it a carryover from wartime "careless talk costs lives"? Paranoia? Nowadays, when they start a sentence "don't tell so-and-so ...." I tell them not to tell me. It annoys them, but at least future leaks won't be my fault. Except they'll "clearly remember" telling me. I love my folks dearly, but over the years I've become really fed up of being the family scapegoat over leaky secrets.
Normal For ...?
In medical slang, NFN (Normal For Norfolk) means someone a bit odd looking (such as an FLK - Funny Looking Kid) and suggests inbreeding or childhood deprivation. Meanwhile, NFP (Normal For Portsmouth) allegedly refers to repeat abortions or repeated unwanted pregnancies, possibly due to selling favours to sailors on shore leave.
What is "Normal For" your area?
What is "Normal For" your area?
A Wet Spell On The Uxbridge Road
After 2 weeks without proper cooking facilities, Billy's new oven was fitted on Saturday. Corin can cook pizzas after 2 weeks of going cold turkey and we had cheese on toast! The yummers Rocky Road bars didn't require cooking and Billy let me lick the mixing bowls, yay! I doubt I'll ever grow out of "can I lick the bowl?"
On Uxbridge Road opposite Premier grocery store, a water mains ruptured on Friday night/Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon, 2 Thames Water vans turned up. Having looked and failed to stop hundred of gallons of water spewing out, Thames Water went away. On Sunday, a Docwra van and workmen arrived, put some barriers and watched water cascading down the kerb. A second Docwra van arrived, along with a little digger. Having dug a hole, they also admitted defeat. Uxbridge Road now has a small pond outside the newsagent from which the new "Uxbridge Brook" flows unabated, about a hundred years too late to be convenient to any Shepherds tending flocks in The Bush.
In Ravenscourt Park, an annoying brown labrador was chasing squirrels. Much as I consider grey squirrels to be introduced pests, I considered uncontrolled dogs to be even bigger pests. Then I was bitten by a brave (and surprisingly healthy) feral pigeon sitting on some railings after I pointed my finger at it to see what it would do. After a bit of consideration, it bit the end of my finger. I was so amused I let it do this several more times.
There's yet another KFC clone opened in Shepherd's Bush (these non-pork, non-beef, Halal fast food places breed almost as fast as pigeons). According to the sign, Roast Broast also serves "Indain Sweets". We're not sure what a "broast" is, roasted or otherwise, but the Indain sweets rank alongside Mar Mar's "Lamp chops," the "Internent access" available at a cafe on "Glodhawk Road" in "Sheppards Bush" and the "Plumb Blossom" clinic in Chelmsford.
On Uxbridge Road opposite Premier grocery store, a water mains ruptured on Friday night/Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon, 2 Thames Water vans turned up. Having looked and failed to stop hundred of gallons of water spewing out, Thames Water went away. On Sunday, a Docwra van and workmen arrived, put some barriers and watched water cascading down the kerb. A second Docwra van arrived, along with a little digger. Having dug a hole, they also admitted defeat. Uxbridge Road now has a small pond outside the newsagent from which the new "Uxbridge Brook" flows unabated, about a hundred years too late to be convenient to any Shepherds tending flocks in The Bush.
In Ravenscourt Park, an annoying brown labrador was chasing squirrels. Much as I consider grey squirrels to be introduced pests, I considered uncontrolled dogs to be even bigger pests. Then I was bitten by a brave (and surprisingly healthy) feral pigeon sitting on some railings after I pointed my finger at it to see what it would do. After a bit of consideration, it bit the end of my finger. I was so amused I let it do this several more times.
There's yet another KFC clone opened in Shepherd's Bush (these non-pork, non-beef, Halal fast food places breed almost as fast as pigeons). According to the sign, Roast Broast also serves "Indain Sweets". We're not sure what a "broast" is, roasted or otherwise, but the Indain sweets rank alongside Mar Mar's "Lamp chops," the "Internent access" available at a cafe on "Glodhawk Road" in "Sheppards Bush" and the "Plumb Blossom" clinic in Chelmsford.
Fox With Mange
Cryptozoology is the study of "hidden" or "unproven" animals - ones not yet scientifically recognised. Although the term "cryptozoology" is a relatively recent one, many 19th century naturalists were avid cryptozoologists in everything but name. The plus side is that new species are discovered, or rather animals long known to native peoples as "good to eat" get classified by sceptical scientists. Unfortunately, too many self-styled cryptozoologists lack the scientific training and the critical approach required for real scientific study. It's these people who prevent cryptozoology from being taken seriously by the scientific community and being dismissed as yeti-hunting. The problem is, with no need for formal qualifications, anyone unable to identify a creature seems to call him/herself a cryptozoologist. That's comparable to someone who has taken an aspirin calling him/herself a physician!
One of the more laughable forums on the web is at Cryptozoology.Com which appears to be inhabited by kiddies who regard every mange-ridden fox as an out-of-place hyena or a mutant long-tailed bobcat or hitherto unknown species of cat. The contributors confidently identify silhouettes as black pumas (the fact that pumas have never exhibited melanism goes whoosh! over their collective heads) and half-seen large animals as lion-jaguar or puma-leopard hybrids even though they've never seen either big cat outside of an I-Spy book. Scientific rigour and scepticism is in short supply on those forums. The identifications are posted by eejits wouldn't be able to identify a hyena if they fell over one.
The worst of the amateur cryptozoologists and Alien Big Cat hunters refuse to accept when they are wrong. There's a guy in the West Country who collects photos of sheep supposedly killed by a big cat. The photos actually show the work of rogue dogs, but in spite of analysis by real big cat experts (the sort with years of in-the-field experience) he is unwilling to accept reality. On one forum, a person posted a photo of a shelduck and contributors claimed it was a mallard-muscovy hybrid! How's that for ignorance and the inability to do even the most basic search in a bird-spotters book?
In the last several years, cryptozoology has gone from being a fringe pseudo-science on a par with paranormal investigators to a respectable discipline of following up reports of animals that have defied identification. Unfortunately, there are too many gullible, self-delusional unscientists bringing the whole study of new species into disrepute. If cryptozoology is be a credible discipline it needs to rid itself of the hangers-on who wouldn't be able to identify a "panther" (that's either a puma, leopard or jaguar, depending on which country you live in) if it ambled out of a hedge and they tripped over it.
Note: The complaints in the comments box assume I am anti-cryptozoology. In their evident haste to complain, they've entirely missed the point. If cryptozoology can rid itself of people who wouldn't recognise a cow if they saw one (thanks Anonymous for that all-too-accurate comment!) , but who consider themselves qualified to confidently (mis)identify a fuzzy photo then it is a worthwhile pursuit. That means it is time to RECOGNISE it as a branch of science with qualifications available (a grounding in genetics wouldn't go amiss); this would distance the genuine researchers from the fringe and stop unqualified persons from masquerading as experts in the field.
Note 2: To answer queries; I'm a biologist by training, with a special interest in genetics, although I now work in industry as it pays better. No I'm not sniping at a subject I have no interest in. As someone who continues to study genetics, it's a branch of zoology I have great interest in, hence my dismay at the gullibility and lack of rigour.
One of the more laughable forums on the web is at Cryptozoology.Com which appears to be inhabited by kiddies who regard every mange-ridden fox as an out-of-place hyena or a mutant long-tailed bobcat or hitherto unknown species of cat. The contributors confidently identify silhouettes as black pumas (the fact that pumas have never exhibited melanism goes whoosh! over their collective heads) and half-seen large animals as lion-jaguar or puma-leopard hybrids even though they've never seen either big cat outside of an I-Spy book. Scientific rigour and scepticism is in short supply on those forums. The identifications are posted by eejits wouldn't be able to identify a hyena if they fell over one.
The worst of the amateur cryptozoologists and Alien Big Cat hunters refuse to accept when they are wrong. There's a guy in the West Country who collects photos of sheep supposedly killed by a big cat. The photos actually show the work of rogue dogs, but in spite of analysis by real big cat experts (the sort with years of in-the-field experience) he is unwilling to accept reality. On one forum, a person posted a photo of a shelduck and contributors claimed it was a mallard-muscovy hybrid! How's that for ignorance and the inability to do even the most basic search in a bird-spotters book?
In the last several years, cryptozoology has gone from being a fringe pseudo-science on a par with paranormal investigators to a respectable discipline of following up reports of animals that have defied identification. Unfortunately, there are too many gullible, self-delusional unscientists bringing the whole study of new species into disrepute. If cryptozoology is be a credible discipline it needs to rid itself of the hangers-on who wouldn't be able to identify a "panther" (that's either a puma, leopard or jaguar, depending on which country you live in) if it ambled out of a hedge and they tripped over it.
Note: The complaints in the comments box assume I am anti-cryptozoology. In their evident haste to complain, they've entirely missed the point. If cryptozoology can rid itself of people who wouldn't recognise a cow if they saw one (thanks Anonymous for that all-too-accurate comment!) , but who consider themselves qualified to confidently (mis)identify a fuzzy photo then it is a worthwhile pursuit. That means it is time to RECOGNISE it as a branch of science with qualifications available (a grounding in genetics wouldn't go amiss); this would distance the genuine researchers from the fringe and stop unqualified persons from masquerading as experts in the field.
Note 2: To answer queries; I'm a biologist by training, with a special interest in genetics, although I now work in industry as it pays better. No I'm not sniping at a subject I have no interest in. As someone who continues to study genetics, it's a branch of zoology I have great interest in, hence my dismay at the gullibility and lack of rigour.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Left Behind Games Threatens to Sue Blogosphere?
There have been several reports on the web in the the last few days about bloggers receiving legal threats from Left Behind Games. LBG publishes a controversial real-time strategy game based upon a best-selling Christian book series.
Gameology, Daily Kos and Public Theologian all received snottygrams from Left Behind Games' attorneys threatening legal action if they didn't remove "all of the false and misleading information" about their product. In other words, LBG don't like criticism of Left Behind: Eternal Force. LBG are trying to intimidate bloggers who condmen the product. The mainly USAnian Bloggers say they are exercising their right to free speech. Apart from oppressive regimes, people are entitled to express an opinion, even if it is critical or negative, as long as it doesn't contain libel. People also seem to have a right to publish misleading information - you only have to read Wikipedia to see that in action! (that article is not too wide of the mark)
Critics complain the games promote religious violence while members of the armed forces are embroiled in a religious and ethnic civil war overseas. In addition they believe the publisher is trying to intimidate Christian, Jewish and Muslim leaders in the blogosphere who condemn or criticise the game. Whether or not you agree with opponents of the game, they at least have a right to voice their opinion without harassment or intimidation. Here in Britain, where we're more restrained when voicing opposition, the game would be considered "in bad taste".
Cynics point out "there is no such thing as bad publicity" and the coverage of the legal threats is just generating publicity for the much criticised game.
(Feel free to copy this commentary and its links to your own blog or other forums)
Gameology, Daily Kos and Public Theologian all received snottygrams from Left Behind Games' attorneys threatening legal action if they didn't remove "all of the false and misleading information" about their product. In other words, LBG don't like criticism of Left Behind: Eternal Force. LBG are trying to intimidate bloggers who condmen the product. The mainly USAnian Bloggers say they are exercising their right to free speech. Apart from oppressive regimes, people are entitled to express an opinion, even if it is critical or negative, as long as it doesn't contain libel. People also seem to have a right to publish misleading information - you only have to read Wikipedia to see that in action! (that article is not too wide of the mark)
Critics complain the games promote religious violence while members of the armed forces are embroiled in a religious and ethnic civil war overseas. In addition they believe the publisher is trying to intimidate Christian, Jewish and Muslim leaders in the blogosphere who condemn or criticise the game. Whether or not you agree with opponents of the game, they at least have a right to voice their opinion without harassment or intimidation. Here in Britain, where we're more restrained when voicing opposition, the game would be considered "in bad taste".
Cynics point out "there is no such thing as bad publicity" and the coverage of the legal threats is just generating publicity for the much criticised game.
(Feel free to copy this commentary and its links to your own blog or other forums)
Nostalgia: Toys and Play
I never liked dolls. They ended up naked and unloved at the bottom of the toybox. Instead, I loved Matchbox diecast models of motorbikes, cars, vans, buses and lorries. I laid Ladybird books end-to-end to form roads to play with my Matchbox cars. Hot Wheels was a natural progression with its orange tracks, red connectors, jumps, ramps, cambered curves, a loop-the-loop and a clamp to fix the start ramp to a table to build up speed (nowadays there's some sort of motor to catapult the cars forward, back then we relied on gravity). My other favourite was Lego. You just bought boxes of bricks and built things from your imagination, none of this build-a-pirate-ship kit malarkey. I loved playing with friends' Sticklebrix and Meccano too.
As a very small child, grazing horses were familiar sights and some people still used horses in harness. As a result, I loved playing with plastic horses. My favourites were an elegant grey plastic horse that pulled a 2-wheeled milk cart and a smart brown carriage horse with moulded harness. There was a matching white carriage horse and a pair of plastic Shire horses - one white, one brown - with horse-collars.
My "knitting machine" was a plastic thing with 2 rows of pegs and a slot between them. I always pulled the wool too tight and broke some of the plastic pegs. A neighbour gave me a sewing kit with felt cut-outs and a bodkin and thread. I was too young really and mum got exasperated that I kept pestering her to make the red heart-shaped pincushion for me. I must have given up as I can't remember what happened to it (maybe my parents hid it to stop the pestering). A few years later I mastered Junior Tapestry kits and did dozens of them.
Grandad taught me to play draughts for tanners (sixpences, though some of his "tanners" were metal discs with holes in the middle!). Snakes and ladders was another favourite. At infant school there was Ludo. Strangely, I now really dislike board games. My uncle got me a black and yellow pedal go-cart and while other kids pelted round on tricycles or stabilisers, I had a go-cart and a bright blue scooter shaped like a motor scooter. Outdoors I had a swing and a skewbald fibreglass rocking horse on a metal red rocker (my sisters later got a blue metal bouncy horse with a white head). Outdoor toys were painted tubular metal and got rust and sharp bits and no-one thought very much of it. Much later, we had a climbing frame in the garden and loved to brachiate from one end to the other.
When I was between 2 and 5 years old, my grandparents and aunts walked me to the "rec" to play on the slide, swings and a roundabout (I'm sure this was because mum needed time for my baby sisters). Sometimes my baby sisters were asleep in their pram while I played. I really missed these outings when we moved to Witham; not just the lack of a "rec" but also being too far for relatives to come and take me out to play. Luckily there was a playing field with swings and see-saw when we moved to Bocking Church Street, but no slide and with busy parents, no-one to take us there (later on we were allowed to go on our own). My parents sometimes took us to Gosfield where there was an "umbrella" roundabout that we loved to play on, but I still treasure the memories of going to the rec.
With limited TV to hold us captive indoors, we made our own fun and games. We built jumps out of sticks and buckets and did horse-jumping games. Skipping ropes and ribbons were reins (gee-up Dobbin!) or leashes (woof-woof!). The inflatable paddling pool was the seaside. A headscarf was a cape for playing Zorro. Chairs and stools were bus seats (ding-ding, fares please!). And of course, I was frequently buried in a book. We had a box of mum's old shoes and clothes for dressing up games and dozens of boxed games - Coppit (a firm favourite), Four-Sight, Fours, Monopoly, Dominoes, Scream Inn, Haunted House, Cluedo, Junior Scrabble, Happy Families, Donkey and our own mix-and-match hybrid versions.
Turn off the computer games and TV. Get rid of the boxed kits where children simply copy what is on the front photo (yes Lego, this means you!). Let's get back to children exercising their imaginations again instead of sticking to the script or the photo on the box lid. Or in my case, bury myself in a book and escape to Narnia .....
As a very small child, grazing horses were familiar sights and some people still used horses in harness. As a result, I loved playing with plastic horses. My favourites were an elegant grey plastic horse that pulled a 2-wheeled milk cart and a smart brown carriage horse with moulded harness. There was a matching white carriage horse and a pair of plastic Shire horses - one white, one brown - with horse-collars.
My "knitting machine" was a plastic thing with 2 rows of pegs and a slot between them. I always pulled the wool too tight and broke some of the plastic pegs. A neighbour gave me a sewing kit with felt cut-outs and a bodkin and thread. I was too young really and mum got exasperated that I kept pestering her to make the red heart-shaped pincushion for me. I must have given up as I can't remember what happened to it (maybe my parents hid it to stop the pestering). A few years later I mastered Junior Tapestry kits and did dozens of them.
Grandad taught me to play draughts for tanners (sixpences, though some of his "tanners" were metal discs with holes in the middle!). Snakes and ladders was another favourite. At infant school there was Ludo. Strangely, I now really dislike board games. My uncle got me a black and yellow pedal go-cart and while other kids pelted round on tricycles or stabilisers, I had a go-cart and a bright blue scooter shaped like a motor scooter. Outdoors I had a swing and a skewbald fibreglass rocking horse on a metal red rocker (my sisters later got a blue metal bouncy horse with a white head). Outdoor toys were painted tubular metal and got rust and sharp bits and no-one thought very much of it. Much later, we had a climbing frame in the garden and loved to brachiate from one end to the other.
When I was between 2 and 5 years old, my grandparents and aunts walked me to the "rec" to play on the slide, swings and a roundabout (I'm sure this was because mum needed time for my baby sisters). Sometimes my baby sisters were asleep in their pram while I played. I really missed these outings when we moved to Witham; not just the lack of a "rec" but also being too far for relatives to come and take me out to play. Luckily there was a playing field with swings and see-saw when we moved to Bocking Church Street, but no slide and with busy parents, no-one to take us there (later on we were allowed to go on our own). My parents sometimes took us to Gosfield where there was an "umbrella" roundabout that we loved to play on, but I still treasure the memories of going to the rec.
With limited TV to hold us captive indoors, we made our own fun and games. We built jumps out of sticks and buckets and did horse-jumping games. Skipping ropes and ribbons were reins (gee-up Dobbin!) or leashes (woof-woof!). The inflatable paddling pool was the seaside. A headscarf was a cape for playing Zorro. Chairs and stools were bus seats (ding-ding, fares please!). And of course, I was frequently buried in a book. We had a box of mum's old shoes and clothes for dressing up games and dozens of boxed games - Coppit (a firm favourite), Four-Sight, Fours, Monopoly, Dominoes, Scream Inn, Haunted House, Cluedo, Junior Scrabble, Happy Families, Donkey and our own mix-and-match hybrid versions.
Turn off the computer games and TV. Get rid of the boxed kits where children simply copy what is on the front photo (yes Lego, this means you!). Let's get back to children exercising their imaginations again instead of sticking to the script or the photo on the box lid. Or in my case, bury myself in a book and escape to Narnia .....
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
More Odd Dreams (Holborn to Archway)
Okay, so last night I dream I've got to Holborn and need to get to an office in Archway which, according to my dream is Northern Line (my subconscious has memorised way too much of the tube map). For some reason I can't get a tube from Holborn so I have to get to Tottenham Court Road by bus, which turns out to be an old Routemaster bus. Oh, and I have to get a few quid from the cash machine and top up the Oyster (my subconscious is evidently fixating on hole-in-the-wall-machines).
Anyway, the dream jumps to me walking into the office, except it's an office as it was back in the mid-1980s when I first joined Marconi. It's upstairs in a rather grim building - no carpet tiles, just lino tiles. It's not open plan either. In the main office are 4 old wooden (teak-veneered chipboard) desks pushed together in the centre. There are 2 side offices off of the main office.
There are no computers. My desk has a stack of paperwork on it and a pile of archive boxes next to it and on the chair. The chair is an old-style 4-legged vinyl covered chair, not a swivel. I realise I have moved to this office and my blue swivel chair should be there. I find it at the desk opposite me and it has an archive box on it. I move the box and try to reclaim my chair. I am not senior enough to have a swivel chair. I explain that it's a specially adapted chair because of my back problems (this is true - but because it doesn't look much different I have had to paint my initials on the arms of the chair to stop others from pinching it!). No, only senior people in the office can have a swivel chair. I must use the black vinyl chair.
Then the alarm went off. It was very odd to find myself back in the small cluttered office with unergonomic desks and chairs. We don't notice how much everything has changed until we somehow find ourselves back where we started out. The grim office block, by the way, isn't in Archway (no idea where that came in!), but was demolished to make way for a Chelmsford housing development.
Anyway, the dream jumps to me walking into the office, except it's an office as it was back in the mid-1980s when I first joined Marconi. It's upstairs in a rather grim building - no carpet tiles, just lino tiles. It's not open plan either. In the main office are 4 old wooden (teak-veneered chipboard) desks pushed together in the centre. There are 2 side offices off of the main office.
There are no computers. My desk has a stack of paperwork on it and a pile of archive boxes next to it and on the chair. The chair is an old-style 4-legged vinyl covered chair, not a swivel. I realise I have moved to this office and my blue swivel chair should be there. I find it at the desk opposite me and it has an archive box on it. I move the box and try to reclaim my chair. I am not senior enough to have a swivel chair. I explain that it's a specially adapted chair because of my back problems (this is true - but because it doesn't look much different I have had to paint my initials on the arms of the chair to stop others from pinching it!). No, only senior people in the office can have a swivel chair. I must use the black vinyl chair.
Then the alarm went off. It was very odd to find myself back in the small cluttered office with unergonomic desks and chairs. We don't notice how much everything has changed until we somehow find ourselves back where we started out. The grim office block, by the way, isn't in Archway (no idea where that came in!), but was demolished to make way for a Chelmsford housing development.
Nostalgia: Grow Your Own
Back in the 1970s, dad worked locally to home. His garden was his escape from his job. With little on TV and no home computers, in good weather there was no reason to be indoors. We had a third of an acre that was once fields (it had a pile of dumped traction engine parts and teeth from horses or cattle). The top part was for roses, a lawn and a herb garden, but the rest was for fruit and veg. While mum worked in the house, dad worked in the garden. He needed a petrol powered rotavator to dig compost into the heavy clay soil. There was no topsoil to speak of. Big chunks of yellow clay had to be broken down. It took several years of digging in trailer loads of stable manure and hen-house sweepings to turn the sticky mess into fertile soil to grow food for a growing family. When dad's job changed and he had to spend more time travelling, he couldn't spend time gardening.
When he was a lad, he and his father grew veg in the back garden and on some land by the railway track. Mum's dad also grew lots of veg just beyond his roses and the ubiquitious rhubarb. In wartime it had been "dig for victory" and my parents were still digging. Sometimes we were sent down the garden to pull carrots or onions, pick lettuces or dig potatoes for dinner (mmmm, warm fresh newly harvested potatoes with fresh mint).
Down below the rose-beds and buddlieas (smothered in butterflies so you could hardly see the flower spikes), was a greenhouse, full of tomatoes and courgettes and various seedlings ready to be planted out. Beyond it were rows of salad veg - tomatoes, spring onions, lettuce, carrots, radishes, beetroot. Unfortunately the cauliflowers tended to bolt rather than form dense white hearts. Cabbage didn't often feature for some reason. To the other side of a path were potatoes (lots of them), marrows and various beans. Each year the potato/bean beds and salad beds were alternated. The onions and carrots formed alternate rows to confuse the insect pests.
Further down, just by the shed, were raspberry canes. Dad blamed the birds for the lack of fruit, but three purple-fingered raspberry-munching children were the real culprits. Beyond the shed were fruit bushes - blackcurrants and gooseberries and more potatoes. Nearby were 3 small fruit trees - 2 apples (multiple varieties grafted on one trunk) and a pear. The fruit vanished suspiciously fast - it was so nice to eat it straight from the tree! Strawberries didn't survive in the heavy clay soil, but we did a lot of pick-your-own to fill the freezer with soft fruit. There must have been a sixth of an acre (half the garden) turned over to fruit and veg.
My attempts at growing my own are less successful due to my longer working hours (including commuting and overtime) and doing both housework and gardening single-handed. I mostly have fruit bushes and rhubarb and these are very productive. With fewer jobs locally, growing your own is becoming a luxury rather than a way of life.
When he was a lad, he and his father grew veg in the back garden and on some land by the railway track. Mum's dad also grew lots of veg just beyond his roses and the ubiquitious rhubarb. In wartime it had been "dig for victory" and my parents were still digging. Sometimes we were sent down the garden to pull carrots or onions, pick lettuces or dig potatoes for dinner (mmmm, warm fresh newly harvested potatoes with fresh mint).
Down below the rose-beds and buddlieas (smothered in butterflies so you could hardly see the flower spikes), was a greenhouse, full of tomatoes and courgettes and various seedlings ready to be planted out. Beyond it were rows of salad veg - tomatoes, spring onions, lettuce, carrots, radishes, beetroot. Unfortunately the cauliflowers tended to bolt rather than form dense white hearts. Cabbage didn't often feature for some reason. To the other side of a path were potatoes (lots of them), marrows and various beans. Each year the potato/bean beds and salad beds were alternated. The onions and carrots formed alternate rows to confuse the insect pests.
Further down, just by the shed, were raspberry canes. Dad blamed the birds for the lack of fruit, but three purple-fingered raspberry-munching children were the real culprits. Beyond the shed were fruit bushes - blackcurrants and gooseberries and more potatoes. Nearby were 3 small fruit trees - 2 apples (multiple varieties grafted on one trunk) and a pear. The fruit vanished suspiciously fast - it was so nice to eat it straight from the tree! Strawberries didn't survive in the heavy clay soil, but we did a lot of pick-your-own to fill the freezer with soft fruit. There must have been a sixth of an acre (half the garden) turned over to fruit and veg.
My attempts at growing my own are less successful due to my longer working hours (including commuting and overtime) and doing both housework and gardening single-handed. I mostly have fruit bushes and rhubarb and these are very productive. With fewer jobs locally, growing your own is becoming a luxury rather than a way of life.
Nostalgia: Make Do and Mend
During my childhood, mothers made a lot more of the family clothing. Children grew so fast that this was the only economical solution. Skirts and dresses were made with plenty of hem so they could be let down a few months later. Knitting wool was ordered from Mitchell's in Bocking Church Street and related to recent patterns in Woman's Realm, Woman's Own, Woman or Woman's Weekly. Fabric etc came from Lingards on Braintree High Street. I vividly recall the seemingly endless bolts and bales of fabric, jewel-like buttons on cards and rainbow of Sylko thread. I wish I'd had the interest and enthusiasm to learn patchwork as there were always offcuts. In her early 20s, mum made her own clothes for work, including coats.
The women's weeklies had knitting, crochet or dressmaking patterns in them. Lingards had pattern catalogues - Simplicity, Style, Burda, Butterick - and popular patterns were in stock while others had to be ordered. Sometimes we went to Bonds (soon to become Debenhams) in Chelmsford where they had a different range. Mum vetoed some ranges of patterns because they didn't have a seam allowance and she hated trying to work that out for herself. Clothkits were another option if you liked the homespun look. The plain cheesecloth fabric had the dyed pieces printed on it so you just had to cut them out and sew them. There was no need to cut out tracing paper patterns, pin them to fabric (remembering to get the orientation of the print correct), cut them out, mark them up with tacking cotton (making sure you marked the line relevant to your dress size), match them and sew them.
I learnt needlework and dressmaking at school and also helped mum make stuffed toys for charity fetes. Franklins in Chelmsford have wool, cloth, patterns etc, but now it is considered a hobby, not a necessity. Clothes, like so much else, are cheap and disposable and the cost is borne by cheap labourers in foreign factories. My mum's clothes for us were made with love.
The women's weeklies had knitting, crochet or dressmaking patterns in them. Lingards had pattern catalogues - Simplicity, Style, Burda, Butterick - and popular patterns were in stock while others had to be ordered. Sometimes we went to Bonds (soon to become Debenhams) in Chelmsford where they had a different range. Mum vetoed some ranges of patterns because they didn't have a seam allowance and she hated trying to work that out for herself. Clothkits were another option if you liked the homespun look. The plain cheesecloth fabric had the dyed pieces printed on it so you just had to cut them out and sew them. There was no need to cut out tracing paper patterns, pin them to fabric (remembering to get the orientation of the print correct), cut them out, mark them up with tacking cotton (making sure you marked the line relevant to your dress size), match them and sew them.
I learnt needlework and dressmaking at school and also helped mum make stuffed toys for charity fetes. Franklins in Chelmsford have wool, cloth, patterns etc, but now it is considered a hobby, not a necessity. Clothes, like so much else, are cheap and disposable and the cost is borne by cheap labourers in foreign factories. My mum's clothes for us were made with love.
Nostalgia: Home Cooking
Inflation has affected the name of chocolate-caramel shortbread slices! Some call it Millionaire's Shortcake. Some sell it as Billionaire's Shortcake. At Fulham Palace Garden it was called Squillionaire's Shortcake (very expensive, but very nice). In my childhood, it was called Triple Decker.
Back in the 70s, mum made Triple Decker from a Women's Institute recipe book: home-made shortbread, toffee filling made using Fussell's Condensed Milk ("cunny honey," no, not that sort of cunny!) and cooking chocolate (not cheap Supercook plastic-flavour stuff). There was no "Millionaire's" version in coffee shops or supermarkets back then, at least not in Braintree and Bocking or Chelmsford. These days, the base of supermarket versions is more like crushed digestive biscuit than shortbread, like the base of 1970s packet cheesecake.
Mum made Monkey Puzzle biscuits from the same cookbook. Monkey Puzzles are chocolate cookies, usually half-coated in chocolate and sometimes containing peanuts or choc chips. She also did Chocolate Yum, which was like Chocolate Brownie (I think it had peanuts too) and peanut butter cookies until my sister became allergic to nuts. I sometimes make these when I feel decadent. My train of thought wanders to the places we bought the ingredients.
In Bocking Church Street there was Spar at one end of the village and Co-op at the other. In Braintree there was a small independent supermarket called Bowtells (either "Boh-tells" or "Bout-Awls," I never found out which was correct). Bowtells ground coffee to order and had cold foods counters (mum got salami and haslet there). I mostly remember they stocked Pfeffernussen. For a while there was Wallis supermarket on Bocking End/Rayne Road. Tesco was built on Great Square where the Phoenix Tea Rooms once were (where we sometimes had weak tea and jam rings). I don't remember a Sainsbury back then, though there's now one on Toft's Walk at the other end of Great Square. I think there was a Fine Fare or International Stores on the High Street. Every few weeks we went to Chelmsford to stock up at Bejam and Sainsbury (both in the High Chelmer precinct). There was also Caters (now a Burger King though the building is still called Cater House) and Quids In (cheap supermarket next to Bonds, the unit was annexed by Bonds/Debenhams).
We've lost a lot of those old familiar names. Bejam became Iceland. Caters, Wallis, Fine Fare and International Stores vanished. Trolley Wars lists who-swallowed-whom, leaving just a few big names to slug it out while a few smaller stores found niches in village shopping parades. And while most of them sell B/M/Squillionaire's Shortcake, it doesn't compare with the Triple Decker of my childhood.
Back in the 70s, mum made Triple Decker from a Women's Institute recipe book: home-made shortbread, toffee filling made using Fussell's Condensed Milk ("cunny honey," no, not that sort of cunny!) and cooking chocolate (not cheap Supercook plastic-flavour stuff). There was no "Millionaire's" version in coffee shops or supermarkets back then, at least not in Braintree and Bocking or Chelmsford. These days, the base of supermarket versions is more like crushed digestive biscuit than shortbread, like the base of 1970s packet cheesecake.
Mum made Monkey Puzzle biscuits from the same cookbook. Monkey Puzzles are chocolate cookies, usually half-coated in chocolate and sometimes containing peanuts or choc chips. She also did Chocolate Yum, which was like Chocolate Brownie (I think it had peanuts too) and peanut butter cookies until my sister became allergic to nuts. I sometimes make these when I feel decadent. My train of thought wanders to the places we bought the ingredients.
In Bocking Church Street there was Spar at one end of the village and Co-op at the other. In Braintree there was a small independent supermarket called Bowtells (either "Boh-tells" or "Bout-Awls," I never found out which was correct). Bowtells ground coffee to order and had cold foods counters (mum got salami and haslet there). I mostly remember they stocked Pfeffernussen. For a while there was Wallis supermarket on Bocking End/Rayne Road. Tesco was built on Great Square where the Phoenix Tea Rooms once were (where we sometimes had weak tea and jam rings). I don't remember a Sainsbury back then, though there's now one on Toft's Walk at the other end of Great Square. I think there was a Fine Fare or International Stores on the High Street. Every few weeks we went to Chelmsford to stock up at Bejam and Sainsbury (both in the High Chelmer precinct). There was also Caters (now a Burger King though the building is still called Cater House) and Quids In (cheap supermarket next to Bonds, the unit was annexed by Bonds/Debenhams).
We've lost a lot of those old familiar names. Bejam became Iceland. Caters, Wallis, Fine Fare and International Stores vanished. Trolley Wars lists who-swallowed-whom, leaving just a few big names to slug it out while a few smaller stores found niches in village shopping parades. And while most of them sell B/M/Squillionaire's Shortcake, it doesn't compare with the Triple Decker of my childhood.
The Bloody Chamber / Black Venus (Angela Carter)
The Bloody Chamber is Carter's disturbingly modernised interpretation of fairy tales. The tales drip with sexuality. Many involve vampires or werewolves (Company of Wolves being the best known) with Sleeping beauty being a vampiress awoken to humanity (and her own mortality) by her intended victim. Wolf-Alice is a disturbing tale of a feral child taken from her adoptive wolf mother and now living with a wolf-man. There are 2 reworkings of Red Riding Hood, one a straightforward werewolf tale and the other a more erotic version.
Black Venus is a collection of stories about women alluded to by other writers. Carter gives them their own stories and motives in this collection, though the quality varies from tale to tale. Black Venus is Jeanne Duval, Baudelaire's resentful syphilitic black mistress who dances for him and inspires some of his poetry. Tamburlane's wife waits in Samarkand for his return and is tricked into kissing another man. There's the tale of athe Lancashire lass transported to the New World fortheft who becomes naturalised with native Indians and is then "rescued" as her new family is slaughtered.
Both are about 100 pages. Of the two, The Bloody Chamber is the most consistent in quality.
Black Venus is a collection of stories about women alluded to by other writers. Carter gives them their own stories and motives in this collection, though the quality varies from tale to tale. Black Venus is Jeanne Duval, Baudelaire's resentful syphilitic black mistress who dances for him and inspires some of his poetry. Tamburlane's wife waits in Samarkand for his return and is tricked into kissing another man. There's the tale of athe Lancashire lass transported to the New World fortheft who becomes naturalised with native Indians and is then "rescued" as her new family is slaughtered.
Both are about 100 pages. Of the two, The Bloody Chamber is the most consistent in quality.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Nostalgia: Braintree Gants
One of the great things about Braintree was the "gants". Gant is a local word for alley and these crisscrossed town so you could shortcut from place to place. Sandpit Lane car park to Bank Street? No problem, there's an alley comes out near to Crittalls. Around the Market Square there was a little maze of alleys leading between Market Square, Little Square and Great Sqare. You couldn't get lost, but you could quickly cut across town. As buildings sprung up haphazardly in times past, these led to tradesmen's entrances or pub backyards. Getting to the entrance of dad's workplace meant driving down a narrow lane by a creosoted fence (or side of an old wooden garage/barn). That lane is now underneath a supermarket car park and the entrance is through the old coaching arch of the pub next door (for years this was subject to a feud and the entrance barrier was regularly vandalised - change did not come easily to Braintree).
Most of the gants have been tidied up and paved now and a few have been widened due to shop developments (or have sadly disappeared under a new, hygienic shop development), but running around Braintree's gants with age-mates was part of childhood. It wasn't as fashionable as York's Shambles or the old part of Norwich, but it was "ours".
Most of the gants have been tidied up and paved now and a few have been widened due to shop developments (or have sadly disappeared under a new, hygienic shop development), but running around Braintree's gants with age-mates was part of childhood. It wasn't as fashionable as York's Shambles or the old part of Norwich, but it was "ours".
Recipes
Try this! it's wonderful archive of scanned cuttings of recipes. The cakes and biscuits section and the desserts are yummers.
Things to Do With Melted Confectionery
If you're under the age of 5 you can just smear the melted choccy bar over your face. If you're old enough to be reading this, there are better things to do with melted confectionery. Crispy or Cornflake cakes are usually the first "recipes" children learn, but why stop at the basic version?
Basic Rice Crispy/Cornflake/Puffed Wheat (e.g. Sugar Puffs) is as simple as melting milk chocolate (real chocolate please!), some syrup and adding rice crispies or cornflakes or puffed wheat until the chocolate won't cover any more crispies. Pack mix into cake trays and chill. Cut into slices and try not to scoff them all at once. it's best to melt the choccy in a bain marie (pudding basin floating in a saucepan of simmering water), but these days you can melt it using a microwave instead.
Having mastered the art of melting chocolate and stirring in cereal, you could stir in the following before turning the mixture out to set: Mini marshmallows or fudge pieces or white chocolate chunks (wait till the mixture is cooling or they'll melt); Chopped walnuts, pecans or macadamias; Raisins; Smarties; Sesame, Sunflower or Pumpkin seeds; Chopped glace cherries; Space Dust (popping candy); Coffee beans; Mint, orange or lemon crisp
You don't have to use simple chocolate. For a caramel Version use melted melted Mars bars instead (I use a mix of milk chocolate and one Mars Bar otherwise it doesn't set too well) and you can throw in the usual assortment of goodies before chilling the mix. For a chewier version melt some marshmallows with the Mars Bars. These don't set very well due to the mallow, but are still yummy.
The adult version is known as "Chocolate Box Gateau". Scrap the breakfast cereal altogether and mix the melted chocolate with biscuit pieces, meringue pieces, glace fruit and chopped walnuts. Press the mix firmly into a cake tin (may mean crushing the biscuit and meringue a little). The supermarket version is known as Tiffin Bar. Holland & Barrett used to do a yummy carob version with brazil nuts. There's also a choc-chestnut version that reuires a can of chestnut puree and is set it in a deep loaf tin. This must be serve chilled as it doesn't stay set at room temperature. I used to ask for this instead of a birthday cake.
You could have a nice Hot Chocolate Drink. Melt pieces of chocolate bar into milk while stirring continuously. I prefer Green and Black's for a really rich drink, but Mars Bar hot chocolate is also nice (albeit sickly).
Chocolate Pie takes a bit more effort. Bake the piecrust blind. Fill with a mix of melted milk chocolate/Mars Bars mixed with double cream. Chill. It's very sickly and often doesn't set, making it a pain to slice, so mini pies work better than one large pie. Thorntons do a toffee pie version in their coffee shops.
Basic Rice Crispy/Cornflake/Puffed Wheat (e.g. Sugar Puffs) is as simple as melting milk chocolate (real chocolate please!), some syrup and adding rice crispies or cornflakes or puffed wheat until the chocolate won't cover any more crispies. Pack mix into cake trays and chill. Cut into slices and try not to scoff them all at once. it's best to melt the choccy in a bain marie (pudding basin floating in a saucepan of simmering water), but these days you can melt it using a microwave instead.
Having mastered the art of melting chocolate and stirring in cereal, you could stir in the following before turning the mixture out to set: Mini marshmallows or fudge pieces or white chocolate chunks (wait till the mixture is cooling or they'll melt); Chopped walnuts, pecans or macadamias; Raisins; Smarties; Sesame, Sunflower or Pumpkin seeds; Chopped glace cherries; Space Dust (popping candy); Coffee beans; Mint, orange or lemon crisp
You don't have to use simple chocolate. For a caramel Version use melted melted Mars bars instead (I use a mix of milk chocolate and one Mars Bar otherwise it doesn't set too well) and you can throw in the usual assortment of goodies before chilling the mix. For a chewier version melt some marshmallows with the Mars Bars. These don't set very well due to the mallow, but are still yummy.
The adult version is known as "Chocolate Box Gateau". Scrap the breakfast cereal altogether and mix the melted chocolate with biscuit pieces, meringue pieces, glace fruit and chopped walnuts. Press the mix firmly into a cake tin (may mean crushing the biscuit and meringue a little). The supermarket version is known as Tiffin Bar. Holland & Barrett used to do a yummy carob version with brazil nuts. There's also a choc-chestnut version that reuires a can of chestnut puree and is set it in a deep loaf tin. This must be serve chilled as it doesn't stay set at room temperature. I used to ask for this instead of a birthday cake.
You could have a nice Hot Chocolate Drink. Melt pieces of chocolate bar into milk while stirring continuously. I prefer Green and Black's for a really rich drink, but Mars Bar hot chocolate is also nice (albeit sickly).
Chocolate Pie takes a bit more effort. Bake the piecrust blind. Fill with a mix of melted milk chocolate/Mars Bars mixed with double cream. Chill. It's very sickly and often doesn't set, making it a pain to slice, so mini pies work better than one large pie. Thorntons do a toffee pie version in their coffee shops.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Birds Without Wings (Louis de Bernieres)
Birds Without Wings is set in a small, mixed ethnicity Turkish town against the backdrop of the collapsing Ottoman Empire, the struggle between Turks and Greeks affects neighbours in the town of Eskibahce, south-west Anatolia. The town has a mix of Christians and Muslims, Greeks, Turks and Armenians who have coexisted over generations. They may cheerfully call each other infidels, but more often they join each other in celebrating festivals. Marriage across religious and ethnic lines is not unusual, with people calling themselves "Muslim Christians" or "Christian Muslims". Having coexisted tolerantly for many years, changes in the wider political climate affect daily life in Eskibahce. Even the political factions within the town (writing Turkish in the Greek script?!) are half-hearted in comparison.
Through it all we see beautiful Christian Philothei, her inseparable friend Drosoula, the bird-whistling boys Muslim Karatavuk (Blackbird) and Christian Mehmetcik (Robin) and Philothei's admirer Ibrahim growing up. When Turkey goes to war and it becomes a holy war, the town's Muslim boys are conscripted, the Christians boys sent to labour battalions and the Armenians are marched away to their deaths. Atrocities are committed in the name of nationalisim and religion. Having grown up together, Christian Mehmetcik can't understand why he isn't allowed to join the army with his Muslim best friend so he too can fight for his country.
Some families try to protect their friends, their small acts of kindness defying the ethnic divides being dictated by the religious and political factions beyond their town. Eventually the Ottoman Empire will fall and Turkey will expel its Christians to Greece while Greece expels its Muslims to Turkey, tearing apart communities that have lived together over generations.
The book is multi-threaded with stories intertwined from different narrators or viewpoints - Mustafa Kemal (Kemal Ataturk), Philothei, Drosoula, Ibrahim, Karatavuk (in the Gallipoli campaign), local nobleman Rustem Bey and other participants and onlookers. Through it all, the reader sees how such conflicts affect ordinary people who just want to get on with their own lives and get along with their neighbours regardless of their differences. There are, of course, the less attractive sides of local life - the stoning of an adultress, an unfaithful wife sent the brothel; a cuckolded husband who buys a concubine (seen as no better than a whore), beggars, madmen and swindlers. Self-sufficient people are reduced almost to beggars by a war that seems irrelevant to their way of life.
Drosoula, her husband Gerasimos and son Mandros are also characters in Captain Corelli's Mandolin, providing a link between these books and some historical continuity (Drosoula's chapters are letters to Pelagia about childhood in Eskibahce). The townsfolk refer to the French, Germans, Australians, New Zealanders etc as "Franks," not really understanding the global politics that affect them. It shows how wars are fought by a belligerent minority, but blight the lives of that majority of people who have no argument with each other. Through local incidents, de Bernieres also shows how easily people can be turned against each other by persuasive leaders, but how ashamed they are afterwards ... but the War is on a scale that prevents individual contrition from making amends.
At 625 pages it's not a quick read, but it carries the reader along with it. Finishing the book is like leaving a country you have become part of.
Through it all we see beautiful Christian Philothei, her inseparable friend Drosoula, the bird-whistling boys Muslim Karatavuk (Blackbird) and Christian Mehmetcik (Robin) and Philothei's admirer Ibrahim growing up. When Turkey goes to war and it becomes a holy war, the town's Muslim boys are conscripted, the Christians boys sent to labour battalions and the Armenians are marched away to their deaths. Atrocities are committed in the name of nationalisim and religion. Having grown up together, Christian Mehmetcik can't understand why he isn't allowed to join the army with his Muslim best friend so he too can fight for his country.
Some families try to protect their friends, their small acts of kindness defying the ethnic divides being dictated by the religious and political factions beyond their town. Eventually the Ottoman Empire will fall and Turkey will expel its Christians to Greece while Greece expels its Muslims to Turkey, tearing apart communities that have lived together over generations.
The book is multi-threaded with stories intertwined from different narrators or viewpoints - Mustafa Kemal (Kemal Ataturk), Philothei, Drosoula, Ibrahim, Karatavuk (in the Gallipoli campaign), local nobleman Rustem Bey and other participants and onlookers. Through it all, the reader sees how such conflicts affect ordinary people who just want to get on with their own lives and get along with their neighbours regardless of their differences. There are, of course, the less attractive sides of local life - the stoning of an adultress, an unfaithful wife sent the brothel; a cuckolded husband who buys a concubine (seen as no better than a whore), beggars, madmen and swindlers. Self-sufficient people are reduced almost to beggars by a war that seems irrelevant to their way of life.
Drosoula, her husband Gerasimos and son Mandros are also characters in Captain Corelli's Mandolin, providing a link between these books and some historical continuity (Drosoula's chapters are letters to Pelagia about childhood in Eskibahce). The townsfolk refer to the French, Germans, Australians, New Zealanders etc as "Franks," not really understanding the global politics that affect them. It shows how wars are fought by a belligerent minority, but blight the lives of that majority of people who have no argument with each other. Through local incidents, de Bernieres also shows how easily people can be turned against each other by persuasive leaders, but how ashamed they are afterwards ... but the War is on a scale that prevents individual contrition from making amends.
At 625 pages it's not a quick read, but it carries the reader along with it. Finishing the book is like leaving a country you have become part of.
The Memory Keepers Daughter (Kim Edwards)
While inspired by a real story and in itself an excellent premise, The Memory Keeper's Daughter drags along like a kitchen sink drama. It feels about 100 pages too long and you find yourself skimming some sections where it is noticeably padded. It may be a bestseller, but it's a disappointing and disjointed read.
Successful doctor David Henry marries younger trophy wife Norah and they're expecting a baby. It's the early 1960s. Paul is born perfect, but his unexpected twin, Phoebe, has Down's Syndrome. In those days, retarded children were written off. Dr David tells nurse Caroline Gill to take Phoebe to an institution. When Norah comes round from anaesthetic gas, he tells her the 2nd baby died. Norah never gets to see the body (not unusual back then), not even when they have a memorial service (and presumably bury an empty coffin). Even this doesn't bring closrue - all her life Norah is haunted by thoughts of Phoebe, made worse by David's refusal to have more children.
Meanwhile, Caroline (who has a crush on the doctor) can't bring herself to leave Phoebe in an institution and leaves town with the baby, raising her as her own daughter. These are by far the most interesting chapters - Phoebe's little triumphs and Caroline's fight against the "write 'em off" culture of the day. To avoid the stigma of unmarried motherhood, Caroline tells people she was abandoned by the baby's father.
The Norah/David/Paul chapters are pretty tedious. Norah gets the baby blues. David just wants to save Norah that anguish and must keep his secret even after he learns where Phoebe is. Norah and David grow apart (yawn) and Norah gets a life outside of the home. David and Paul fall out over David's aspirations for Paul and Paul's own aspirations (yawn). Meanwhile, Phoebe goes to school and slowly but surely passes all the developmental milestones, albeit later than other kids.
Norah realises that David is a perfectionist and control freak. He won't let her have another child. David ignores Norah's affairs (yet more secrets). He keeps from her the secret that he's sending money to Caroline. Everybody else thinks David is a saint because he treats people who pay him in produce because they don't have medical insurance (David's family were too poor to afford proper treatement for his sister).
Okay, it's all about people acting with good motives, but keeping secrets from each other and dragging other people into those secrets. It turns out that David has even been keeping his real identity a secret. It's about how people view each other - David the saint vs David the perfectionist. It's about regret - does David regret hiding the truth about Phoebe from his wife and their son? It's about feeling incomplete. Norah feels incomplete without another child, Paul is incomplete without his twin sister. And while all these are good things, the whole kitchen-sink drama set over 20 odd years just didn't grab me. The spirit of the 60s - Vietnam, protests, sexual freedom etc - are represented by Norah's free-spirit sister, Bree.
The book is written in a style that means it will probably be a film before long.
Successful doctor David Henry marries younger trophy wife Norah and they're expecting a baby. It's the early 1960s. Paul is born perfect, but his unexpected twin, Phoebe, has Down's Syndrome. In those days, retarded children were written off. Dr David tells nurse Caroline Gill to take Phoebe to an institution. When Norah comes round from anaesthetic gas, he tells her the 2nd baby died. Norah never gets to see the body (not unusual back then), not even when they have a memorial service (and presumably bury an empty coffin). Even this doesn't bring closrue - all her life Norah is haunted by thoughts of Phoebe, made worse by David's refusal to have more children.
Meanwhile, Caroline (who has a crush on the doctor) can't bring herself to leave Phoebe in an institution and leaves town with the baby, raising her as her own daughter. These are by far the most interesting chapters - Phoebe's little triumphs and Caroline's fight against the "write 'em off" culture of the day. To avoid the stigma of unmarried motherhood, Caroline tells people she was abandoned by the baby's father.
The Norah/David/Paul chapters are pretty tedious. Norah gets the baby blues. David just wants to save Norah that anguish and must keep his secret even after he learns where Phoebe is. Norah and David grow apart (yawn) and Norah gets a life outside of the home. David and Paul fall out over David's aspirations for Paul and Paul's own aspirations (yawn). Meanwhile, Phoebe goes to school and slowly but surely passes all the developmental milestones, albeit later than other kids.
Norah realises that David is a perfectionist and control freak. He won't let her have another child. David ignores Norah's affairs (yet more secrets). He keeps from her the secret that he's sending money to Caroline. Everybody else thinks David is a saint because he treats people who pay him in produce because they don't have medical insurance (David's family were too poor to afford proper treatement for his sister).
Okay, it's all about people acting with good motives, but keeping secrets from each other and dragging other people into those secrets. It turns out that David has even been keeping his real identity a secret. It's about how people view each other - David the saint vs David the perfectionist. It's about regret - does David regret hiding the truth about Phoebe from his wife and their son? It's about feeling incomplete. Norah feels incomplete without another child, Paul is incomplete without his twin sister. And while all these are good things, the whole kitchen-sink drama set over 20 odd years just didn't grab me. The spirit of the 60s - Vietnam, protests, sexual freedom etc - are represented by Norah's free-spirit sister, Bree.
The book is written in a style that means it will probably be a film before long.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Ouch!
When I was 4 I broke my left arm near the elbow by falling out of the back door. It had to be set under general anaesthetic.
When I was 6 I broke my right arm near the elbow by tripping over a chair in the classroom.
When I was 8 I broke my left arm near the elbow by falling off the see-saw. I was walking up it and missed my footing. It later had to be re-broken and re-set under general anaesthetic.
My parents thought I might have brittle bones. The doctor said I was just clumsy. An optician discovered I had very poor eyesight. I got glasses and stopped tripping over things because I could finally see where things were!
When I was 11 I fell off a pony (it got spooked and bolted) and broke my right arm near the shoulder.
When I was 14 I had a football-related fight on the bus home from school and broke my finger while hitting a rival fan.
When I was 20-ish, I broke a couple of ribs at a Dr Feelgood concert when someone slammed their elbow into me (I didn't feel so good after that).
Just a few years ago I tripped on an uneven pavement while in Kuala Lumpur and broke my foot in 3 places. I discovered that adults take longer to heal. It gets rheumaticky in cold damp weather.
What bones have you broken and how?
When I was 6 I broke my right arm near the elbow by tripping over a chair in the classroom.
When I was 8 I broke my left arm near the elbow by falling off the see-saw. I was walking up it and missed my footing. It later had to be re-broken and re-set under general anaesthetic.
My parents thought I might have brittle bones. The doctor said I was just clumsy. An optician discovered I had very poor eyesight. I got glasses and stopped tripping over things because I could finally see where things were!
When I was 11 I fell off a pony (it got spooked and bolted) and broke my right arm near the shoulder.
When I was 14 I had a football-related fight on the bus home from school and broke my finger while hitting a rival fan.
When I was 20-ish, I broke a couple of ribs at a Dr Feelgood concert when someone slammed their elbow into me (I didn't feel so good after that).
Just a few years ago I tripped on an uneven pavement while in Kuala Lumpur and broke my foot in 3 places. I discovered that adults take longer to heal. It gets rheumaticky in cold damp weather.
What bones have you broken and how?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Why Does It Hurt When I Poo?
Being somewhat fed up with the sensation of pooing razorblades, I now have a tube of local anaesthetic (lidocaine) cream. Quite why I have the problem in the first place is a mystery - my diet is high-fibre and based on fruit, veg and bran cereals and I don't generally get constipated, though stress at work has caused irritable bowel syndrome which seems to have set this off. I also seem to have a niggly haemorrhoid that flares up now and again and usually goes away on its own. Hospitals prefer to avoid surgery unless piles are chronic.
This lidocaine is great. Shoving one's finger up one's bum may not be everyone's cup of tea, but the tingly feeling of relief is wonderful (albeit rather odd). Going to the loo takes some forethought - first apply Vaseline to lubricate the anus, then try not to go into spasm at the first twinge because that makes it worse.
Fingers - washed and disinfected - crossed, this will do the trick. Otherwise it's off to the quack so he can stick his finger up my bum. I bet none of you want to shake my hand for the time being, do you?
This lidocaine is great. Shoving one's finger up one's bum may not be everyone's cup of tea, but the tingly feeling of relief is wonderful (albeit rather odd). Going to the loo takes some forethought - first apply Vaseline to lubricate the anus, then try not to go into spasm at the first twinge because that makes it worse.
Fingers - washed and disinfected - crossed, this will do the trick. Otherwise it's off to the quack so he can stick his finger up my bum. I bet none of you want to shake my hand for the time being, do you?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
My Favourite Breakfast
For some people it's the Great British Fry-Up or an omelette. For others it's hummous on toast or a continental breakfast or last night's leftover curry (served cold) . I'm partial to high fibre muesli and fresh fruit and espresso coffee.
What gets you going in the morning?
What gets you going in the morning?
Monday, October 01, 2007
More Random Rumblings
Thenie scared the daylights out of me when she "went for" 3 Staffordshire Bull Terriers, all straining at the leash in her direction. Luckily they were curious, not aggressive, and the owners were in control, but I didn't relish the thought of her swiping one of them and then getting bitten by all 3 dogs.
The Saturday Guardian published details of a "red squirrel watch" ... which they illustrated with a photo of a grey squirrel.
In the same paper, a query about moving 6 year olds from school to school was met with the old saw that children make friends easily. Parents and teachers labour under this delusion. When teacher is looking, the newbie seems to be accepted. However, children have formed cliques by then and outsiders are unwelcome. I experienced this twice. At 6 (nearly 7 I guess), I moved schools. The teacher put me into a pair/team for classwork and I probably seemed "integrated". In free time, however, the kids played in their cliques, excluding the newbie. I still hadn't joined any of those cliques when we moved again 6 months later. It was the same at the next school. My parents thought I should stick up for myself and fight back. I ended up on anti-depressants before I was even in double figures. I did make friends - mostly with other newbies - over the next few years. My sisters became so school phobic they ran away. My parents moved them to a different school and now regret not moving me. At secondary school (no-one from my primary school was there), it was a year before I formed friends. My sisters wound up in the same secondary school as their former tormentors and were too afraid to tell our parents about the bullying. It is NOT true that children always quickly settle in and form friends - it depends on the child and on the ability of the school to see what is happening outside of lessons. I wasn't a "loner" before the first move; it's hard to work out how much of my introversion is learned and how much inherent. In my case, class sizes of 30+, ranging from gifted to special needs, studious to unruly didn't help either.
The same column mentioned army children quickly settling in as an example. Really? We had forces kids at that last primary school. They dominated any group they were in, disrupted both classes and playtimes ... and then moved on. A teacher relative confirmed this. When asked why they didn't try to make friends, the forces children told her it wasn't worth it because they'd only move again. And someone used forces kids as an example of children making friends and settling in? It's amazing what teachers and parents don't notice ... and how good kids are at hiding these things (and how good some adults are at forgetting their own childhood).
This morning the news mentioned an increase in pensioners going bankrupt. My pensioner father is fighting the council over the fact Council Tax ends up being paid from pensioners' life savings. It isn't supposed to be paid from savings, but councils are refusing to back down.
Fuel is going up in price again and we're being told to use public transport. There's no feasible (duration and cost) public transport between my home and work and my unpredictable hours put car sharing out of the question (not that there's anyone I could share with anyway). At least 2 former colleagues from Chelmsford and Danbury turned down jobs on this Basildon trading estate because there's no bus or train links.
Then some blithering idiot complains her kids get scratched when they bend down to "say hello" to a cat (or bitten when it's a dog). Why don't the ****ing parents teach their children NOT to go up to strange animals and bend over them (cats and dogs can find it threatening). The children learn the lesson the painful way and the poor animal may suffer as a result (especially dogs that get destroyed as being "vicious"). It's the idiotic parents at fault. Some people really should not be allowed to have children.
And I work my *ss off to meet a deadline last week, but Ms Bone-Idle in another department sits on her hands so all my effort is for nothing. I have PMT and it's making me tetchy. And I have an anal fissure and every time I poo it feels like I'm pushing out razor blades. Maybe I should shut up before I irritate any more people.
The Saturday Guardian published details of a "red squirrel watch" ... which they illustrated with a photo of a grey squirrel.
In the same paper, a query about moving 6 year olds from school to school was met with the old saw that children make friends easily. Parents and teachers labour under this delusion. When teacher is looking, the newbie seems to be accepted. However, children have formed cliques by then and outsiders are unwelcome. I experienced this twice. At 6 (nearly 7 I guess), I moved schools. The teacher put me into a pair/team for classwork and I probably seemed "integrated". In free time, however, the kids played in their cliques, excluding the newbie. I still hadn't joined any of those cliques when we moved again 6 months later. It was the same at the next school. My parents thought I should stick up for myself and fight back. I ended up on anti-depressants before I was even in double figures. I did make friends - mostly with other newbies - over the next few years. My sisters became so school phobic they ran away. My parents moved them to a different school and now regret not moving me. At secondary school (no-one from my primary school was there), it was a year before I formed friends. My sisters wound up in the same secondary school as their former tormentors and were too afraid to tell our parents about the bullying. It is NOT true that children always quickly settle in and form friends - it depends on the child and on the ability of the school to see what is happening outside of lessons. I wasn't a "loner" before the first move; it's hard to work out how much of my introversion is learned and how much inherent. In my case, class sizes of 30+, ranging from gifted to special needs, studious to unruly didn't help either.
The same column mentioned army children quickly settling in as an example. Really? We had forces kids at that last primary school. They dominated any group they were in, disrupted both classes and playtimes ... and then moved on. A teacher relative confirmed this. When asked why they didn't try to make friends, the forces children told her it wasn't worth it because they'd only move again. And someone used forces kids as an example of children making friends and settling in? It's amazing what teachers and parents don't notice ... and how good kids are at hiding these things (and how good some adults are at forgetting their own childhood).
This morning the news mentioned an increase in pensioners going bankrupt. My pensioner father is fighting the council over the fact Council Tax ends up being paid from pensioners' life savings. It isn't supposed to be paid from savings, but councils are refusing to back down.
Fuel is going up in price again and we're being told to use public transport. There's no feasible (duration and cost) public transport between my home and work and my unpredictable hours put car sharing out of the question (not that there's anyone I could share with anyway). At least 2 former colleagues from Chelmsford and Danbury turned down jobs on this Basildon trading estate because there's no bus or train links.
Then some blithering idiot complains her kids get scratched when they bend down to "say hello" to a cat (or bitten when it's a dog). Why don't the ****ing parents teach their children NOT to go up to strange animals and bend over them (cats and dogs can find it threatening). The children learn the lesson the painful way and the poor animal may suffer as a result (especially dogs that get destroyed as being "vicious"). It's the idiotic parents at fault. Some people really should not be allowed to have children.
And I work my *ss off to meet a deadline last week, but Ms Bone-Idle in another department sits on her hands so all my effort is for nothing. I have PMT and it's making me tetchy. And I have an anal fissure and every time I poo it feels like I'm pushing out razor blades. Maybe I should shut up before I irritate any more people.
The South American Trilogy (de Bernieres)
The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts
Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord
The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman (reviewed previously)
I read the 3rd book a while back and I've now read the first two. It is a good idea to read them in order so you know how Aurelio the sorceror came to have a spirit daughter; how the tame black jaguars turned up; the plague of cats; the plague of laughing; how the conquistadors were raised from the dead and how the people wound up living in a once-submerged city.
In a South American country rich and bored Dona Constanza decides to re-route a river to fill her swimming pool. This would deprive local villagers of a water supply. Don Emmanuel, who likes to bathe naked further upstream, is called in to fight the plan. Meanwhile there's still civil war and kidnappings between a host of left wing groups and guerilla factions. The corrupt army is unable to sort it out and, instead, starts kidnapping and torturing people itself. It is up to one honest General, formal captive of one of the rebel groups and now proud owner of a tame black jaguar, to sort it out. The country's president attempts to set the economy straight by using sex-magic with his Panamanian ex-call-girl (and ends up proud father of a black jaguar as a result) and finally set in motion a scheme to rid himself of the corrupt heads of the armed forces. The book isn't all laughter - there are description of rapes and massacres.
Later on philosophy lecturer Dionisio Vivo writes letters to La Prensa denouncing the cocaine barons, especially El Jerca who attempts many times to kill Vivo (after leaving corpses on his doorstep as a warning). Vivo becomes a legend in his own lifetime - that he is indestructible, a great sorceror - and attracts a fanatical female following. The coca lords even attempt to use his girlfriend, Anica, against him. Finally Dionisio has to take notice ... and action. The description of torture and killings are harrowing.
Having tackled the armed forces and cocaine trade, the third volume looks at religion.
Despite the violence that is a necessary part of the story and setting, the books are a carnival of interesting characters who have fused Catholic and native beliefs and to whom small sorceries are part of everyday life (spirits, gods, shape changing, reincarnation etc). There is fornication, celebration and drinking.
I'm now reading Birds Without Wings
Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord
The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman (reviewed previously)
I read the 3rd book a while back and I've now read the first two. It is a good idea to read them in order so you know how Aurelio the sorceror came to have a spirit daughter; how the tame black jaguars turned up; the plague of cats; the plague of laughing; how the conquistadors were raised from the dead and how the people wound up living in a once-submerged city.
In a South American country rich and bored Dona Constanza decides to re-route a river to fill her swimming pool. This would deprive local villagers of a water supply. Don Emmanuel, who likes to bathe naked further upstream, is called in to fight the plan. Meanwhile there's still civil war and kidnappings between a host of left wing groups and guerilla factions. The corrupt army is unable to sort it out and, instead, starts kidnapping and torturing people itself. It is up to one honest General, formal captive of one of the rebel groups and now proud owner of a tame black jaguar, to sort it out. The country's president attempts to set the economy straight by using sex-magic with his Panamanian ex-call-girl (and ends up proud father of a black jaguar as a result) and finally set in motion a scheme to rid himself of the corrupt heads of the armed forces. The book isn't all laughter - there are description of rapes and massacres.
Later on philosophy lecturer Dionisio Vivo writes letters to La Prensa denouncing the cocaine barons, especially El Jerca who attempts many times to kill Vivo (after leaving corpses on his doorstep as a warning). Vivo becomes a legend in his own lifetime - that he is indestructible, a great sorceror - and attracts a fanatical female following. The coca lords even attempt to use his girlfriend, Anica, against him. Finally Dionisio has to take notice ... and action. The description of torture and killings are harrowing.
Having tackled the armed forces and cocaine trade, the third volume looks at religion.
Despite the violence that is a necessary part of the story and setting, the books are a carnival of interesting characters who have fused Catholic and native beliefs and to whom small sorceries are part of everyday life (spirits, gods, shape changing, reincarnation etc). There is fornication, celebration and drinking.
I'm now reading Birds Without Wings
Fight! Fight! Fight!
We walked a few more miles Sunday in Chiswick where we saw an amazingly rude shouty woman. First she was shouting at her young kids and then at someone who suggested she stop shouting, so she kept shouting "Go away you stupid gay man!" at him. Then she ended up shouting down the phone at someone. What sort of example does she think she is setting to her 3 children? That it's perfectly fine to shout abuse at people? I felt sorry for the kids having to put up with their mother's behaviour. Maybe she was mentally ill. We also went here.
Then in Shepherd's Bush there was a fight outside the Queen Adelaide - lots of shouting, pushing and shoving and some glass being broken. Customers and shopkeepers were peering out of doorways on the other side of the road to see what was going on. Luckily I was on the other side of the road from the disturbance. I don't know if anyone got thumped and I wasn't going to hang around to find out.
At Shepherd's Bush (Green) tube station there were 3 blokes in frocks and a Capt Jack Sparrow lookalike (and he really did look the part!) having their photos taken by passers by. I don't know what was going on (fancy dress party?), but they were obviously having fun.
Then in Shepherd's Bush there was a fight outside the Queen Adelaide - lots of shouting, pushing and shoving and some glass being broken. Customers and shopkeepers were peering out of doorways on the other side of the road to see what was going on. Luckily I was on the other side of the road from the disturbance. I don't know if anyone got thumped and I wasn't going to hang around to find out.
At Shepherd's Bush (Green) tube station there were 3 blokes in frocks and a Capt Jack Sparrow lookalike (and he really did look the part!) having their photos taken by passers by. I don't know what was going on (fancy dress party?), but they were obviously having fun.
Richmond Park
On Saturday, after the customary slow start to the day, we decided to do some walking and headed to Richmond Park, starting at the Petersham Gate. Foot and mouth restrictions meant keeping to the tracks. We saw several of the famous green parakeets flitting from tree to tree, but they were impossible to photograph and we heard a woodpecker.
We saw several red deer (2 lone stags bellowing plus a stag and hind grazing together), but no Fallow deer. On Pen Ponds there were Egyptian Geese as well as coot, moorhens, mute swans, mallards and Canada geese. There were also butterflies and damselflies in the bracken near the wetland areas.
We had a nice pot of tea and egg and watercress sarnies at Pembroke House within the park (didn't see any bambi-burgers). We then walked back from the Richmond Gate to Richmond and had a beer at the White Cross (near the river). All in all we walked about 7 miles
We saw several red deer (2 lone stags bellowing plus a stag and hind grazing together), but no Fallow deer. On Pen Ponds there were Egyptian Geese as well as coot, moorhens, mute swans, mallards and Canada geese. There were also butterflies and damselflies in the bracken near the wetland areas.
We had a nice pot of tea and egg and watercress sarnies at Pembroke House within the park (didn't see any bambi-burgers). We then walked back from the Richmond Gate to Richmond and had a beer at the White Cross (near the river). All in all we walked about 7 miles
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