The At-Homium

Split

2012-02-07T14:06:00.001Z

I knew a woman once whose talent lay

in splitting apples in a special way.

Inserting thumbs between the stalk and flesh,

she’d twist her hands and, making fun of physics and the mesh of atoms that composed the whole,

the apple would perform a joke and with a crack, would lose control.

And split.

From front to back.

Latterly, physics.

2012-02-06T15:38:00.001Z

A Boy. Mull.

When an object movessideways, horizontal or parallel to the source of gravity, at aconstant velocity, the effect of gravity on the object is independentof the object's lateral movement.

So, whilst engaged in apre decided battle of maths with my nemesis in the main body of theschool, cold winter afternoons were spent in far more enjoyable andunderstandable ways.

Physics was taught inpost war Prefab buildings known as the 'Huts'. Concrete and steel bunkers set in wasted playground space, just low enough to be scaled in rubber soled shoes. Just narrow enough to prevent the concealment of a prone schoolboy hiding on the asbestos roof, from the police.

In retrospect, it istempting to think that the Art, Physics and Music that were taught inthe huts were more liberal and humorous sessions due to theirphysical distance from the great toad squat bulk of the main school.Less likely than internal classrooms to receive visits from therector or prefects bearing bad news and/or summonses. More close knitand comfortable due to our sense of isolated camaraderie.

On initial inspectionthese were cold and forbidding places, The Huts. For years, I assumedthat the enthusiasm of the teachers who inhabited them was due totheir adventurous spirit. I now realise, it was due to the meannessof spirit demonstrated by senior staff that demanded young, newlyqualified and enthusiastic teachers start their careers in isolation.Away from central heating and out of earshot as their classes fellinto chaos. They seldom did.

I like to think that the imposition ofdiscomfort backfired on the seniors. As many of them languished intedium in over heated, musty oak panelled classrooms, we and our nearcontemporaries in teaching robes were kept sharp and playing togetheroutside. Altogether healthier learning environments.

My weekly boarding home. Kilbowie Hostel.

Keen eyed readers mayhave already discerned the foundation of my physics lessons wascouched in the fascination afforded by Lily Cowan's bust, itsmovement and the lack of it. It was the sideways movement that fascinatedme.

In primary school, myvoracious reading had revealed basic facts about the physicaluniverse. Lily's provision of Victorian and Edwardian reading booksgave a fabulously diverse view of the world and our influence on oursmall lunar system. Distances were expressed in Rods Chains andPerches. Weights in Pecks, Bushels and Grains. Friction wasdemonstrated by the burning wooden axles of Greek slave driven cartstumbling downhill from battles purposely lost and Gravity by Newtonsitting waiting under an apple tree. The significance of mass andattraction interested me. I had read of the Galileo falling weightexperiment and was not impressed by Newton really. Galileo had goneto the trouble of climbing the Tower of Pisa and dropping weightedspheres. Newton merely sat and waited for the truth to appear fromnature. Or so I was told by the editors of these Readers.

Dropping the balls. Pisa.

A Buoy. Mull

For me, Gravity wasalready something wonderful and mysterious. (enhanced by the bendingof a rubber sheet by cricket balls as shown on Open Universityprogrammes by doctor this or that, looking for all the world like amember of ZZ Top). I had a sense of it's purveying all our space andspaces. Bending time and light. I understood the nature of Red Shiftand the Doppler effect, absorbing these from stories by Clarke andand Asimov, watching the sky and sea become one peach glow as the sunset over our loch, emptying the world of its horizon and unifying allmy simple theories.

The day our teachershowed that gravity exerted more effect on dropped mass than lateraltravel I realised the germ of my lifelong affection for the littlethings that make a difference. In Lily's sweep across theclassroom floor, no movement north to south could be discerned butexpansive sways to left and right bore simple witness to these forcesand their effect on momentum. The appearance and disappearance of herpearl and heather brooch beneath her cardigan, a measure of the speedand moment of her carriage.Lily was a walking accellerometer. A Pilotless coastal freighter. Plying the same course, day in day out and teaching all the time. Whether she knew it or not.

The silence of the hens..

2012-02-04T16:28:00.001Z

After many helpful suggestions from all over the world (Twitter) we called These Lovely People and arranged to collect two near ready Pullets.
We opted for heavy, dimwitted birds and were offered Bovans Goldlines. Assured of plentiful egg production and the runway takeoff qualities of an overladen and under fuelled Sopwith Camel piloted by an inexperienced drunk, we felt confident that this was the breed for us.

Bundling them into a Cat Transit box proved hilarious, feathers and beaks all over the place at first but they soon settled in to the kind of comfort one could expect from a Japanese Pod Hotel. But without the accompanying anxiety about the language barriers and privacy.

We provided the very bare essentials and, reassured by the supplier's advice that they would benefit from a fortnight's confinement we left them to get on with sorting their accommodation out between them.

Hen a and Hen b

Bee

The added benefit to having such similar birds, is that the temptation to name them is reduced. So much harder to eat your friends... let alone take what falls out of their bottoms and boil for six minutes..

Coop

2012-02-01T15:59:00.000Z

Away from the metaphysical and esoteric for a while. This is by way of an illustrated construction manual for the Hen House we bought recently.

The kit comes with a double sided instruction sheet that has patently been printed with the aid of a John Bull Printing set and a potato.

I surveyed the twin box delivery with dread and finding only this tiny plan, my heart sank. I am hoping that future purchasers may find this Diary of the Building of the Wentworth Chicken Coop a useful reassurance as they figure out which way is up.

As stated, the coop comes in two boxes. The larger of these contains the roof section. It is useful to know this as careless opening results in the gravel loosened from the felt roof in transit pouring from the pack and embedding itself in your new carpet.

Hoover. You goon.

The original instructions. Not for you, if you've lost your glasses..

The nest box roof. Also covered in tiny stones. and an aluminium mirror. Or Manure tray. Whichever..

Whoops. Vacuum.


That looks about as substantial as my resolve..

Having removed all the pieces and spent time deciding that the printed picture is actually back to front, take the lot outside.

The back panel is mostly mesh and has a ventilation section (obscured in this picture). It is easily screwed to the side panel using the screws and helpfully pre-drilled holes provided. Yes. They do locate properly. No, it won't fall apart if you leave it like this and fetch the next panels.

Screw the Nesting box door section to the back frame. It will have to be supported while you collect the front panel. It is easily identified. There are two brackets that serve as a guide for the box door opening key. That's it there. Looking like a sardine can opener.

The front panel comprises a pre fitted door for the collection of eggs as well as a large access door in the centre. Again, the whole fits well together. I had to drill holes in some timber sections. They had been missed by the robots obviously.

The nesting box is built separately and screwed to the main body. There were one or two anxious moments as I realised that the curved separator was designed to slot precisely into place. All continues to locate as it should however.

Nesting box in place.

Note the aluminium chicken poop tray. It sits over a wooden section and slides out easily.

This is the first of a trio of testing fiddly bits. Not designed for people with large hands who have misplaced their glasses.

I experimented with the placement of the roof support and settled on left mounting. Only because I am right handed. It's up to you. The holes will need to be drilled for the micro screws they supply...

Try to remember to put a newspaper underneath while you do this. Or don't do it in long grass. Like me.

Roof on. This is the topping out ceremony.


Et Voila

A similar trial by bracket awaits you as the roof section goes on. I found that balancing the heavy plywood and roofing felt section on my head as I worked to be the best way.

Or, you could ask someone to help. I however, am a man and therefore keen to avoid that sort of thing.

All in all, a success. The hen house sits straight and level. It is a decent enough weight and feels more substantial than at first sight. It is an easy lift for two when re-siting is needed.

Now to the purchase or theft of Chickens. More to come....

Primarily Ethics

2012-01-31T16:57:00.000Z

The school comprised the left, older part only. Where the old meets the new, there was an outside toilet. The windows were purposedly high. To limit distraction. I have always loved clouds.

My primary school teacher, Lily Cowan had the biggest bosom it was possible to have in the 1960's. Her bust would announce her approaching self before she entered a room. The whole magnificent globular cluster was a source of great mystery and wonder to me. She held her twin armfuls in check by employing an intriguing combination of the barely visible and the patently obvious. Her undergirdering, whilst effective and magnificently engineered was a part of the mystery. These great boudin blancs would move only slightly in response to her occasional sneeze or laugh or launched attack with duster or ruler. The effort caused just sufficient strain on her immaculate cream nylon blouse to only just betray the potential for a Hindenburg like disaster. Her decorum never nudged, she plowed through her small world with determination and the certainty of Scottish Presbyterianism. Breasts to the fore. Badged with heather and a pearl and seemingly only ever signaling her tight wound femininity by weight. Lily and lust were long ago estranged I assumed. Who knew?

Her carriage must have caused her some concern. Never less than straight and set fair, the pull on her dorsal muscles and on her lumbar spine would nowadays be offered help by friendly plastic surgeons over coffee. Lily had only herself to pop and twist into support garments both above and below the skirt line. The whole was representative of unwavering authority, tempered by regular and necessary inspection in covertly placed looking glasses hidden behind doors. She was the very essence of decorum in the scary red and black world of threatened communism and Martin Luther King. This altogether concentrated teaching machine held us all safe whilst the fear of Bay of Pigs and reckless rock and rollers roiled about us far away.

And all the time, she taught me physics, maths, classics and ethics without ever knowing it at all.

Our little school held fourteen pupils all the time I attended with my younger brothers. There being two years between us all, it was never likely that we would share a class so, as the new family, arrived from England with our flat vowels and our apparent and assumed confidence, Lily's task was probably just a little daunting. I was aware by the age of six, just how much easier the world became to manage if adults were regarded as dangerous but generally benign beings who enjoyed the lack of effort needed to maintain my interest. Reflecting back words and phrases offered to me was a skill I adopted early. Avoiding precociousness became my life's work. Lily allowed me some respite from this effort. She recognised in me an eagerness to learn and, while short on time she made every attempt to foster this by offering bok after book after book. Eventually, I was given the job of Library monitor, enabling the first choice of the bi monthly delivery. I spent the majority of my school day reading, fingers in ears or lying in the playground staring at the clouds and dreaming. Either way, it suited Lily.

Realising that intonation and correct vocabulary were more important than context more often than not, I must have been at times unbearable. I generally got away with it however. There was a quick understanding sealed between Lily and me. I was a competent reader with no comprehension problems. The level of numeracy I was expected to achieve in comparison to my peers was already in place. There was time to nurture a mutual support system. It was hard to remember not to overdo it sometimes but the system worked. She left me mostly to my own devices whilst I occasionally dropped back into 'helpless' in order that we neither of us forgot just who was holding things in check.

Mornings at Dervaig Primary began with exactly the same ritual each day. We had slim green, hard backed hymn books from which Lily would choose one of four that she could competently play along to on the piano. She favored 'Jesus Loves Me' over others. I imagine this choice was due to the refrain being relatively short and requiring little prompting to keep to rhythm. Following the successful rendition of this assurance of divine adoration, we were required to recite 'The Lord Is My Shepherd' before finally topping this mini service off with The Lords Prayer.
I was impressed by the words of the 23rd psalm. It felt more poetic than the other stuff we intoned. Lily smiled over my careful phrasing. We were as one in the recitation. We understood the cadences as having import and it felt as good as any of the many compulsive rituals that bind a class together. But then, one Tuesday, she caught me out in a tiny moment of deceit. An act seeming so trivial today as to be laughable but on that day, an act of such personal portent as had not been witnessed since Martin Luther's nailing of his theses to the church doors in Wittenberg.

Dervaig Village Church

Our mother had made it her business to ensure that any good that was to be squeezed from the drying fruit of her Catholicism should be regularly reapplied as varnish to her eldest's soul. I accompanied her to mass from very early on. My life thus far and the tall, spicy, draughty caverns of the church were intertwined. Beginnings and ends of the week punctuated by observance of this or that.
Prayers said, penance shared. Magic witnessed and revered. My father did not share this stuff. He proclaimed a mysterious claim what he called agnosticism. A term that was to come to mean more than faith or atheism together later on. A get out of mass free card which I assumed was bought at a cost to his future destiny. Being certain of my fate, I wondered what prizes awaited the agnostic. My assumption was, as far as I could see at that time, that he and other such uncertain men would be granted visiting rights or holidays in paradise where we would keep their beds and houses clean and warm for their return. Young boys and their mothers meanwhile resided in the blessing of full tenure.

What became of the uncertain soul between these celestial holidays remained a hazy conjecture. How long they were expected to remain outside the gates.. who knew? Our future glory as full communicants was assured, if only due to the tedious adherence to a powerful ritual that my father and his ilk were blessedly permitted to ignore. He was a regular at a table where Pascal's was the best wager on offer. My mother and me were not allowed to play.

The Lord's Prayer as recited by our church differed from the Protestant version in a number of ways. Where they had Debts and Debtors we suffered Trespasses and Trespassers. Our verses felt a little longer as a result and we added an extra 'Ever' into the mix, finally emphasising the nature of infinity as understandable only by us catholics and no others. Our Ad Infinitum was a better class of the Unbounded altogether.

I managed the recitation of this difference as covertly as I could. I would mouth the requisite Protestant version whilst thinking the longer one alongside. This gymnastics was frequently too much for my brain to manage and I would come to a grinding halt, allowing only the faintest expressions of fading adoration to expire between my lips. On this Tuesday, I opened my eyes in an unconcious attempt to pull both halves of my cortex into play. And met Lily's own, first astonished, then with a furious light rising behind them as she gathered herself for the recrimination.

'You are a wicked little boy'. she moaned, 'Wicked and sinful for taking the Lord's Prayer and turning it into a NURSERY RHYME'. Her voice rose in a measured cadence like the bellows of pre partum cattle by the loch.

Suddenly I understood two things simultaneously. I understood why some writers liked to use the phrase 'She Thundered' and, in the very real blink of an eye, I understood the true nature of oraganised ritual. All this intonation. All this singing and recitation was for Lily. For the fabric of the school and her position as conduit of all things right. My previous understanding of a forgiving, lenient god flew from my world to be replaced with plain and simple compassion for Lily in her insecurity. I understood that any sense of right and wrong was, from this point on,mine to negotiate with others and it had never been in the gift of an inexplicable myth.

This was the day I turned to the gaming tables and wondered what the wager would benefit me. It was a little while later that my purse was snatched from me as I laid my bets, by an itinerant priest with little good in him at all.

The Award..

2012-01-19T15:41:00.001Z

Liebster is a German word that means beloved or favorite. This is an award from fellow bloggers given to blogs that have less than 200 followers.
These are requirements that you need to fulfill should you accept this award:

Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
Give your top 5 picks for the award
Inform your top 5 by leaving a comment on their blog.
Post the award on your blog.

I'd like to thank..

2012-01-19T15:21:00.001Z

How brilliant! The lovely Rosalie (@tearose68)

has nominated my project for a Liebster Blog Award. I was previously unaware of this delightful gong and will be sure to think long and hard about how to pass on the good word..

Rosalie's own blog Tilting at Windmills offers beautiful posts musing on the blights and blossoms of life..

Good people do good things..

2012-01-11T12:43:00.000Z

In musing about what might become of a vicar if he or she found faith and belief dwindling.. It suddenly struck me that a paradox may have been played out somewhere, at some time. and it may well have happened without the knowledge of the congregation..

I guess a young man (I did have fleeting thoughts about seminaries as a boy), brought up in belief and with the necessary means, might embark upon a journey that he hoped would end well. He would be expecting to complete his journey to paradise having done the best he could along the way; for others (as well as for himself, if he is honest). In the name of God.

The detours and blind alleys he would encounter during this journey would sometimes challenge his faith but, being well trained in scriptural argument, he would rely on the words of the testaments of other men to help him through these times. Each stumble would be an opportunity to refresh his relationship with his creator. As it is written. By other men. In the name of God.

In time, his bishop and his stipend would allow for longer tenure in a chosen parish. Relationships with his congregation would develop and become rich in their variety. The opportunities for being a good man more frequent, more recognised by him and others as a part of what he is. A good man, in the name of God. A good man who reflects what others are. Sometimes weak but with resources. Sometimes selfish but with humility. Sometimes careless but with compassion.

His congregation join with him in recognising an example in their midst. A benchmark that has the corrections and re draughts of a lifetime's use. A benchmark by which they might all enjoy the comfort of human social companionship, rubbing along together. Reminding themselves of the important measures along the mark. Making the necessary adjustments as they go.

All is well. In the name of God.

Over a period of time, and in response to the creative, imaginative enquiry that brought our vicar to the philosophy of the supernatural in the first place, he begins to prefer a more pragmatic view. As parts of what he had considered unassailable begin to crumble and resolve themselves into more mysterious and wonderful ways of seeing, his steps become more sure. Over this time, he absorbs and embraces the gradual capacity for understanding that the modern world is now enjoying. Over time, he feels the dogma of a brief historical document slipping from under his feet. Fundamental literalist explanations for the existence of our world are replaced by rational understandings of the universe. The confluence of science and art becomes a torrent and he no longer needs to conclude his thoughts in the name of a god. The process of contemplation brings him to a larger congregation, of thinkers and dreamers. He finally sees that whichever way it comes or goes, creation belongs in the hands and minds of man as well as any of the incalculable numbers of other forms of sentience out there in our universes.

Then comes a very difficult Sunday morning. This good man must, in all honesty take the last steps up to the pulpit on his journey to being a good man. Whether he chooses to join his congregation and discuss his altered view or alternatively, write a brief and humble letter to his bishop matters little. He still has a responsibility to those he cares about and, if honest, loves. He remains their vicar and remains a good man.

The choice in paradox is this. To say nothing. To remain a good man in the name of a god and to harbour his new conviction for his own continued journey, embarking when he wishes to, alone. Or, conversely to openly discuss his philosophy and accept the dissolution of the congregation as it is.

Here is where my musings have led to. I suspect that a number of very good men and women have abandoned the necessity for a supernatural force either by action or default. They continue to perform the often irksome job that they are paid little to perform because they are at heart Good People. Because the alternative is considered socially abhorrent. The alternative would be to be completely open and declare an interest in remaining as a benchmark for the rest without the sanction of medieval text. To become what may be termed a community leader, whose only qualification for the job is a proven capacity for Good. And without that text, his capacity for good would be gradually replaced by acknowledgement of human frailty, then suspicion of motive and finally rejection as just an ordinary man.

I have known a number of vicars and priests. Some wonderful people. Some though whose moral standing would embarrass us all if demonstrated outside the tenets of the cloth. I have great admiration for those who think seriously about their position and offer a balance between the recorded stories of a frightened power base in the ancient middle east and modern rationalism. I can feel it all becoming very hot again though. I worry for the truly good as arguments bounce back and forth without much good resulting. The position of good clergy seems in danger once more as the far right and aggressive atheists go to war.

How sad it is that all the reinterpretaion of an ancient tract remains as powerful as ever now. It's capacity for harm is undiminished.

'Good people do good things and bad people do bad things but for good people to do bad things, it takes religion'.

Letting go

2011-11-22T14:54:00.001Z

A letter to an amenable literalist.

..thank you. You too. It's rare to find a Christian apologist who acknowledges the benefits of politeness in discourse!

I was merely saying, I am less inclined to argue here. (There is little to be gained by trading punches with ghosts, holy or otherwise). I am however very interested to know why someone of previously good reason would kick over the traces and hitch his creativity to a belief in God. Especially a god constructed by the barely literate, from the shreds of other myths and legends and whose narrative is held together by a kind of cod poly-philosophy.

I have some sympathy with your reluctance to return without your hand holder. It is a wonderful thing, to have conviction.

There are gods I shall miss. In the process of moving on from childish things, I have now abandoned any fancies I may have entertained about being graced in paradise gardens by the young blue Krishna. I no longer yearn for the towering palely lit Mountains of the Moon where the only breeze is borne on the breath of angels and serves to gently tease the leaves of Yggdrasil. My frequent search for evidence of the paranormal no longer troubles me and pareidolia remains an amusing distraction. nothing more.

That other state of being, allied to a loss of self and designed to throw the ego to the whim of god, no longer bothers me. I have now become near grown up and relish the beginning of my education. What went before was fine and served well to glue my person to the backing papers as required.

Now, it is of more interest to me what happens in the quantum universe. Where rules are fluid things and understanding is hard won. I am more willing to put the effort in. At long last!

Yours is a seemingly comfortable place. So long as the ties that bind you to your god aren’t loosened. It is fascinating to hear you and those others of your bent, eloquently comparing and contrasting your beliefs with our knowledge. Straining to apply ’faith’ to our understanding and desperate to oblige inquisitiveness with evidence; only to find yourselves falling once more to scripture. Not a textbook, nor an instruction leaflet. A go-to document however, whose verses have been scoured and reinterpreted over the last thousand years by those who's driving motive has been the control of others. (I include the effort exercised by scribes to salvage something human from the older testaments as humanity began to feel compassion for itself and a prophet seemed a good idea).

It still works.

Boo!

And if, as we have discussed, the simplicity and beauty of the verses is challenged by us as ’fiction’ you turn to terms such as ’hating god’ and ’insolence’ in an effort to aggrandise your faith and elevate your argument above humanity.

You talk of the ’New Atheists’. I repost with well meant scorn for your own arrogance. We have been around for as long as reason and self awareness itself. You talk of an earth no older than Sequoia, of dinosaurs and humans coexisting on the plains, of Natural Selection as a 'Faith' and Darwin as a 'New God' to those of us who reject your own. You fundamental literalists have only been around this same length of time. You are the unquestioning and willing victims of your own circular argument and other's political and financial success. At best.

The fact of this new medium’s ability to make our feelings known may make you flinch. This is no new movement though. It merely benefits from the internet’s ability to spread ideas as they develop. You too could benefit as greatly. It's merely that your understanding has no scope for development. It can't share the planet with humanism. Not because there is no room for variety, more because the majority are now inclined to offer real, physical hand holding. A steadying grip whilst you gradually relinquish yours on the malevolent grasp of fairies.

Welcome to the bottom of the garden, here's a spade...

Moving Air

2011-11-20T10:18:00.001Z

Awoke to further intrusion from an unelected nonegenarian informing the country that he finds the concept of wind turbines unacceptable.

I on the other hand have no say in the matter of whether or not to allow monarchy to intrude on my life and assume the right to the oxygen of publicity. Or the oxygen I share with them for that matter.

Time for a revolution I think.

Its just that there's not enough wind.

Drumming

2011-11-18T11:21:00.001Z

For over fifty years I have listened to a few pieces of music. People have introduced me to some alternatives but, for the most part, I have remained loyally stuck with a limit of a dozen works.
My collection on compact disk is modest by most standards but large enough to warrant the occasional sort by name or composer. There are perhaps four hundred pieces. They are arranged in towers in the living room, unobtrusive.
They are however, merely an indicator of my tastes. A catalogue of forms that I have been interested enough to hear. Some have been a lifestyle theme or background for brief periods. I am not a habitual listener, preferring the spoken word in my home and car.

There is some music that can stop me mid breath however. Some notes and spaces that cause immediate stillness for attention or in preparation of rhythm. There are allegri, arias and arpeggios whose effect transcends mere listening. My breath caught, physical change occurs with quick cessation of movement. Eyes and hands left resting on their last intended object.

At these moments, I am immediately filled with wonder. There are few creative acts that can effect such change in so little time and they are solely physically generated in passion or pain.

Here is another wonder. The composer, removed from us by geographic distance and by time, effecting these and other shifts of physics, brain and mind and adding to the whole by prompting us to ask how this act is made possible in the first place?

It struck me recently that the reward we offer for the composer, performer and conductor's effort is obviously wealth. But on a far more basic plane, we offer another piece of music in return.

I would count amongst the many members of the percussion group, ourselves. The audience makes a response so cogent in reply and measured to the pleasure of the gift received, as to make the small percussive postscript to the piece a gift from them.

Applause.

No conductor, no bars, no score.
The biggest orchestra in the house and more,
a solo piece in each and every seat.
A coda making every show complete.
Let's hear it for the crowd! In Paris, London and Milan.
Let's hear it for the driver of the minivan
whose first experience of Bruch or Bach
caused havoc as he missed a place to park.

Let's hear it for them.

Still voices 2

2011-10-15T11:50:00.003+01:00

1980

A chance meeting in a damp autumn street. A friend and his closer friend cycled on the pathway I walked and stopped to pass the time. These were two worldly wise people. I knew them out of the mainstream of my usual social life. They were employed. or one was. The other, a failed degree student clung to his mate like glue. I mistakenly took this for affection. In retrospect. Affectation of friendship was more likely.
They had a new man demeanour. Both cooked or aspired to cook and knew all the names of the great dishes of the world and their secrets. I was to join them for a dinner of Coronation Chicken and Souffle that evening. I was the audience.
Bob, the hanger on left to sign on. I remember thinking that even this was a sign of nonchalant ambivalence about the future. His friend, Steve and I walked on for a bit, talking about this and that. The Vietnam war mostly I think. Steve had read books about the effects of war on younger men and was keen to regale me with his knowledge. It turned out that he had recently been posted to the local Psychiatric hospital on placement from his course. He was to be a nurse. Whilst there, he had discussed trauma and felt that his destiny lay somewhere between the management of fractures and the glamour of new therapies. I was impressed. The temptation was of course to find a way to steer the conversation back onto firmer ground for me. To regale him back with quotes and anecdotes from what I knew of madness through the plays and poetry that had suffused my childhood.
I needn’t have worried about that. It became quickly clear that this new knowledge he was keen to share was too fragile to support a discussion. He filled the gaps in his understanding by finding his footing on the solid shores of nursing tasks. he quickly outlined how a therapy designed to help a trauma victim or the like could be assumed by most and delivered via a manual in stages. In a blatant backhanded compliment he suggested that I visit him at work. He would introduce me to the school of nursing and I could look at options for employment whilst there.

Still voices

2011-09-27T11:00:00.000+01:00

Summing up thirty years in psychiatry.

Hanging on to the safety rails of salary and pension as community psychiatry careened from model to model, buffeted by the winds of political change has been a job in itself. Not a job I am proud of and one that proved at odds with the reason I sat in that precarious position for so long.

There were very few days of safety. Lamentably many days of sadness, anxiety and frustration. Weeks and months at a time characterised by the worry that someone might choose to further destabilise the near catastrophe of the journey by indignation and complaint. Hours of thought blocking resentment at the blindness of a huge concern, unwilling to allow that research might support experience and permit the simplest progress. Minutes at a time when personal safety was compromised by public fury, stimulants or alcohol. Seconds when the blank looks of colleagues signal failure to accept that dogma cannot offer therapy. That communicating hope is a skill best learned as a child and developed through learning, not manualised in adulthood and offered as an alternative to creativity. The child in us all is ever ready to learn. This is the most valuable lesson of all.

The ability to deliver and participate in therapy is a rare skill. The ability to negotiate an alternative to therapy when the organisation suggests that it be used in any case, demands courage and a belief in the process of assessment. For as long as I can remember, psychiatry has been guilty of over treating members of the public rather than allowing proper periods of 'watchful waiting'. Largely, it must be said because it has never been clear who will be watching and who will wait. The identified patient is often the last to acknowledge that assistance may be useful. Families, feeling abandoned for real or fancied reasons are in no mood to wait or watch any longer. These are the desperate, in need of a lifebelt that will provide immediate safety, not a lifeline that they need to work their way towards. These are the puzzled, frightened folk, often living in social exclusion or refusing access to inclusion by dint of cultural mores, family influence or poverty.

The last few years of my career were spent in community provision, in General Practitioner's offices and in Mental Health team offices local to assessed need. My job has been typically varied at the senior end of a nursing team where management was not necessarily the next logical step. Moving from Primary Care in doctor's surgeries to Secondary Care and vice versa is relatively common and often provides the most effective saving grace for a practitioner. Retraining and garnering new skills (learning appropriate protocols) happens by default. There are 'easing in' periods and useful elements of each other's disciplines are portable across the perceived divide. Those of the team who have gathered enough moss to feel at ease in this variety of milieux are usually close to retirement age. Usually becoming more and more valuable. Usually in supervisory roles and usually tired of the whole thing.

It has been nearly a year now. My retirement has given me the opportunity to record my thoughts and feelings about the work, but not the inclination. It has taken longer than I thought to allow the wheels to spin down. My memories are not so weighted towards recently departed events but rather, the whole of the thirty years is gradually becoming a more meaningful account. More easily accessible and with less heat.

I have found the causes of modern institutional eccentricity more readily understandable as the relatively primitive meets what has undoubtedly become enlightened thinking further on. That there are such marked differences in such a short time has proved frequently alarming. I can feel the good that has come of our parts in this transition and now, nine months on, no longer need to vent my anger at the system. Rather, in celebration of those of us in therapy, this may serve to throw a small but significant part of British mental health care into relief. There..

..here goes..

Demons

2011-08-20T12:00:00.078+01:00

I was visited by a Succubus this morning. Not the lame excuse for illicit guilt ridden sexual dalliances dreamed up by hemmed in Restoration virgins. Not the imagined demons of the dark hours conjured by pastors and priests. Not even the accumulated shards of fright I may have garnered over the years through nightly consumption of ever more finely crafted horror stories. This was a true Succubus of the soul.

Robbing me of my ability to move at all for an untold time. Severing communications between limbs and brain that we take for granted and incidentally casting a veil of immediate and tangibly petrifying fear. I was suddenly and for the first time in my life, granted access to the supernatural by this visitation. For an indeterminate period, I was scared of death, scared to live and terribly afraid of permanence. This last was paramount. The sudden irrational thought that sliced through the two sides of my consciousness leaving sharp barbed demands for attention was a questioning of my ability to cope with purgatory. That this fearfulness may rule my waking state with more and more puissance as sleep was to leave me. Any tiny rubs and strokes of hope eradicated, pushed aside by preternatural flaming terror. This was a visitation from hell.

The illusion soon revealed itself as such however. My singular impression of the potential for permanence began to dissipate as my waking self gained ground and rationality came within my grasp. Once more, the timescale here is hard to measure. Not now due to the emotional paralysis I was subject to but increasingly because I was coming to relish the prospect of exploring my experience. Time became at once a valuable cherished necessity and a gradually vanishing commodity. My waking self would soon slip quietly into it's customary service of our human timeline. My hypnogogic self clung to the awareness of time's gradually dominant state. I reluctantly allowed that any impressions I may be granted from this point would be guided by my own physical and emotional pilots. One to be dropped off at his billet on the Styx, the other to be piped on board by dawn.

Now less afraid and more intrigued, I was at liberty to test my paralysis and now aware of what the causes were, enjoy the lack of evidence for demons.

Arms, hands, legs, feet and face completely still I was made aware of the simple truth of propreoception. There was no doubt where I lay, in what position or direction. In common with the history of documentation of this condition, I was prone. I could now relate my awareness of the bedside clock with the rising sun and temperature in the room. One leg was uncovered and my right arm raised above my head. For the first time in this episode, I asked myself about duration. Becoming aware of the processes that I could consciously employ, I tried to move first one leg then the other. No luck. The effort needed was immense, merely to feel that some small change may be effected. All I seemed to be able to do was register that nerve and muscle fibres were at least acquainted. Full working relations had not yet been negotiated. My quarters were on strike.

Minutes now made good time. As my limbs began to thaw from the toes and fingers up, I realised how the enormity of this event had almost caused me to not merely suspend my scepticism but abandon all logic in my natural desperation to make sense of it. My imagination was the last recourse to something seeming akin to me whilst the awfulness took my sense of self by stealth.

It was during this presumably brief time that demons were available to me as reason and excuse for abandoned hope. Latterly, whilst aware of returning sensation, I was impressed by how much relief could be gathered up from the remains of this torture and formed into a countering force for good. How many such straws have been grasped over the years by those without the understanding to confound their superstition? At this time, I glimpsed the very subjective reality of faith in god. I saw the rationale behind beelzebub and understood the reason to abandon all my hope as I neared the gates of dispair.

A small planet..

2011-08-15T13:17:00.001+01:00

I was suddenly taken by how this Bee and it's attending Hover Flies would experience the Alium. Miracles of tiny neurological engineering and balance control mean that they are the masters of the sphere but, how much further does their perception extend?

More of this and my own developing sense of wonder at our position later...

Environs

2011-08-04T09:45:00.000+01:00

A clear, friendly guide to the area around Warkworth.. Well worth a look.

IMG01296-20110730-0722.jpg

2011-07-30T07:25:00.002+01:00

So still today. Northumberland is holding it's breath--

Lightning by Warner Bros

2011-07-13T15:13:00.000+01:00

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In response to requests.. Basic Bread Recipe.

2011-05-31T15:56:00.000+01:00

I have had a number of lovely people asking for my basic bread recipe on Twitter. I have cut and pasted a few times but then thought, it would be quicker to post this and allow folks to navigate here..

For basic wholemeal bread you will need:

Wholemeal flour. The best you can afford. Look for the words, 'Bread', 'Strong', 'Very', and 'Organic' doesn't hurt either.
Instant dried yeast. Any make, so 'Own Brand' will be fine.
Olive oil.
Granulated or Caster sugar.
Salt.
1/2 Pint of tepid water.

I have deliberately avoided quantities. I always start with a half a pint of water as it approximates to a coffee mugful. Just double up for two loaves etc.

Method.

Dissolve a teaspoon of sugar in the water and pour into a large mixing bowl.

Add a dessertspoon or so of oil. This will give the bread a more chewy texture and help with keeping past one day. (It is patently better to bake anew but day old bread makes better toast).

Pour a pint jugful of flour into the bowl and mix until you have a thick batter. The consistency is not crucial and changes according to the flour you are using.


Add yeast to the batter and mix further

Gradually add flour until you achieve a workable ball of dough. A handful at a time will ensure that you reach the point where it leaves the bowl sides cleanly. Add a large pinch of salt.

Kneading firmly will result in either a ball or, as here, a sausage shape. Remove from the bowl and place in a well greased tin or a baking sheet.

Now, set to one side in a warm place. A sunny windowsill is ideal. Failing that, an airing cupboard or the top of your oven as it heats up.Depending on your oven, preheat now to 180 degrees or Gas 6.

35 minutes later. Ready to put into the oven.

Et Voila!.

The consistency is characteristically open and substantial when you use wholemeal flour on it's own. A lighter sponge is achieved by balancing the whole flour with plain white and I prefer '00' pasta flour or Very Strong Bread Flour for this. It contains more gluten, requires more kneading and is less tasty. The right balance produces a lovely bread however.

Now improvise. You can add any nuts, cooked beans or dried fruit to the dough. Brushing the risen loaf with milk and sprinkling seeds on works well.

A roasting pan of water in the botom of the oven softens the crust, as does wrapping in a towel after you take it out.

If you want to take this further, I can recommend Elizabeth David's English Bread Cookery as well as the good sense afforded by Nigel Slater on the matter. Remember. The best flour = the best bread.

Overstanding.

2011-05-06T15:19:00.000+01:00

Readers of this diary will have perhaps discerned a tentative theme linking all the other posts. My thoughts are never far from my effort to weave maths into my understanding of our physical environment and of our universe. I'm never far away from media and have become an info junkie where TV and Podcasts are concerned. There are good and not so good resources available. The BBC and Channel 4 generally make a good fist of it, with Discovery tending towards the more populist, music video approach.

It was with some trepidation that I watched Morgan Freeman interpret the script, whilst attempting to bring a basic guide to Universe theory to the Discovery audience. 'Through the Wormhole' is (note I say 'is' as all television is now immediately recallable) the latest in Discovery Channel's canon of Whoosh Bang 'docutainment' pieces. It attempts to draw a linear comparison between three basic concepts and does so with clarity and imagination. (In as far as imagination now requires the kind of cinematography that Kubrick pioneered in 2001 and has not changed since).

Amongst the fireworks, the gravitas and the biblical references chucked in at the start, to appease those who don't hold with physics, there lies a gem. Freeman tells of a group of scientists inhabiting roughly the same time and space, who together and separately develop ideas that challenge each others concepts then come to compliment and add to the sum of all our understanding.

My maths, as some will have gathered by now, has always been a sparring partner. I was given to understand that algebra was the key to all. Without an understanding of 'Sets' then understanding of numbers was impossible. Without an understanding of numbers then calculus and trigonometry would be to me as Chinese or Serbian languages are to British Wild Flowers.

And all the while, I failed to see what was so difficult about the concepts so described. I grasped Sets and got Venn Diagrams. My view of the world allowed the notion of difference between Apples and Oranges without trouble. There was no problem as far as I could see, with the seemingly impossible task of grouping shapes into forms and relating them to each other. The physical world was so described. I was being told what I already knew. But I was also being told that I didn't and wouldn't understand it.

It was arithmetic I didn't understand. Because I could not see why it was important to be able to perform long division in order that my comprehension of the universe be complete, I stopped looking for links.

Branded a difficult innumerate child, the only gratification I recall registering in my teachers face was when I did indeed fail 'O' level Arithmetic. A feat seemingly reserved for those in 'Remedial' classes and one that cut a notch in the stick they used to beat those unfortunates into servitude on leaving school.

Since that time, and in pursuit of knowledge and creativity, I have gradually come to love the maths I once feigned illness to avoid. There is nothing in our world that is not perfused with the essences of information common to ourselves. We are a part of many sets. Our advantage over other's is our way of seeing the resulting diagrams and making bright diversions into tools.

'Through the Wormhole', adds much to this in it's simple descriptions of the passage of understanding. We have The Big Bang as formulated on the back of Einstein and others. Expansion, currently propounded by brilliant minds at MIT, and M Theory bringing in the whole. This last, a mind expanding beauty, neither confirming nor denying previous notions but fitting all into wonderful, ultimately graspable integrity.
It is to the credit of the program makers that the term 'Wormhole' never appears in the script of the first episode.

Having viewed the program and been through a series of physical symptoms known to all thrill seekers, I wondered about how to turn this clarity and excitement into useable form. How to benefit from the story in a lasting way.

I took the puppy for a walk and we talked about up and down and sideways and how long it took to get from here to there and why.

Alfie now 'sits' much quicker. A definite side benefit.

We decided, Alfie and me, that it was less than helpful to think about our small three dimensional space as having markedly different elements. It is, after all, only our experience of gravity that confines us to Up or Down or Sideways. If all three directions we inhabit are merely termed as 'space' it becomes easier to think about the addition of a further one direction. That thought removes the need for numbers to be involved. For now.
We walked and, in the sudden clarity that seems to enhance access to memories I remembered questioning my teacher once (and only once) about the axis that may be between x and y on a graph.

Further, I wondered was there an 'out of' the point Zero where positive and negative plot points converge.
It may well be that he had not encountered the idea of 'x', 'y' and 'i' and probably considered the Sqare Root of minus one to be an amusing mathematician's witticism. Either way and in any and all possible events, he sneered at my ambition and turned his back. I remember that black robed back very well indeed. I also remember wishing that I could feel confident in an encouraging respomnse had I discussed my thoughts with him about Topology and the similarities between the wood on five bar gates and gravity.

So, armed with the safety of a general sense of 'surround' it becomes more possible to pull a fourth way into the picture. One that does not yet require Time but remains within our linear perception.

We play with Möbius Strips and Klein Bottles (as seen in previous posts). We enjoy having our perceptions messed about with so long as we return to the safety of comprehension at the end. I remember watching the beautiful simplicity of Carl Sagan's teaching when demonstrating how a square may be 'forced' into another dimension as it is revealed as a cube and casts a shadow on a two dimensional world. His desktop became a Flatland analogy and a little girl watching, was rapt.

I play computer games. We have come a long way from Space Invaders now in many respects. Although the necessary suspension of disbelief remains the key to their success. We are now able to become immersed in stories that require our presence, to spring into being and live with us here. The cinematic metaphor no longer applies to gaming, (beyond those magical intro sequences) and we are now offered character parts in tales without boundaries, tales that require our skills and creativity to develop and defeat or lose. Our actions are limited only to the quantum distance between pixels, as described in photons. We have access to all the dimensions we know and, due to the confines of a screen, our recreation in some more dimensions is made fact. There has not been so great a revolution in narrative entertainment since the invention of the printing press. A radio play and good book will always win out as simplicity is all when great stories are successful but we now approach Gaming in a new way. We are able to exercise our understanding of the world in ways impossible before.

'Portal 2' is, of course, in two dimensions. I literally shudder to imagine the task that faced it's programmers as they sketched out the concept way back when. We play, as the developers know, to their rules. Rules that we have agreed to adhere to as we have bought into their previous works, the Half Life series and Portal 1, which gradually abandoned the need for shooting, ducking and hiding in favour of the manipulation of your environmental dimensions. All this for entertainment. And, just as we walk, and Alfie fetches willingly, unaware of the hidden agenda that has taught him to return and sit on cue, I gratefully immerse myself in others efforts. I am entertained, delighted and informed along the way. The programmers toss me pixels. I part with cash. The payoff though, for me is much, much bigger than my wallet.

Briefly, set in a dystopian, industrial testing station, you are awakened to discover that your success in the prequel has resulted in merely starting your ordeal again...
Negotiating the various topological tests you are offered depends on your ability to manipulate your surroundings using a new physics.
Portal requires the creation of an 'In' and an 'Out' door in selective, flat surfaces. Sometimes to escape the confines of a room and sometimes to advance your understanding of the natural laws.
Using a 'Portal Gun' it is possible for example, to enter a wall and immediately exit the ceiling of the same room. The potential for adventurous problem solving geometry and topological exploration becomes enormous.
Physics remains constant. The further you fall the faster your momentum gathers and the further you may correspondingly leap as a result. There is much hilarity and there are actual 'pit of the stomach' moments as you successfully fire a portal at an approaching floor and rush headlong at twice your entry speed, onto a previously unscalable height.

And all the while, remembering that the gates you make are not merely 'holes in walls' but that they are actually 'bending space', becomes your increasingly mesmerising mantra. Correspondingly, the comprehension of inter dimensional geometry becomes tangibly 'in the world'.

Suddenly, with help from a belligerent, anxious maths teacher (see above), the abandonment of religion as a cheap salve to confusion and a computer doing what it does best, M Theory is put within the reach of the innumerate.

The journey that led to the development of M Theory was intriguingly fraught with difficulty. Having come to separate similar conclusions about their individual efforts to understand expansion as an explanation of the creation. Two scientists not only worked in tandem with their opposition in the field but used the scientific process to it's limits and beyond, in order that all predecessing information was not lost. The humility with which they greeted the condemnation of the scientific community made for a consolatory lakeside walk in the early hours, in Finland where a conference had heard their thoughts and tossed them back. A time to discuss where they may have missed the point, where the goal became the thing rather than the workings. And so Dark Energy was conceived.
And suddenly, the simple construct of a never ending cyclic system comes real. The desperate grip we have maintained on traditional ideas of 'time' is loosened. At once, it is possible to turn and face the world we live in and relinquish gods.

I am so tempted to talk here about my own humility. To make a blushing statement about my inability to grasp the bigger picture and to leave the workings to the boffins there at Cern. Why should we do that though? A understanding stands of value regardless of the numbers. And it was with a burst of pleasure that I found myself writing on the back of a magazine, in mathematical symbols with the names and dates. Reminding myself of key events and elements of the theory, arrows and equals signs and 'more than' crossings out. Here, I was joining in the dialogue. The maths made real. My mind was suddenly engaged and all this possible at last through my fantasy and hope of confluence of science and art. I seem to be a mathematician after all. And so because a common language binds the themes.

The theory? If we are stuck with linear Time and the minuscule 'A-Tomic' nature of the Big Bang from a Singularity of infinite Density and Heat, then our minds are stuck with "Yes, but what before?". Here is the rod that I have been swiped at with by creationists in doorstep and online debate. They come from a far more powerful position, all they need to do is wait, and point at scripture. They have a strange interpretation of our common philosophy but it allows them to maintain a millenium of belief, backed up by frightened church authority and those without the stomach for a fight. Misunderstanding or ignorance are thrown back as 'Lies' and God is cited as the arbiter of reality.

This arbiter has, however only been available to us for a few thousand years. gods the world over have only flourished as a result of technology and before, it was never made clear why they only showed their faces to a few rural peasants or quite why there has been no encouragement to write the tracts that bind the faith together over and over as we gain more empirical understanding of the world.
There is no need for super nature. We are still recovering from the medieval construct of our world. We need no longer permit this halting force to stay progress.

If my understanding remains simple and I get the basic premise then, there is no need either for a Uni-verse. Any more than there was evidence for flat earth or a single solar system or a solo Milky Way. The probability of more than 4 dimensions makes more sense. Space time and gravity and light are armatures and through the incomprehensible gaps in structure, information is shared across, from small time to infinitesimally small time.

Our universe will once again become too close in time and state to another. There will be more almost instant conversions of matter as Membranes converge or touch. A bigger bang may well result and round and round we go again. Except, there is no 'again' and no 'round'. There just 'is'.

We inhabit time as we inhabit space. Equipped only for the bits that we can sense. If able to abandon those senses, even briefly. It is possible to get a wonderful impression of our suddenly enhanced position in our place. No gods, no fairies and no beginning or end. Just so.

And furthermore, as Alfie has no concept whatsoever of his origins in Spain, and the worms that inhabit his gut are ignorant of their simple place, I relish being wrong about these thoughts. Because I can. I am allowed.

Whoops. New spuds glut!

2011-05-01T08:05:00.000+01:00

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On your marks....

2011-04-30T11:46:00.001+01:00

Starter ready. Loaf anytime today...
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What rule of thirds?

2011-04-28T15:09:00.005+01:00

What happens when you break the rules? You often get 'crunchy' results. Not sure what I mean. Feels right though..

Oh.. hang on.. weaves, golden sections, thirds all over the place!

Must try less hard...

What you sow

2011-04-28T14:22:00.000+01:00

We sowed a random handful of wild flower seeds last year. Forgetting is good gardening!
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One way..

2011-04-26T11:01:00.002+01:00

Yesterday, the BBC morning news offered a commendably straightforward piece on the potential for success of a Martian expedition.

In contrast to their customary patronising style when considering things extraterrestrial, the reporter and presenters demonstrated deference to facts and focus in their debate.

An invited 'Expert on Space Technology' was asked about the potential for exploration in our lifetime. 'Return' versus 'non-return' options came up. "Yes, we could do the trip, if it were one way for the astronauts involved.. There would indeed be volunteers". Our man at the BBC went on to suggest that there would therefore be ethical issues that may arise. That allowing someone to opt out of our gravity and security, to end their lives in depleted circumstances on a dusty planet may cause moral problems. Good for him.

The simple questions offered simple answers by the expert, time took over and we were returned to the mundane. However, the resonance of that item rang and rang as the true position of the volunteer came clear.

It remains a feasible, if fiscally driven option, to land a voluntary staff on Mars. These almost incomprehensibly driven people will have been vetted and secured by all and any means. The success of their mission will depend entirely on the balance of their selflessness and if this success is to be measured as of value then the self will prove a very special self indeed.

But of us. What are we, who neither opt to go or opt our fellows in? What are we to make of this arrangement after all? Is there an analogue that already points us to the way of using this?

Our scientist parents. Those who not only do the hard sums but are prepared to appear on television and help explain the facts. They are trusted by a process that protects us all from fear. We like the sums to be so hard as to appear impossible. We enjoy the principle that makes us thankful for our phones and satnavs and consigns their workings to the margins of magic. We laughingly shrug off the intellect necessary for the understanding of these wonders whilst trusting our betters with the complex truth. And all the while, the fear of separation is ignored.

The divide is vast. In order that the distance is diminished we talk of 'mission' and of 'trip'. The journey that these astronauts will take will carve a memorable slice of life in merely getting there. It will take months. Months which will begin with regular reports and nightly updates and we'll follow all the maths as best we can. Until the journey and it's meaning become commonplace and the crew forgotten in their efforts until landing safely on the Martian dust.

All the while, lip service will be paid to the emotional components of the exploration. We will be informed and entertained by reassurances of cognitive diversions for the crew. Their psychological safety, first assessed at interview, will form the core themes of news and bring sobriety to light entertainment. We will worry, and assume that this great scientific work has covert agendas. That we will all somehow benefit from a stronger psyche as a result of the volunteers self sacrifice.

Then there will come the ultimate global understanding that, they're not coming back. That there is now a separation that exists between us here on Earth and our former siblings there on Mars. How do we manage this now?

There are existing analogues, but not complete or satisfactory ones. We have cast others off before. In history, we've often thought of banishment as more severe a penalty than death. In ecstasy we single out the most devout and give them money, fame and singularity. As payment for their sacrifice we offer lonely people power. Our human story is pinned by popes and kings and presidents whose failings are a benefit to us. Their isolation celebrated While we share our joint discomforts.

This exploration will be different. The first hints of deference to the bravery and sacrifice are here. On television and in the scientific press, we talk about the special qualities required whilst all the while, we may be unprepared for what the journey means.

On the day our pilots land on Mars, our small chaotic systems will snag and stumble. A gradual culture of understanding will cause us all to pause before the next speech or statement or action is expressed. We will become suddenly bereft. Because, for the very first time, we will have separated part of us, a small and almost negligible fraction of our family, to stand apart and be uninfluenced by anything we do. Except our information. Whilst we continue massacres and missions in the name of myths, our siblings will be quietly dependent on the stories that we send.

How comfortable will we be with that? For one, I know I'll always think of our marriage made with Mars as binding and binary. If one of us thinks constantly about his representatives elsewhere then I'm guessing so will we all to a degree.

This is not an opportunity for betterment, it is the end of what we think we are.

The auld mune

2011-04-17T21:06:00.011+01:00

Out with Alfie In the garden, paying attention to his routines whilst he paid attention to the odours of the evening. I found myself unexpectedly laughing at the moon.
As Alfie gains great pleasure from his empty bowl. When finished it's only function is to tickle his interest in it's stainless reflecting surface.

My interest was captured wholly by the pale pink moon.

In the same way I think. The moon's function, pulling seas around and foiling clear views done until a later time my heart was tugged and memory spun back to school. To English class. To Iain Crichton Smith and his love for Hugh MacDairmid.

The Bonnie Broukit Bairn

Mars is braw in crammasy,
Venus in a green silk goun,
The auld mune shak's her gowden feathers,
Their starry talk's a wheen o' blethers,
Nane for thee a thochtie sparin'
Earth, thou bonnie broukit bairn!
- But greet, an' in your tears ye'll drown
The haill clanjamfrie!

Sky squatter.

2011-04-14T21:21:00.001+01:00

Quiet on the Coquet

2011-04-14T20:18:00.000+01:00

Where Alfie and I found a little calm this morning.
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Maths and springtime

2011-04-03T15:32:00.000+01:00

With the arrival of unexpected growth from forgotten bulbs and cawms come numbers, patterns and Fibonnaci yet again.


Snakes Head Fritilary

With unerring accuracy for balanced colour, if not a perfect checker pattern. This puzzle keeps alkaloids tucked deeply underground in bulbs quite capable of flooring rooting dogs.

Rhubarb

...and this new opened packet offers shade from leaves that offer interesting bite resistance then complete voiding of a puppy's cramped insides.

So gardening will prove a hazardous activity this year.

My writer's block

2011-03-22T10:00:00.000Z

Dog sitting. Until his final inoculations. We Can't even saunter and somersault around the garden due to nocturnal vulpine visits...
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2011-03-15T09:09:00.000Z

With apologies for the hiatus.. I have been laid up with a particularly virulent pathogen and am now benefiting from Alexander Fleming's marvellous medicines. Soon better.
This has been made no easier by the arrival of Alfie. The iPad doesn't permit the easy inclusion of pictures so, that will have to wait until I can keep him from chewing my leads as I work. more later...

Spuds in a bag..

2011-02-07T11:27:00.000Z

I shall be following the info offered on
http://www.seismologik.com/journal/2011/1/5/4-simple-steps-to-grow-a-hundred-pounds-of-potatoes-in-a-bar.html

Pics and progress to follow!

A sandwich filler..

2011-01-25T19:04:00.000Z

With apologies to regular visitors to these pages, I am putting the stand down and waiting for the various house modifications to be finished. My computer is relegated to a cold extension spare room. Until the earth tilts in our favour it fails to entice me in.. Adding pages means using an iPad or Blackberry. Neither conducive to photoblogging.

I am currently celebrating however. For many years, I have made my own bread. It has taken a decade to reach the understanding that it really does matter what flour you use. And a further decade before I stopped kneading it into dry resigned playdough.

I have ignored instruction and reduced my technique to complete simplicity. No yeast. No salt. No sugar. Flour and water and time only. For those who might like to try:

Buy the very best wholemeal flour you can. Ironically, our ancestors would have thought nothing of this technique and paid less. We have reduced ourselves to paying more for unrefined materials. In a a warm bowl (one that you are willing to relinquish to the process for a week or so) mix a cup of the flour into a half pint of lukewarm water. Mix well and cover. The yeasts in the air and the flour will now awaken and get to work. Eating and farting just like the rest of us.
I place this simple starter by the stove. It will go through a variety of physical and chemical changes over days so best not disturb.
When it looks bubbly and no longer smells of vinegar but rather has a grassy, warm effect add more water and mix again. There are no rules about time. The first crop of bubbles took me three days.
After five days and with no appreciable turn back to vinegar, halve the mix. Clean the bowl and repeat with the leavings.

In a separate bowl, mix your starter with a further half pint of water and add good quality strong White flour. I use 00 pasta flour and try to get organically grown. In this instance it makes a difference.

Now proceed as with any other recipe. Mix, knead and wait for it to double. This will take longer than usual but it's worth it.

40 minutes at 150 (in a fan oven) results in a very palatable sourdough. I shall now only use yeast when time is short. Having two loaves in ones repertoire is sufficient to anyone's needs I think. One for a flourish but the other for meditative sandwiches.

I plan to just have the starter sat by the stove now. Bubbling. Pending my return to a PC and/or when Apple see fit to providing us with a USB socket, pictured on Twitter only. At @richardhesketh1

I thank you!

Gradually...

2010-12-14T18:00:00.001Z

I am starting to feel less like I am on holiday. The snowy weather and the unfamiliar positions my muscles have found themselves in as a result are telling. Teetering from muddy spot to muddy spot has awoken aches I had forgotten. Pangs and twinges remembered one by one as childhood, winter unemployment and off season holidays are triggered in response to body memories.

A new routine is not something that comes easily. Encouraged by others to adopt a regular regimen, I am struck by how external influences have been invited to form them for me over the years. Resentful of the sometime monotony and predictability of employment and joining in the universal resignation of the employed has been a game. The rules have been easy to follow. I shall now be making them up as I go. It will be interesting to see how the manual comes on. Mindful of the perils of lining up the pencils and straightening the ruler before beginning. I intend drafting and redrafting. I should be able to approach the process as I have along the way. By doodling in the margins and allowing my attention to wander.

2010-12-03T16:19:00.000Z

This does, indeed. change everything!

If this opens up as it seems likely to, and following a silly little 'second item in the news scedule behind the royal wedding' we should be looking at the world in a very different way.

IMG00208-20101126-1547.jpg

2010-11-26T15:48:00.000Z

Here's more snow!
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This time last year... Floods!

2010-11-25T09:03:00.000Z

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Mull trip

2010-11-22T22:58:00.000Z

I find myself disadvantaged by Apple's unwillingness to play nicely with Microsoft. I can blog from my Blackberry (if Orange provided a signal here in the Hebrides) but would rather use a grownup camera like usual. Here, in a wonderful bed and breakfast, smartphone, camera and iPad at the ready and I can do nothing to integrate until I return home to a repaired desktop.... Grooh! Yark! Bugger!

So far, heron, buzzard, ringed plover, curlew, kestrel, corbie(ask) and seals.... Loads of red deer. Gloucester Old Spot. Aberdeen angus and Hereford.

Photos to follow!

Going, going

2010-11-18T16:06:00.001Z

Gone.

Wonderful, moving send off from lovely people. No job. No worries. Just regret at leaving loved colleagues back at the house.
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Last time..

2010-11-18T08:09:00.000Z

Watching and failing to photograph a buzzard getting buzzed by a crow as I leave the house for work and a retirement lunch.
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Sand/wind

2010-11-13T22:32:00.000Z

Delicate shapes driven by wind and defined by the smallest shells..
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Breakfast...

2010-11-09T07:56:00.003Z

A sparrowhawk oblivious to me. Me oblivious to the 'auto' flash setting on the phone! Grooh!
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An impulse post...

2010-11-07T15:23:00.001Z

Some lovely light/water effects on the Coquet this afternoon. My desktop is buggered so .... More later.
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A little orange dot and a great red spot..

2010-10-31T19:31:00.007Z

A great red spot

A little orange dot

I carved a pumpkin in anticipation of evening confectionery pirates... No show by 7.30 so I put it out for the owls and turned binoculars on the night sky. In the south eastern aspect a brighter than usual point with fuzzy edges.

How Gallileo managed to plot and map the position and topography of this gas giant is beyond me.. With good quality modern compact binoculars, I could make out three of the moons of Jupiter. Probably Ganymede, Io and Callisto according to the Guardian... A first!

Now to knock a hole in the roof and set up a telescope for winter....

Not sure why..

2010-10-31T17:12:00.004Z

Just to say that, occasionally, great art just takes you at the flood. Perhaps we are in a constant state of waiting. Page six of today's Observer Review has small representations of pictures born of war. John Piper's interior of Coventry Cathedral awakened my responses..

My nephew Gary's shortlisted video.. please spread it around!

2010-09-23T22:01:00.002+01:00

He writes:

My vid is one of 125 shortlisted after about 23000 submissions so it’s wonderful just to have reached this point. A final 20-25 will be picked for the show by a panel of big names in the art world, Darren Aronofsky, Takashi Murakami, etc. I really don’t expect to get any farther but who knows.
I received an Email from the Guggenheim asking me to promote my entry as much as possible before the 20th of Oct…

Have a look and check his back catalogue too. Brilliant stuff!

An interesting Guardian article by Polly Toynbee

2010-09-15T09:28:00.005+01:00

It is hard to see how we avoid being Shrill in times like these but I think she manages it!

Lucky finds..

2010-08-07T17:51:00.004+01:00

No particular intentions this afternoon but a trio of fortunate 'Right place, right time' opportunities...
My neighbour's compost bin lost its door and the grass grew through.

A grasshopper stayed still long enough...

...and the Woodpecker found itself sharing the peanuts..

..but not for long..

And the next pallet....

2010-07-24T18:41:00.001+01:00

Becomes a gate.... I am now off to find more scrap.

Crate expec... sorry

2010-07-17T08:46:00.002+01:00

The Blackberry people were less than helpful. I am forced to send myself pictures for processing. Anyway, the crate has been converted and is now filling up with wood for the winter.
Worth the effort for a saving of £99 or thereabouts...

Pending a temperamental Blackberry...

2010-07-13T16:47:00.012+01:00

I was going to post a selection of pictures of my recent skip diving success.. A lovely big pine crate, soon to be a wood store and dragged manfully a mile up the hill. However, I took pictures with the Blackberry and it refuses to relinquish them to the computer. I shall have to ring Holland and ask them how I do it...

The crowded houses that are the raised beds are largely managing themselves. There is a man in America who advocates 'Square Foot Gardening' and who will sell you his plans for distributing veg in foot square sections. I have developed 'Square Yard Gardening' and would be pleased to send my plans for nothing on request...
The Courgettes have been covered in Thunder bugs. Initially anxious, I checked them out and discovered that they are mostly benign. Pollen hunting, the worst they can do is burrow through the yellow flower. Here are a host of them in a thistle.

Thunder bugs are famous for collecting on your washing as it dries and have gained a reputation for presaging storms. I suggest it may be that those of us rushing out to collect the clothes as the rumbling starts put two and two together. They had been there all along. Only the observer effect links bugs and borborygmi

This one meets a sticky end in the jaws of a very fetching emerald green spider..

Meanwhile, in another part of the garden.. the Khol Rabi and Beetroot are nearly done and Alpine strawberries promise more for next year.

Dill, Fennel and Tomatoes all doing well thanks to Blood Fish and Bone. Lovely!

.. and the Goldfinch have discovered that swivelling downwards to the thistle seed is better than sitting and stretching up...

Baby pictures...

2010-06-26T14:33:00.005+01:00

As with lambs, kittens and babies. Vegetables look at their best in infancy.

I ate this one soon after. Yes, I know, carrots are cheap and a bit prone to fly but they taste great when they are still small.
Raised beds mean that the fly don't know they're there and nonchalant ambivalence seems to be the secret to a good crop.

I am trying Kohl Rabi too. However, these are sparse enough to treat as unfortunate only children and I am reluctant to pull one yet.

The peas and beans are distributed amongst courgettes. They may jar initially but will add height to the bed soon and their flowers will break the greenery up.

Being picky about the visual aspect of a Grobag might seem a bit , well.. picky. It's fun to see how the whole comes together after the initial growth becomes homogenised though.
Perhaps others would benefit from applying their stated love of gardens to the development of new growth...

Off with their heads!

Monet Morning

2010-06-26T08:04:00.007+01:00

Gottit. As the lillies and water messed around with his failing eyesight. The poppies would have flashed in front of him, bouncing waves of reds and blues from the ultra end of the spectrum.

Spring is now sprung... the longest day is summer in Northumberland

2010-06-24T20:27:00.022+01:00

...spot the cat....

To continue the garden diary and to prop the blog door open, a few reminders of what's been going on here at Railway Cottages...
The bird life is more varied than this time last year. A seeming plague of snails has brought a thrush (just the one tho' but...) to the garden and the blackbirds are more plentiful.

Goldfinch appear from nowhere, in pairs, to monopolise the Niger seed.

This youngster was almost pick-uppable in it's early ignorance of the human menace..

By contrast, The Heron (thank you MF) checked around for frogs etc then left... reminding me that I should soak the land this weekend in preparation for a pond. I tried last week to scratch the surface but recent high temperatures have rendered the topsoil all but impenetrable... for those of us with Tennis Elbow anyhoo....

My favourite source of Fe, Chard. Grown in honour of the collider in Switzerland and, in the hope that I could find a vegetable that represents the letters 'Ri'. I looked to Japan but found nothing that would grow here.
So Courgettes dominate the raised beds. These were well worth the effort as no slugs have ventured northwards over timber and an ash barrier from the kitchen stove.

I have high hopes for a bumper crop. Actually, I shall probably harvest more than I can use and end up with a garden full of marrows... Never mind. It's the travelling, not the arriving etc...

Opportunist Poppies, thrown up by the carving of a parking space make every day's return a new garden. There's a frustratingly accurate Monet on my way to work and I know it won't be there when I have my camera...

I'll try though. It would be a companion to the Waterlillies from the London comparison earlier...

First entry in an occasional series...

2010-05-03T18:50:00.008+01:00

As an Aide Memoir to what goes where in the garden and the progress of a new landscape... From little acorns.. pallets etc.

To planting. Carrots, chard, courgettes and beetroot to start. All optimistically framed by nasturtiums for colour, flavour and insecticide...
I am standing on a pile of topsoil soon to be made alpine. Path, pond and shrubbery to follow.

... meanwhile, in the front garden, the Jolly Green Giant makes his presence felt...

Is it a bird? Is it a... No, it's a bird...

2010-04-20T07:36:00.008+01:00

I am painfully aware of friends and others stranded abroad or worried about schedules and school returns but it has been a lovely few days. The awareness that, not only are there no vapour trails nor constant rumble of jet engines but that there was no chance of any has been a very real breath of fresh air.
Not since I was very small has there been an absence of air traffic. The atmospheric ambiance returned to pre flight days. The birds predominated both here at home and in radio interviews.
Now I see, there may be further disruption. And still no one for the british public to blame!

The simplest solution.. buy a skinflint..

2010-04-03T10:25:00.011+01:00

As an avid fan of Occam's Razor, a self confessed skinflint and a seeker after the truth about retail scams I am proud to announce the result of my recent year long research into the continued sharpness of razorblades without resorting to pyramid power to keep them usable.

In April last year, I bought a razor with a twin blade. A Wilkinson's Sword or Gillette G2 or some such.. I noted that replacement blades were upwards of £7.00. Having determined that skin is leather and therefore, technically a strop, I determined not to buy another one until it became unusable.

My razor has reached it's anniversary and I am still in full possession of my face. I shall now make use of this data to found a new line in male grooming.

The Occam 'No Gimmicks' Razor which I shall bang out at £30.00 along with my 'Emperor's New Jeans' self adhesive Eezee Peel bottom label (rrp £199.99).

In support of Simon Singh

2010-03-06T17:59:00.005Z

... And to lend weight to the argument against irrational and dangerous libel laws.... please sign and pass on to friends.. http://www.senseaboutscience.org.uk/index.php/site/project/334

...A spanner long enough... (Thank you CG)

2010-03-05T18:43:00.010Z

In an attempt to breathe life into these pages and finding it hard to liberate enough time for local inspiration, I am recording a couple of mysteries from a little further afield... Normal service will resume in a short while...

I have been aware of these strange features of our local neighbourhood for a while and have perhaps kept them in reserve for such a hiccup in continuity.

The Geysers on Enceladus and a trick that you can do...

The surface of this beautiful moon of Saturn is composed of ice. Not exclusively water Ice but a mixture of water and hydrocarbons making it the biggest self extinguishing bomb in the locality.

Until the recent fly pasts by American probes, the pristine, uncluttered surface of this moon was a mystery to extra terrestrial 'geologists'. That Enceladus could remain so smooth and comparatively unmarked by meteorites seemed to belie it's position, nestling beside the gas giant Saturn. The planet's gravity would seem to guarantee more damage to it's face by attracting lumps of rock en passant.

Then the geysers were discovered. Colossal plumes of water reaching out into space not only recovered the surface after damage but have also contributed to the outer rings of Saturn. What drives these monstrous fountains is uncertain...

The illustration above is a stereoscopic image. If you sit approximately 10 inches away and squint until you can squint no more, the geyser will appear in 3D. Good luck.

Next...

The temperature of the solar corona.

The outer surface of the sun is not the limit of it's radiance. That 'diamond ring' that appears at eclipse is as close to a direct observation of the Corona as you would wish for. The temperature of this feature not only beggars belief but also appears to confound at least two of the laws of thermodynamics..

6000 Kelvin to well over 1×10⁶ Kelvin. The reasons why are currently conjectural but may have to do with magnetism and that...

The 'Nut' at the top of Saturn.

Now here's a thing...

It seems that the winds of Saturn, largely Hydrogen and Helium but with traces of the aforementioned Hydrocarbons too are driven in such a way as to create this gigantic, hexagonal shape. It sits permanently at the north pole, gently rotating in relation to the prevailing gales.

I love these anomalies. It comes as a comfort to the skeptical mind that there are unsolved mysteries left to fantasise about. We have successfully debunked the 'Face on Mars' and no longer consider the moon our only satellite.

In the face of these odd phenomenae the conspiracy lot whisper.. 'Coincidence?'. In the true spirit of effective bus advertising... I say, 'Probably, yes'.

I thank you...

Simplify and improve...

2010-01-07T14:28:00.009Z

Following traditional invention processes, I dreamed about the bottle and realised that it could be made simpler...

The same inverted base but just one bottle involved. No waste!

The Marsh Tits have no preference for either and they are the most frequent visitors.

Meanwhile, on the lawn, the cold has encouraged Blackbirds, Songthrush and Starlings to return. Wrens and Yellowhammers ignore my activity and eachother. There is inevitably, evidence of a recently sighted Sparrowhawk taking understandable advantage. I shall spare you that one.

..and the Woodpecker has become more curious....

The other major predator just can't be bothered.

This one is really worth enlarging!

The bird feeder recipe...

2010-01-01T15:55:00.036Z

Having tried with limited success (I am still waiting to hear from the moderators at Ehow in California), I have decided to publish my 'Blue Peter Make' here, where I know what I'm doing!

I did a search online to see if there was somewhere that described the use of those beautiful jellyfish

type shapes at the base of pop bottles. I felt that they should at least offer an aesthetic to the 'Bird Feeder From A Bottle'. As it was, my search turned up nothing. So, in true Hesketh tradition, I began by working backwards from deconstruction...

Most of the other recycling sites merely suggest drilling holes in the tops of empty bottles and cutting access platforms... All well and good but not very elegant. Here then is my recipe...

What you need:

2 x 500 ml bottles. Water, Pop etc.
1 Wire coat hanger.
1 Bamboo skewer approx 30 cm, cut into two.
Pliers
Drill and 3.5 ml and 8 ml bits.
Serrated kitchen knife or hacksaw.
Craft knife/ scissors.
Electrician's tape.

1. Cut one of the bottles as shown and discard the resultant tube of plastic. We are only
interested in the top and bottom.

2. Carefully cut around the top of one of the bottle lids. The aim is to create a threaded sleeve that will unite both bottle necks..

3. Position the two small pieces of bottle as here...

If you have cut squarely (I followed manufacture marks and this worked well..) a simple push fit will result in a satisfactory base hopper unity with no wrinkles or bulges.

4. Using the 3.5 ml bit, drill four holes an the four faces of this unit, being careful to offset top and bottom to allow for the positioning of the skewers as shown..

5. Using the 8ml bit, drill half a dozen holes in the 'shoulders' of the hopper. Positioning is not crucial but cleaning 'sprue' out is. Plastic shards are no substitute for seed!

6. Drill two 3.5 ml holes in the bottom of the complete bottle to allow for the coat hanger wire 'Suspension assembly'.. (If anyone has any ideas how to avoid this patently dampening design fault please let me know..)

7. Position the threaded collar onto the complete bottle with enough thread to accommodate the hopper base. If you have not left enough thread, don't despair. Electrician's tape will hold it all together..
Fill the bottle and screw/tape the two pieces together.

Voila..

Someone likes it!

Northumberland snow

2010-01-01T11:20:00.005Z

Overnight, 6 inches of snow and rising....

Extra food required. The blackbirds seem to be more tolerant of eachother and smaller birds braver all round..

Compliments..

2009-12-31T16:16:00.002Z

I feel I have been remiss, no attention to this detail in a few weeks. Mea Culpa.

This prolonged snap has caught many of the neighbours unawares. Those of us without the luxury of four wheel drive vehicles venture out with trepidation and a 'Twenty In Second' philosophy.

Those with the luxury seem to have a different outlook. The likelihood of allowing a small green Ford Fiesta a black bit of road with a reduced chance of ditching seems proportional to the cost of their conveyance.

Short wheelbase Landrovers with long service and Sheepdogs co-driving are liable to stop and allow your passage. They could move aside with ease but are aware of the likelihood of their having to pull you out in the event of an angular accident.

Four by Four Jeep copies are unlikely to move, not trusting the axles to operate as they should and probably being unaware of the small button marked Diff Shift in the gear well...

Then there are the Porche Cayenne, BMW 328 i xDrive 4dr All-wheel Drive Sedan, The RangeRover ('I should really be in Iraq but thought I'd stay and keep an eye on you at home..') and the Mitsubishi Animal. These will edge gradually over to your side of the road, emphasising the relative value of one of their tires and insisting that you spend the afternoon at 45 degrees, trying to get a signal.

Happily, I have opted to stay in and invent a new bird feeder. Based on two empty fizzy water bottles and soon to be published as a 'How To' on Ehow. (I shall alert when done).

Meanwhilem, I shall evaluate the efficiency and get back to you with results. Since hanging it, filled with protein rich food, two Willow or Marsh tits have shown interest and the afternoon squadron of Long Tailed Tits fed rapidly.

It may look elaborate, but it serves seed better than other DIY bottle feeders since it need not be topped up to the level of the bottom hole every time. We'll see!

This lad needs no such nonsense. He arrived in the garden on Christmas morning, accompanied by the distant sound of a Twelve Bore fusillade. I like to think he escaped a seasonal hanging.

Happy New Year!

Another branch...

2009-12-10T20:06:00.002Z

http://athomium.soup.io/

an experimental scratchpad.. quicker and dirtier than Blogger... we'll see....

Spirited influence on enquiry.. the real costs.

2009-11-11T19:36:00.003Z

How terrible it is that our forensic system can still be influenced by magic. You have to feel sorry for the Chief Constable that will inevitably have to carry the can for this one...

The Judge who took a victim's belief in the influence of their forgiveness does not deserve our sympathy however.

The catalogue of abuses either perpetrated or sanctioned by sanctimony continues.

Morpeth beware!

2009-11-01T15:32:00.004Z

A day of seasonal torrential rain resulted in record breaking bank breaking floods just below the cottage.

The road was impassable until leaves had been cleared from the gulleys on the bridge.

Between the devil and the deep blue sea..

2009-10-25T22:13:00.007Z

Our planet is a small miracle of true Goldilocks proportion. Suspended between two 'Earth Like' bodies we represent the sum of these extremes.

Mars. Cold and empty of useable atmosphere, may hold potential as a next destination. It has had water and may do still. Unlocking it may be a 'Fire and forget' mission for a small bunch of instantly famous scientists. The environment is tamable. The cost may be a one way ticket however.

Venus. Hot to vapourising point. Wet to saturation point but no rain falls as the preciptate Sulphuric Acid boils off before hitting the ground.

Our porridge is just right. Our beds and chairs are just so. It would be good if we found ourselves in this fortunate position by dint of greater awareness of the comparisons with our neighbours.

Exploration has more value than the push to colonise. It may provide the shove necessary to wake us up to our responsibility to this planet. Why try to escape? The bears aren't yet home.

A walk by the Castle and a missed opportunity..

2009-10-25T14:33:00.013Z

Dodging the rain I took a walk through the local fields, down to the river and by the weir. Returning via fields and over the river.
En route, I was, again unlucky enough to miss recording the first Dipper I have seen locally... This was always going to be a promising spot...

..and true to form, I missed it. Here's another....

The tramp through woods to the Castle fields was remarkable only for the forms and shapes revealed in cut timber. Beech trees tall as masts and in orange piles of offcut disks.

An arm or leg with it's classical reminder..

Some maps or landscapes accidentally reminiscent of ink on parchment. I couldn't think what the lines reminded me of..

...except the line and style of Aubrey Beardsley..

A return to a persistent theme was made possible by piles of beech branches topped by this slice..

...and a shame that this collection didn't include a Cranesbill at it's centre..

Oh, and having missed the dipper... wouldn't you know it? When all you want is a postcard view...

... and. off it goes. Good riddance.

Warm walk in October

2009-10-18T15:08:00.008+01:00

The link to the left offers a visit to the 'Map My Walk' site developed in partnership with Garmin. If I publish this button, it may serve as a nudge as the temperature drops and the boots get further back in the cupboard...

The carpark to carpark walk near the old mineworkings south of Shilbottle provides a four mile walk through woods and across fields. Alarmingly warm today, there was a lot of late autumn activity.

Predictably, my camera remained in it's case when Roe deer high tailed it just yards away and when a damselfly buzzed my face by the pond.

Curlew, Plover and Skylark rose from the stubble fields. Grouse and Pheasant all over the place. The only other activity was equestrian.

The Sycamore and Ash that have overpopulated the unused mine railway path are being assailed by fungus. The resultant blemishes look alarming but are, paradoxically indicators of good air quality. I shall venture out again, with tape measure and notebook when I am sure no one is looking. The Natural History Museum and OPAL (Open Air Labs) are asking for interested parties to submit statistics. Whilst this area is fully recorded by volunteers for the British Trust for Ornithology Bird Atlas, I can always turn my spare hard drive space over to leaf data...

Meanwhile...

2009-10-09T19:42:00.001+01:00

I was brought up short by an early evening report from the PM programme.

The phrase 'Is nothing sacred' really doesn't apply.

A bit of a revelation...

2009-10-09T18:58:00.008+01:00

Ever eager to add non artery threatening flavours to everything, I experimented with preserved citrus.

My Lime Pickle is tongue twistingly delightful but just this side of too oily. I remembered having Tagines in Morocco that sparkled with a lemon flavour, soft enough to be a memory and sharp enough to make it's presence felt.

Here's a reassuringly Marguerite Patten picture and my recipe for preserved lemons.

A litre Kilner Jar is required for approximately 9 unwaxed lemons. Cheap ones from Aldi were just fine.

I washed them and scored the skin a bit, in a haphazard fashion.

I quartered them from end to end without cutting all the way through. Throwing them into a mixing bowl, inch deep in cheap salt I packed Good Salt into the cuts in the fruit.

The cheap stuff merely serves as a sodium foundation for the assault on the lemon's integrity over the next week or so.

Packing the salted fruit into the jar as full as it would go means frequent hand washing. Beware!

Two weeks on, after turning and shaking, the jar is, as you see. No longer packed. The lemons are soft and almost marmalade. So far, rinsing in a sieve and adding chopped pieces to simple soup, rice dishes and fish has been a hit.

You could buy them online..

Rising sun???

2009-10-06T13:21:00.002+01:00

A team development day at the Rising Sun offered the opportunity for duckwatching but this was a bit scuppered by appropriately autumnal weather. Nice fruit salad though!

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Fibonacci at home...

2009-09-26T12:10:00.006+01:00

The Fibonacci spiral (..see Broccoli by numbers in an earlier post..) is making a seasonal appearance in the garden..

Always a pleasure Leonardo..
The Sunflowers are nearly dropping in sequence..

..and the Sempervivum is just sitting in self satisfied algebra.

Tables turn, slow but sure...

2009-09-14T20:58:00.004+01:00

Tonight on Channel 4 News.. Professor Armand Le Roi discussed evolution with Jon Snow. The new film of Darwin's workings out prompts much bristling in some corners of understanding..

Listening to Le Roi terming the creationists as 'The forces of darkness' was a breath of minty fresh air.. There is a wind of change, sweeping across .. well, everywhere we hope. (You may have to start a different article and come back to the Darwin piece.. embedding Channel 4 video is a hit and miss affair..)

The tenants have gone..

2009-09-12T13:48:00.010+01:00

Able to retrieve the nest from the eaves now the weather has finally rendered it obviously abandoned. It is possible to look at the structure close up and make comparisons, draw links and even source the original building suppliers...

An examination of the paper outer walls reveals colours that exactly match the fencepost below the nest. The to and fro of the builder wasps in the spring and early summer rendered the path between fence and wall a daily adventure.

The Dodecahedron

The Dodecahedron (DDH) is the pattern or axial arrangement used by the unit Flux, it is stackable hyperbolically and absolutely the most efficient way to pack space with the least amount of material (Properties of Energy & Matter

by James Clifford Cranwell 2/17/98 )

So far so good.. Wasps agree with physicists. Unbeknown to them, the physicists have extrapolated this property of the movement of energy and have suggested that the universe itself may depend upon a honeycomb structure. The wasp's universe already does.

C is a constant, as is this pattern. Without the simple rightness of the form, the Cern detector, 'Alice' would not function.

(A particle detector, yesterday)

District 9

2009-09-06T14:16:00.000+01:00

Off to see this serious comment on apartheit with a nodding reference to 'Plan 9 from outer space'. I may critique later...
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With the naked eye..

2009-09-05T15:00:00.010+01:00

I stretched the liquorice Leica's zoom capability to the limit and caught this outside a bar in Murcia.

This low tide moon in Whitley Bay derived from this...

....oil drum.

But these images of Titan...

and... an asteroid

are much closer to home.

Well looky here!

2009-09-02T19:54:00.003+01:00

I can keep my blog active from afar! All due to the innovations and connectivity allowed by Blackberry.

If my suspicions are confirmed, the technology won't be subject to Moore's Law.. We will.... Or is it just that I'm getting older and easier to impress?

test

2009-09-02T19:37:00.001+01:00

Testing mobile blog entry. If this works, expect many adhoc entries!
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Days of innocence and hope...

2009-09-01T19:30:00.008+01:00

In my enthusiasm to loosly chart the progress of scientific thinking during the last century, I keep my eyes peeled for cheap periodicals...
A particularly rich vein is to be found in the popular press of the postwar era. The returning soldier's social circumstances forgotten, in favour of the excitement associated with scientific advance. War should be good for something!

I found this gem in a local antique fair...

I have searched in vain for examples of the small plastic figures that fell into breakfast bowls when Kellogs cereals were poured. They looked very much like these aspiring astronauts...

Innocence indeed....

Paperhouse.

2009-08-25T12:21:00.002+01:00

Now that the neighbours have vacated, the property is starting to weather. Without routine maintenance, it has allowed the wind to blow the door open and the inner cells can be seen clearly.

I am assured that the occupants will not return to the site of an old nest.

A lifetime of object relations..

2009-08-24T11:33:00.027+01:00

The Science Museum and Natural History Museum sit side by side. Whichever you access first will eat your afternoon with no problem.

In the Science Museum I found the following evocations of my childhood. These objects are the ones that form a framework for my memory and to find them all within a day was spooky.

My first spade. A little more yellow in the mix as I recall, otherwise, as evocative for me as 'Rosebud' was for Charles Foster Kane. I return to the image of this small, useless artifact at least a dozen times a year. And can remember times between then and now when I have recalled it's smell and feel. It bounces from year to year.. keeping my recollections sequential at least.

Two cases further along, this early ancestor of Lego...

Bayko. Here is a link to the endless Bayko enthusiasts sites.. Don't miss Nerd's corner and its tireless descriptions of brick tile preference that identify the (now adult) builder as an 'Upper' or a 'Downer'... I guess the construction of accurate representations of post war semi detached housing kept them away from the alternatives..

I consider myself fortunate to have escaped Bayko with my life or, at very least, my sight. The construction of these frustratingly well engineered Terry and June's required an afternoon inserting steel rods with acupuncture like precision into small holes in a Bakelite base. These would provide the framework and foundation for walls and ceiling tiles. By the time the right spacing and depth of fixing had been achieved, it was teatime. TV beckoned. Best leave that there then, on the floor. I'll get back to it later. There it sat, thirty or so steel pins sticking up from a dark green base... my baby brother learning to walk... Yark!

A little later, I began my lifetime struggle with arithmetic. If only I could have taken this with me. The wooden rods that so logically illustrated the relationships between numbers made more sense to me than writing them down. Still do really..

I came to see numbers as colours and even formed a construct about the ways the Cuisenaire rods related to Monopoly money.

In the system, there are 10 rods measuring 1 cm to 10 cm. Rods of equal length are assigned the same colour. Most Cuisenaire rods follow this system:

White rod = 1 cm.
Red rod = 2 cm.
Light green rod = 3 cm.
Lavender rod = 4 cm.
Yellow rod = 5 cm.
Dark green rod = 6 cm.
Black rod = 7 cm.
Brown rod = 8 cm.
Blue rod = 9 cm.
Orange rod = 10 cm.

This system, in tandem with small class and good teaching in a small school, enthused me. Topology started here. But it was effectively paused here when I failed to see eye to eye with the future Lord of Ardbrecknish in double maths. An apparent inability to convey the beauty of numbers without frustration and my failure to understand without illustration met head on. Thank goodness I wasn't spared the coloured rods at least. He went on to choose Black Rod I think.

At this time, I was required to remember one number only.

I remember it still. Along with the 'Write on wipe off' pull-out drawer you could scribble numbers on with fingernails. Available now for how much?

In 1960, the 'phone bill would be checked with something far more immediately mysterious than Cuisenaire..

Operated with a small rod, (is a pattern emerging here?) the numbers were assigned a hole in a perforated strip that nudged the next along when carrying forward. Very effective and neat. And as close to a pocket computer I could imagine at the time. It fitted in my father's inside pocket 'till they went out of fashion. It then went rearwards and was sat on frequently. I remember at least one calculation left undone due to the inability of operator to move the perforations on.

Nothing changes...

Because, outwith the cockpits of Supercar and Fireball XL5, computers were a far off dream. Cut away diagrams in the Eagle and the delicious fantasy of TV Century 21 magazine promised that we would all be carrying them in the future. Ferranti et al were trying their best I thought and were offering regular updates on their new business and technical difference engines. I was delighted to find that I recalled the shape and feeling of wonder that this evinced in me as a boy.

All Two Kilobytes of it! Astonishing then for it's sophisticated Deco lines and promise of brain challenging mathematical gymnastics. Astonishing now because of it's size in comparison to it's power. My analogue watch has a regulating processor that outstrips this leviathan by many powers and I am considering giving it away and buying a new one.

Turning the corner, I came upon this distant memory (in print) of a machine from 1937. The Children's Encyclopedia (by Arthur Mee) told of the 'Wonders of the atom' and it's use in healing the pale and loathe to thrive through Gamma, Beta, X and Theta rays. These had been singled out by smashing small round balls of electric force into eachother. The resultant grainy evidence garnered from the sputtering splash of force on smoky plates and reproduced for us by Mee.

Cern was a long way off indeed.

South Bank.. Covent Garden.. South Kensington

2009-08-23T17:01:00.014+01:00

Against all expectations, £7.50 bought an all day pass enabling quick and easy access to everywhere in London from Thames Ditton. I later found that one quick visit to the interweb brought a textback service to the phone. Type 'A' to 'B' and send to 60835 and instantly the best laid travel plan arrives. (Here's the web version)

Trains, buses and the underground excel in both the small and larger aspects of the journey. If this comfort and efficiency can be maintained at such a scale, how come the Northern transport system smells of .. well, just smells?

The temperature stilled at much more manageable twenty five, a walk to Hampton and the biggest breakfast ever set us up for tramping round the South Bank of the Thames.

The day was easily taken up with guided and unguided tours of Tate Modern. Highlights included Pollock, Rothko and Bacon..

..and this, a combination of the three... spied in the bottom of a tub of frozen soup. The only food available at home.

Next.. the museums.

London in August..

2009-08-23T13:23:00.030+01:00

A visit to the South Bank, Tate Modern, Science and Natural History Museums...

Preceded by a morning at 31 degrees c in Hampton Court gardens. That's about 86 degrees f!

The odd mix of formality and Tudor approximation of geometry.. opulence and painted windows alternating with the glazed frames even royals paid their taxes for..

This garden has been remodelled more lately with needles of Juniper trees contrasting with the lopsided cones that now reflect earlier topiarists attempts at uniformity.

These obelisks reminded me of much later surrealists forms. It's easy to turn this hot weather garden into something much more Mediterranean. The fountains and classical statues reminiscent of Yves Tanguy

...and

Giorgio De Chirico

In an attempt to salvage some comfortable memories for later, we headed for the waterworks that frame the palace and the grounds. Even the locals were gasping!

Herons stood still over the water, teeming with stickleback and frogs apparently without interest.

At least they weren't at the mercy of Ice cream sellers who nodded that 'Yes, I have bottles of water.. £1.60'

The water lilies, dragonflies and weed performed just as expected in the heat...

I wondered what Claude Monet would have made of Photoshop..

So went to the Tate to see..

...and spent much longer with his version than I had with mine.

Fields of Gold

2009-08-11T18:30:00.007+01:00

A walk across the local field of barley the other day. Having seen the recent news about crop circles, I realised that I had no idea about the texture or substance of the raw material.

A gate, half way around the field led to the local tributory to the Coquet......

...where I came across two simulacrae of variable quality.

The missing lion from the fourth plinth:

..and an elephant, poorly subsumed into the fabric of a beech tree..

Enthused by my discoveries and keen to find more faces in the hazels, I chanced a trip over the brook, chose to progress over a wet slippery log and fell in.

The next five minutes found me, Gollum like, fishing blindly for my varifocals, barely visible in the silt...

No pictures. My camera survived but, discretion being the better part of valour, it stayed on the bank.

Fish Pie..

2009-08-02T17:15:00.008+01:00

No connection with anything. No physics or cycling involved. No other reason than this is a favourite. And, I have realised that I cook. That's what I do mostly.

So cycling will be involved. It has to be.

I have been given carte blanche access to my neighbour's courgette patch during his absence on retreat. I add this plus purloined parsley and dill. Stolen herbs. They taste.. stolen.

I throw things together and tend not to measure. This frustrates some but I leave the details to the reader to refine. This is what I did today..

Poach some smoked cod or whatever in milk until flaky. allow to cool in the cooking liquid and then remove skin and any bones (eccchhhhh). Place large chunks in a bowl. I then add prawns.

Chop a large onion or two small ones and sautee gently in a tablespoon or so of oil. When clarified and soft, add the courgette and allow to cook until it concedes defeat. Remove from the heat and add a tablespoon (I think..) of strong white flour. Return to the heat and stir for approximately thirty seconds. There will be a bit of sticking on the bottom. Don't fret, this'll resolve when you add milk (I used skimmed because I forgot to keep the cooking liquid.. Duh!)

The milk goes in a bit at a time until cooked to sauce. I used to worry at this point but I have yet to make a sauce with lumps in. Or they are disguised by the veg.. Either way, it works. Aim for about a half a pint. I make it just a little too thick so as to accommodate the bottom of a bottle of white from the night before.

Take the sauce off the heat and allow to cool for a bit. Chop the herbs finely and throw in a handful. Fresh parsley and dill are like greens. More the better. If dried, read Delia.

Pour the resultant gold green liquid over the fish and allow to cool again. Don't worry about a skin forming. This is a good thing. It's scaffolding.

You will of course have boiled some potatoes to soft. With their skins on. Add some milk, pepper and grated low fat cheddar (Oh I don't know.. a handful). Mash, but aim for crushed rather than puree. This is not an affectation. More a feature of construction.

Spoon onto the fish and sauce and add a little more cheese mixed with spring onions.

Into an oven set to 180 for around as long as it takes to brown and bubble. The crushed potatoes brown more unevenly and add much needed texture to the whole I think.

There.
It took me an hour...

This was a summer's work. If you enlarge the image, the cells of the nursery can clearly be seen. Wasp pie. They are done now.

Avian toilet.

2009-08-01T09:54:00.002+01:00

No, not the unfortunate placement of the Housemartin nursery over the front door but the use of a torrent by the resident Collared Dove.

I have seen pigeons rolling on grass and allowing other pigeons to groom their underfeathers and Starlings are regular visitors to the bird bath. I had never seen a bird take a shower though. Both underwings received equal treatment and fastidious attention was paid to cleaning out the resultant debris before settling once again to resigned complacency.

I am reminded of the Chicken joke as 'told' by Ernest Hemmingway:

"Why did the chicken cross the road? .... to die .... in the rain ..... alone ........ "

Podcasts.. The top twelve.

2009-07-31T15:25:00.010+01:00

I am an afficionado. The ability to construct a listening schedule to suit your personal taste and seasonal caprices is highly seductive. Add to this the ever growing number of Podcasts available and the search for gems is a real treat.

I offer a list of my current favourite sites, each linked to their respective web pages and subscription addresses. If you are not familiar with the process, Firefox and Internet Explorer will add them to your bookmark folder automatically.

I would recommend the use of Gmail which offers it's own 'Reader' (amongst other fabulous tools). Many Podcasts add a tag for instant transfer to Google Reader and this seems to be a developing trend.

I have embedded additional links to other Podcast sites. These are also worth a look.

Humour and entertainment.

Adam and Joe.

Top of the list for off the cuff earcandy. Fun for all teenagers manque and, as I am sure they would claim, all manky teenagers..

Jon Richardson.

From the same BBC 6 Music stable. A great deal of very skilled adlibbing here.

Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo.

By far the best film review programme available. Rants, raves, routines and rituals abound. These two are now established as BBC anti establishment and have a following akin to ISIHAC.

Stephen Fry's Podgrams.

Ladies and gentlemen. I give you...

Science.

Astronomy Cast.

The wonderful Pamela Gay and Fraser Cain allow the complexities of the Special Theory and Dark Matter to tumble through the branches of our own limited experience of the universe we inhabit. In a twenty minute discussion, all is seemingly made clear, only to evaporate until the next hearing. And to think, they do this for nothing!

Are We Alone?

The official podcast of the Search For Extraterrestrial Intelligence conducted by the avuncular Seth Shostak, who provides a living link to Carl Sagan et al. Multi stranded and sometimes tangential to the theme. Always entertaining.

Ask The Naked Scientists.

One of the longest running 'Question and answer' format podcasts. Once again, from the BBC but local radio this time. Not afraid to admit defeat but rarely stumped. This one attracts a teenage audience and is therefore refreshingly open and naiive at times.

Science Talk.

The audio section of Scientific American. Brief clips and headlines explored. A balanced view from a seriously tilted nation.

Planetary Radio.

A great companion piece to Astronomy Cast. More focussed on our immediate back yard and more of a blatant appeal for hard cash to maintain the simple pleasure of the 'Beauty and mystery' of space travel.

Reason.

The Skeptic's Guide To The Universe.

This is the granddaddy of them all. A now well established programme of talks, interviews and reviews with great humour, anarchy and a high trustability quotient. It is tempting to criticise the frequency with which the various luminaries in the Skeptical field are invited on to speak. It might be seen sometimes to be the James Randi appreciation society. On occasion, the listener is abandoned in favour of 'off mic' jokes (Like Penn Jillette did before his show was axed..). It's all worth it though. These people know their stuff.

Skeptoid.

Platform for the great Brian Dunning. Short pieces designed to exercise reason and scientific thinking whilst addressing commonly held beliefs, myths and legends, medical misunderstandings and fads. He is also extremely helpful when contacted personally. A common theme running through the Sceptics community is that of mutual support.

Skepticality.

A while back, the community held it's breath as we awaited news of Derek's brain.. Half of this great Podcast suffered a stroke and has spent the last few years working his speech back to where he is confident on the microphone once more. In his absence, co-host Swoopy kept the show aloft and it is well worth listening again to some of the earlier episodes. Her professionalism and compassion are often breathtaking and again, offered for no profit. Merely the joy of developing reasoned thinking. This one celebrates Darwin to a large extent. And Dragons.

And then there are those...

2009-07-31T13:48:00.004+01:00

There are those who's dignity in death reminds us of simple, effective vitality that went before.

Bobby Robson has contributed so much to us all, football fans and pich bystanders both. He has achieved that most enviable accolade. A life demonstrably lived by personal credo.

“The first ninety minutes of a football match are the most important.”

“Maybe not goodbye, but farewell.”

Cern is nearly ready. Meanwhile..

2009-07-19T17:04:00.006+01:00

As the boffins lower the last dipole magnet into the loop and prepare to cool it all down to just above absolute zero. As they process all the gas out of this enormous donut. As they hold their breath, we are disposing of small vacuum tubes, powerful magnets and the means to control them by the millions.

Our homes have become a little larger and our desks more spacious. Recycling sites are struggling to pass these complex particle beam accelerators on to new owners. We have found a new romance, with the microtransistor and photon stream twisting of liquid crystal. Single pixels are being given their own logic gates and no longer need the guidance of Gauss to regulate the electron's natural uncertain flightpath.

Evening experiments...

2009-07-19T15:17:00.007+01:00

I forget that, much as black and white films look different on colour tv, monochrome photographs never quite seem... the same.

Attempts to 'load' the Liquorice Leica with 'Kodak Tri-x' or 'Ilford FP3' result in the need for post production shenanegans akin to alchemy.

And that's turning gold back to lead!

Here we go....

2009-07-18T14:36:00.009+01:00

The residents of Morpeth are holding their breath this weekend.. A walk down to Warkworth today brought a bit of a flood of memories together with a sense of relief at being highter than the water table.

The river is empty of birdlife. A family of mallard gave it a go between the bridges and were seemingly rudderless for a hundred yards before clambering ashore again. This family settled between the bank and the road. Waiting it out.

Across the road from this pile of white...

...another.

Some structures here are more used to it.

The river is contributed to by a small stream, a hundred and twenty household insurance defying meters down from and left of the house..

It provides a rush of white noise when in spate.

Oo - Er...

2009-07-15T19:34:00.003+01:00

It starting to look like a forgotten ghetto now. Overcrowded and in need of additional social spending. I can see trouble as the inhabitants become less comfortable at home...

Waesp..

2009-07-14T19:56:00.005+01:00

The nest is not coping well with the combination of wind and rain that hooks around the eaves.. I looked at the derivation of the word Wasp and found all dictionaries from Collins to Wicki in accord.

The foundation of the word is in recognition of what they do best not what they do to us.

Their creative skills are on the wane. The inhabitants of this paper lantern are getting feisty...

I am alerting them by just observing them now. I fear the imminent arrival of apples and soft fruits. When fermented, they offer a reward for the hard work during summer.. with the inevitable effect on mood and impulse...

Meanwhile, just below, where the fence meets the gate under the nest I have hung a condominium for Ladybirds and anything else that fancies a quiet spot over winter. Hopefully, when occupied, this may offer the foundation of enough predators to make Rose spraying unnecessary next year.

Meanwhile...

2009-07-08T19:10:00.001+01:00

In the real world, the Housemartins are frantically feeding. The chicks are demanding and can be heard over Radio 3 in the evening!

A great deal from a well established loan company?

2009-07-08T18:44:00.004+01:00

Apparently, there is a 'Too good to miss' offer from a Latvian loan company. They invite applications for loans guaranteed by the temporary lodging of the borrower's soul.

The local Catholic cardinal has become incensed by this threat to the immortality of the spirit and is calling for government intervention..

An interesting paradox. The church continues to demonstrate it's insecure grasp of it's own conviction whilst lending credence to it's 'rival'.. Supposedly learned clerics fighting the corner for an omnipotent being whose take on this usury is already acknowledged as variable.

It might be wise to convene a refresher weekend for the upper echelons..
perhaps entitled, 'Dignified Silence.. a powerful persuasion'....

They just can't help it. Cowboys the lot of 'em!

No such thing as bad weather...

2009-07-07T18:27:00.005+01:00

The solstice passed, nights seem darker earlier already. The Morpeth monsoon visited the garden at the weekend and the local wildlife sat it out..

This lot are not affected.. the nest is now threatening to need planning permission and I shall be keeping a close eye on the likelihood of trouble from my new neighbours.

The heat, the rain, the railway line at the back of the garden hasn't seen steam for decades....

Two birds, one window, two endings..

2009-06-27T13:09:00.005+01:00

A flurry of excitement this morning as a baby Bluetit found it's way into the bedroom through an open window and met Molly. She carried it downstairs and began that necessary 'Red in tooth and claw' gameplay they do..

I separated her from her intended entertainment and put it in the garden.
The Tit survived and Molly took to her bed.

A juvenile Blackbird was not so lucky. Deciding to fly through, rather than around the glass, it landed in my courgettes and expired.

Only the second bird to attempt to fly through the house, a Greenfinch tried it the other week and landed at my feet, stunned.

I guess if one of us was hurled into plate glass at speed, we probably wouldn't make it... The Greenfinch took a breather and went back to the feeders..

While the queen thrives, the king is dead..

2009-06-27T12:38:00.008+01:00

An arrested developer, caught in a bramble bush of abuse and halted at the age of his father's last barb. A manchild who's preference was fun and games, him and Mcauley Kulkin reading comics under duvets and eating Oreos and giggling as adults. A father in his turn with no understanding of the language or the rules but not an abuser, no evidence of serial behaviour.
A great, great talent who carried the double burden of The King Of Pop and the Naughty Child In The Restaurant whilst his siblings looked the other way and took the cash.

I adored his work with Quincey Jones and Gordy Berry.. He was never a Motown Soul presence but he only just missed out on recording with Miles Davis and without him, there'd be no Prince....

I have grown up alongside him and watched with mounting horror.

Listen to 'Thriller' and marvel at the technical brilliance that he encouraged in others. Read this messy formulation from Montreal.. Too late to edit I think. A great piece.

Nesting still..

2009-06-20T12:35:00.010+01:00

In light of the arch anti architect's recent scandalous scuppering of Richard Rogers latest building project, I am heartened by my decision to leave the paper house alone. I am dismayed by Charles' seeming untouchable status when his or his family's wishes come before those of the more creative, worldly and valid (IMHO).

Please watch the Guardian interview with Steve Bell accompanying the link.

Anyhoo..
The industry continues and the population are quietly getting on with collecting small insects from the cotoneaster and roses, thereby contributing to the garden's ecology.

By chance, I came across a fledgeling project in the garage roof. It had been started and abandoned, possibly last year. The process of providing a roof over the imoportant pupal chambers can be seen here..

Fit for purpose, social housing, cooperatively constructed and in balance with the environment. With the additional benefit of the sacrifice of the Princes at the end of the season and the abdication and hibernation of the Queen. No Christmas speech then. A new, architecturally enthusiastic prince in the spring..