Autumn isn't all brown ...

Just a few colours from around my garden today:

In Sickness and in Heat

A chance remark by Z, and a comment from Mike, has set off a chain of very early memories loosely around the area of ill health and bedroom fires.  The former is not a topic I’m terribly keen to pursue, because I’ve been getting enough of that at home recently (though everything seems to have settled down at the moment), but as Paul Simon put it, ‘preserve your memories.’  So:

Our first house, Watcombe Road, was heated entirely by burning coal, mostly in open fires, though there was a stove in the breakfast room (I think), which is where we did a lot of our living.  Central heating was a thing of the future; when we moved to the posh house in Stourwood Road when I was twelve, we were very impressed by the huge columnar cast iron radiators, even though I don’t remember them ever being much more than lukewarm.

Anyway, back at Watcombe, I tended to be a sickly child, and in those days the frontline defence against illness was to be kept in bed.  So Mike’s observation equating heated bedrooms with sickness rings a loud bell.  I think I ran through whooping cough, croup and chickenpox in fairly quick succession.  At that age, between about three and six, you don’t have a lot of expectations, so I don’t remember being particularly distressed by the symptoms, nasty though they must have been – it was almost a kind of normal.

What I do remember is the warmth.  Winter beds consisted of sheets, at least two blankets, and an eiderdown, all that being essential defence against the encroaching frost which painted intricate ferns on the windowpanes.  Sick beds probably had another layer or two, and the bedroom fire was lit!  I was allowed – encouraged – to draw, to look at pictures (I remember being given copies of ‘Illustrated’ and ‘Picture Post’ magazines, which was pretty advanced on my parents’ part, the equivalent of letting me loose on Mail Online today; of course, they may have been parentally edited), and to read: in fact I suspect my precocious reading ability owed a lot to being so ill so often.

I loved it, and developed an unhealthy penchant, for a while,  for crying sick when I fancied a day off school.  (I once tried dipping the thermometer into my tea, but that got rumbled.) 

But it also gave rise to perhaps my earliest nightmare, certainly of the lucid, waking kind.  (You know the ones: you’re awake, everything looks and feels normal, but something’s out of kilter, things are happening that shouldn’t be – and then you wake up properly.)   It was triggered by something I’m sure was called the Steam Kettle.  This was filled with water kept at a simmer, presumably by some sort of  paraffin burner, with a long neck which gently emitted steam, to keep the air humidified through the night.  I’d probably been looking at giraffes, or dinosaurs.  You can guess the rest.

Doo-wah doo-wah doo-wah …. I’m in Heaven!

I know I’m behind the curve, because millions of my readers, especially in the USA, have already bought it, but just in case you haven’t (and assuming you can recognise proper music when you hear it)  – ‘Cheek to Cheek’ by Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga.

About five decades separate them in clocktime, but no more than a beat in music.  They meet in opposite directions: her maturity, his youthfulness; his maturity, her youthfulness.

It’s had me dancing, in my body and my soul.  Am I showing my age?  I do hope so.

Caravans considered carefully

My relatives have a static caravan at Hayling Island.  It’s about twenty years old, and even they admit that it’s falling to pieces and will eventually be condemned on H&S grounds.  This year they’ve been down there just twice: in the Spring to open it up, and this weekend to shut it down.  It was the same last year. 

“Why do you keep it?” I often ask.  “It’s not exactly value for money, is it?”   (The site rent isn’t negligible.)   The answers aren’t what you’d call rationally focussed, ranging from “The walk round the Creek’s still lovely”, through “It’s interesting to see how the place changes”, to “We’ve been going to Hayling (Reading-by-the-Sea, it used to be called) since we were babies.”

This is why the title of this post is an oxymoron.

You may recall that I too have a static caravan, in south Pembrokeshire.  (New readers, if you’re brave, click on the label at the bottom.)  I’ve been there just twice this year.  I have excuses, but shamefully this is the first time since 2002 that I haven’t gone down to mothball it for the winter.  I had to sub-contract that to Joseph (who’ll do it probably better than I would have).  But I miss it.  There’s something about ingrained rituals that leave a hole in your psyche when they’re broken.    

And “consider carefully” doesn’t meld with “miss”.  Rationality and emotional intelligence are hard to reconcile.  I can’t put in words why this is so, what it is I miss  – the joy of arrival and opening it all up; the ever-shifting constant sea; fallen leaves on the patio; long shadows of neighbouring caravans at sunset; the rabbits, robins and partridges.  I’ll have to try and pull together some photos.  In the meantime, I’ve paid next year’s rent.

Hypocritic?

I’m indebted to my brother for bringing this to my attention, and also suggesting the punchline.

It seems that not enough cases of dementia are being diagnosed: only about fifty percent, apparently.  Now you might wonder how exactly they go about counting the undiagnosed cases – but that’s not the point right now.  The point is that the NHS has a solution.  For the next six months, GPs will be paid £55 for each new case they identify. 

That’ll get the stats up to where we want them.

Now I wouldn’t dream of suggesting that there are any unscrupulous doctors out there, but it does set a bit of a precedent, doesn’t it?  My brother nailed it when he visualised a cartoon (which would have been worthy of the late, irreplaceable David Austin*):

Patient to doctor:  “I have absolutely no memory of offering you £60 not to diagnose me with Alzheimer’s!”

 

* Austin did the pocket cartoon in the Guardian for many years, right up to his early death in 2005.  The paper wisely opted not to try to replace him.  He took no prisoners. Perhaps my favourite of the few I can remember was in about November 2002, during the lead-up to the Iraq War.  Several generals are in conference, looking worried.  One of them says:  “But – what if he really has got WMDs?”

 

 

Tax Discs

Old-style bloggers, including me, seem to be dropping off the cliff by the day, presumably into the swamp of fyzzogbook or wherever, so I thought I’d come up with a really buzzy strapline to entice you back.

Cars sometimes get dumped in the Close by my house, and have to be checked out.  We usually let them lie for a week or so then have a closer look.  The best clue is: do they have a valid tax disc?  Or was.

I reckon it’s the first move in a cunning plot to monetarise the DVLC website.

By the way, for any collectors out there, I have a near-mint April 2015, carefully torn perforations, rare BMW example, guaranteed unique.

Eyes Right!

No, this isn’t going to be about my marching experiences in the Combined Cadet Force (CCF) at Bournemouth School in the 1950s, where I learnt to walk in a straight line whilst not looking where I was going – although I could tell you a bit about that, and might save it up for a future blog.  (One good thing about blogburbling is that you can’t see your readers rolling their eyes.)  I was actually quite good at it, such that I eventually got appointed to point position, the marching pacemaker (front left) who effectively controls the whole pointless procedure …

No, this is about my eye test this morning.  I hadn’t had one for far too long, at least according to the optician: five years in fact.  I rationalise this by the thought that one’s eyesight alters so gradually that you have to give it enough time for any significant changes to be detectable – which is cobblers, I know: it was entirely down to my negligence and procrastination.  Anyway, it got done and, to my relieved surprise, no serious issues.

Unlike some other medical procedures, I quite enjoy eye tests.  I particularly like the peripheral vision check, where you put your face into a box, stare at a red light, and click a button whenever you see a green flash, which might be anywhere.  It’s like winning at a rather primitive arcade computer game.  Apparently, the quicker you respond, the more frequently the green flashes come, which adds an extra element of competition.

I also enjoy competing with the lower lines of the random letter charts – I bet on that fuzzy smudge being a V rather than a Y, an M not an H, and beat the odds: that’s strangely satisfying.  As is making the judgment call as to whether this lens combination is more or less blurry than that one.  In a funny way, for a little while I feel very much involved with, even in control of, an essential element of my life which is usually taken for granted.

The photographs of my retina were interesting too (especially as they didn’t show up any problems).  I’ve had a few ultrasound scans of various zones recently, and sometimes been allowed to watch the screen, and I find it fascinating to see, in real time, what’s actually going on in there.  (I’m sure not everyone would agree.)

The most surprising result was that, whereas my right eye has deteriorated somewhat, my left one has actually improved.  I’d suspected this to be the case, so the surprising bit was the reason.  It seems I have a small incipient cataract in my left eye, and apparently, in the early stages, this can actually cause your vision to get better!  Who’d have guessed that?  It will eventually get worse, of course, but not for a good few years yet.  I won’t wait another five though. 

In the meantime, I need to choose some new frames.  I know, I could just reuse the old ones; but at this stage of my life, I don’t get many opportunities to make a fashion statement.

 

Size Matters?

I got an iPhone a few weeks ago, but I’ve only just really got round to exploring its capabilities (beyond phone calls and texts, of course, and checking to make sure I still haven’t had any emails).  I must say, it’s very clever, and I’m sure sooner or later I’ll find some excuses to use some of the features, like the compass.  In the meantime, I’ve been musing about mobile phones and how they’ve evolved over the years.

In the beginning, they were the size, shape and weight of a house brick (and about as good at communication).  I remember when a rather self-important manager where I worked got one of those, and would parade up and down the corridor pretending to converse on it.  He had a perfectly good fixed-line phone in his office, of course, but that wasn’t the point.  We stared and sniggered, possibly with a frisson of envy. 

Over a few years, mobiles rapidly got smaller and smaller.  My first one, bought purely for emergency use, was about the size, shape and weight of the VHS recorder’s remote control.  My suit jacket sagged to the left.  The next one, which also contained a camera (why? I wondered), was half as big. I don’t think I ever took a picture with it. (Why would I?  I had a perfectly good brick-sized SLR for that.)  But you could usually make phone calls, provided you were in exactly the right location at the right time.  (This is still true.)

Over time, they shrank and shrank to the point where you had to use a pin to press the buttons.  (Yes, children, believe it or not, phones had buttons in those days.)  The joke was that this was the only area in which men bragged about having the smallest one.  My last phone was small enough to wriggle through a little hole in the breast pocket of my jacket onto (I reckon) the floor of a London taxi.  Hence the iPhone.

Just after I got the iPhone 5C, the new version 6 came out.  I knew this was going to happen, of course, and got a pretty good price deal as a result.  But I have noticed that they’re getting bigger again.  I saw someone on the street this morning talking into something that looked about A5 size.  Admittedly they’re only growing in two dimensions, they’ll never be as thick as a brick again.

More like a carpet tile, from what I hear.  Bendability wasn’t a planned design feature, but I bet the guys at Cupertino are working on it right now.  The iPhone 10 or 11 will be made of graphene, so you can fold it up, stick it in your pocket or bag and accidentally throw it away along with a used tissue.  You heard it here first.

 

Risk Averse?

When I was a child, I was told that you should never switch a light on or off with wet hands, because electricity and water don’t mix – or rather, they mix too well.  I thought this was stupid – how could the electricity possibly get out of that sealed insulated switch and connect up with the tiny amount of water on my finger?  I got no sympathy.  “Just don’t do it.”  There’s no arguing with these grown-ups.  So I didn’t, and drying my hands before operating the light became a lifelong habit.

I remembered that this morning when, after cleaning my teeth, I switched the light on to shave: with a wet finger, of course.  One day back in the early spring, I’d nicked my face shaving.  Now this is not a good idea when you’re on Warfarin.  My blood clots half as quickly as most people’s.  I’d been wet-shaving for fifty years, and cut myself maybe a dozen times, but that wasn’t the point.  So I went out and bought an electric razor.  I don’t particularly like it, and it doesn’t do the job as well, but you can’t be too careful, can you?

But a change is under way.  I emerged from the hospital a fortnight ago clutching a raft of advice and prohibitions, some of which were about driving.  Depending on which leaflet you read and who you listened to, the recommendations varied bewilderingly.  I had to wait for six weeks before I could get behind the wheel; four weeks; two weeks; and “not until I felt ready.”  A couple of days ago I felt ready, so I thought what the heck and nipped up to Waitrose.  I seem to have survived.

So I may have been overly risk-averse for much of my life.  On the other hand, I did walk away in 1965 from a promising career in a glass shop to join a rock ‘n’ roll band.  But that was an emotional decision, not a rational one.

A New England?

Most gratifying to see Cameron, Gove, Shapps, Hague and co taking such a statesmanlike approach to these constitutional issues.  “How can we use this to screw Labour at the next election and secure our own jobs, whilst not upsetting the money-cart?”  Thomas Jefferson would be proud of them!

‘English votes on English laws’.  Well, leave aside for a moment the fact that, according to Will Hutton in yesterday’s Observer, citing the McKay commission, a) there has been a total of just two-and-a-half years since 1919 when House of Commons arithmetic would have made any difference to any vote, and b) the question would hardly ever arise in practice anyway – there is remarkably little actual solely ‘English’ legislation.

Leave that aside.  The obviously false assumption is that ‘England’ in any way equates or is comparable to Scotland (or Wales, or Northern Ireland).  Quite apart from differences of landmass and population, none of these political constructs is in any way homogeneous.  (The referendum voting breakdown clearly proves this for Scotland; and I know neighbouring villages in Wales that’d be separate countries if they could.)  Least of all ‘England’.

No, England needs breaking down before any of this stuff makes any sense.  I haven’t worked out the details yet – can I safely leave that to Mr Hague? – but to kick off the negotiations I suggest revisiting the ancient Kingdoms of the Anglian Heptarchy.  In case you’d forgotten, these were, in about 700 AD: Mercia; Northumbria; East Anglia; Wessex; Essex; Sussex; and Kent.   There’ll be some mergers, demergers and acquisitions along the way, no doubt; but it’s a start point.

P.S. Sorry, I’ve temporarily reinstated the dreaded WV, in the hope of seeing off a particularly persistent idiotic Chinese spamhead.   I’ll take it off again after a few more posts.

Hallelujah!

I’ve been out! 

Bee came over and took me to lunch at the Greyhound at Tidmarsh, which has the distinction of having nearly burned down ten years ago but still managing to be a Grade II listed building.   And a gorgeous pub.   And nearly empty Sunday lunchtime – people round here need to get out more.

And happy birthday Lennie.

Bored

I once characterised boredom as a state of mind resulting from wanting to do something but having nothing you want to do.  For the time being, I have to rework that second part slightly: ‘having nothing you’re allowed to do’ is nearer the mark.

For a start, I’m grounded.  I mean that in the old-fashioned sense of ‘confined to barracks’, rather than the modern one of ‘focussed and filled with mindfulness’.  The physical activities I can undertake are pretty constrained.  Heavy lifting or strenuous behaviour of any sort is a no-no.  I don’t know where exactly the boundaries lie – someone on the NHS website claimed that he wasn’t allowed to empty the dishwasher; I’m not going that far – but it’s best to be careful.  So cutting the grass, clearing the attic, reinstalling the curtain rail in the spare room that got knocked down by the decorator three years ago – all these kinds of pleasures are off limits.  Imagine my frustration.

Some ‘gentle walking’ is permissible, so I’ve wandered down to Lidl’s to buy some peanuts (is that ‘heavy lifting’?).  But I’m not supposed to drive for at least another week or so; Lord knows why, it’s much less strenuous than walking.  Something to with emergency stops and insurance validity, apparently. 

Ironing.  I s’pose I could do some ironing.

The dishwasher needs emptying.  O frabjous joy!

Done that.

I’ve done yesterday’s crosswords.

No, it’s all down to the life of the mind.  Except that it’s an effort to force my mind beyond matters medical at the moment.  There are some let’s call them ‘events’ which need to occur thrice daily, and tend to disrupt the flow of thought.  I can’t concentrate on anything more demanding than the newspaper, and the less demanding bits at that.  The referendum has passed me  by, and my mental feebleness is such that twenty four hours on I still don’t understand how Scottish independence has suddenly turned into English independence …  But that’s just me, I’m sure.

Oh well.  At least I now have the internet; my landline broadband was down when I got back from the hospital, which was strangely disorientating.  Good job I bought that iPhone!

Oh well.  Time for a cup of tea soon.  And another crossword.  Things can only get better.

Five Thoughts about this Referendum Thingie

It’s everywhere: the Guardian alone has had 1,707 pages of coverage this week, more than five times the actual thickness of the paper (or so it seems).   So don’t imagine you can come here to escape it! 

I’m not entitled to vote, obviously, which gives me the right to say whatever I damn well please about it.  So, just five random thoughts:

1. Why aren’t I entitled to vote?  In my admittedly limited experience, divorces usually allow both parties to have a say.
2. The actual question – ‘Should Scotland be an independent country?’ – seems to mean ‘Just say Yes or No to something or other, we’ll work out what afterwards.’
3. Here’s an idea for Gideon.  Flog off NatWest; implement the Williams and Glyn English branch hive-off; then sell what’s left of RBS to Scotland to use as its new central bank.  They already have the money-printing presses.
4. What will the residue be called?  ‘Rest of the U.K.’ doesn’t really catch you, does it?  I suggest ‘FormerlyUnited Kingdom’ or ‘DeUnited Kingdom’.  Do the acronyms and say it quickly …
5. What about the weather forecast, eh?  What about the weather forecast?  The BBC doesn’t do the Republic of Ireland; will they continue to do Scotland?  And will the SBC do England?   This is important!

Fixing a Hole*

I know, I haven’t been blogging much lately, for too many reasons to enumerate here – some due to necessity, some due to mostly enjoyable distractions, lots due to, let’s face it, sheer inertia.

So it’s a relief* to have a genuinely valid excuse for not blogging over the next week or two – I’m going into hospital!

I’m so excited!  This will be only the fourth time in my life (not counting the odd A&E visit).  The first was to have my tonsils out when I was about six, about which I remember little except that I was forced to eat banana sandwiches, which put me off the things (bananas, not sandwiches) for years, and that parents were discouraged from visiting.  The second time was in my forties, to have wisdom teeth extracted; that was under private healthcare provided by my employers, which meant I had my own room in a very tastefully decorated hospital (without, of course, anything like an A&E department).  And the third, last January, I’ve blogged about here.

[The statisticians amongst you will have noted the increasing frequency of these events.  I’m not bothered in the least by this; the sample is far too small as yet to prove a trend.] 

I won’t go into details about this fourth one, except to say that, apparently, it happens a lot to old men like me, and will involve the micro-surgical equivalent of the reamer fitting on a Black and Decker.  It’ll be a piece of – no, better not say.*

Anyway, I’ve resolved, when I come home, to fix the hole in my blogging bucket.  I’ll probably be sitting around for a while, not allowed to do much more than read, listen to music, and write.  So, I’ll try for the ‘post-a-day’ policy so enjoyably employed by other bloggers whom I follow.  It’ll be an interesting experiment, given the enforced narrowing of my horizons.  Will my imagination be given free rein into hitherto unexplored realms; or will it be along the lines of ‘Got up.  Fell out of bed.’?  Who knows? 

* Enough with the clues: Ed.

Ten Great Intros

I was flipping through ‘Yeah Yeah Yeah’, Bob Stanley’s magisterial history of modern popular music (which should be essential reading for anyone with anything approaching a  passionate interest in the subject – it’s 737 pages long, but you can skip), when I came across a remark about the role of the intro in a great pop record.  In the days when radio play was the key to sales, a good hook at the very start could make all the difference.  Record makers realised this and played around with the concept (and its creative potential), and the intro eventually became a miniature art form in its own right.

So I started to wonder what might be amongst my top great intros.  I drew a few boundaries: it had to be instrumental, which sadly rules out, for example, Good Vibrations (‘I…’) and Heartbreak Hotel (‘Well…’); it had to aurally identify the record before the song itself actually started – to stand alone, if you like; and as a self-imposed constraint, it had to be from the fifties and sixties: both because that’s my formative musical era, and because those decades were definitely the golden age of the intro.

[I wanted to make this a kind of quiz – guess the intro from a brief sound clip – but I lack the technology for this, so the Spotify links (where they work) will be followed by the whole record.  I hope you don’t mind.] 

Okay, here goes (don’t expect many surprises):

Chuck Berry – Johnny B. Goode

 More or less randomly selected – it tied with ‘That’ll Be The Day’ – but in the fifties, upfront guitars like this were a blast between the ears.  And Chuck’s has lasted longer: you can still hear it played today, if you listen closely.  And it’s a better song, at least lyrically.

Four Seasons - I've Got You Under My Skin

Because it’s is just so beautiful, and contrasts so drastically with the next selection, the same song opened up to such opposite interpretations, surely a hallmark of an imperishable masterpiece of songwriting.

Frank Sinatra – I’ve Got You Under My Skin (or more correctly Nelson Riddle): 

These two intros to the same song couldn’t be more different in setting the emotional tone (sad resignation versus angry menace), not to mention the musical tenor, of what’s to follow, yet they’re equally memorable.

The Beach Boys – California Girls

Spoiled for choice here really – God Only Knows was a close contender –  but this is just so evocative!

The Beatles - Strawberry Fields Forever

 Well, I had to include one, didn’t I?  Again, random choice.  First ever use of the Mellotron?  And it does illustrate one intro trick, which is to start with the bridge or middle bit; they played this card over and over again.  Strangely, it doesn’t appear to be available on Spotify; why would that be?  Oh, I know…

Ray Charles – What'd I Say - Parts I & II

The longest intro in pop history?  It might sound tame now, but when I first heard it on Luxembourg, through a wave of phase, I thought I’d tuned in to some other planet, which of course I had.

Elvis Presley – Jailhouse Rock

Because I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard it.  And because, for reasons lost in time, it made me want to sing as well as play rock ‘n’ roll.  And because of the rimshots.

Bill Haley – (We’re Gonna) Rock Around The Clock

The shortest intro in pop history, just two rapid-fire drum rimshots – it hardly qualifies. But it counted for a lot more in 1956.  Drums had never been so loud.

Bob Dylan - Like a Rollin' Stone  (again, no Spotify link)

Yet another rimshot, followed by a mind-spinning swirl of quintessential 1965.  You heard the words before they even started – didn’t you?

And of course I’ve kept the best till last…  Dave Anthony's Moods - New Directions

Modesty forbids me from saying more ...! 

Five random notes

1. There was another gorgeous butterfly in the garden earlier, but it scarpered before I could get the camera. “Not ready for my close-up, Mr de Mille”, I heard it mutter as it fluttered away. Mostly black, with bright red flashes on its wingtips.  Any clues?
2. Back in May, I turned the central heating thermostat down to 18⁰C: it’s just clicked on (5.35 pm)!  Outside, it’s 15⁰, and hasn’t been much more all day.  How am I supposed to get those tomatoes ripened??
3. The letter ‘i’ on my keyboard is making an ominous clunky noise.  Could this be due to the residual presence of dried red wine? 
4. Rummaging through a drawer for an old butter knife, as one does, I came across the fork from a cutlery set I was given at my christening, back in 1942.  (The rest – knife, spoon? –  is lost; as is the butter knife.)  It’s solid silver, little lion on the back to prove it, and is engraved with my initials.  I found this quite moving for some reason.   I also discovered that, if you tap it on a hard surface, it plays a very interesting chord. 
5. Does anybody speak cat?  I can communicate with most dogs, but cats are mysterious.  I was sitting out under my bus shelter when a tabby who frequents the garden crept out of the shrubbery.  In the past, any friendly approach by me would be rebuffed with a startled stare and a dash back into the bushes – but this time it crept up, miaowing threateningly, came close enough to be briefly stroked, rolled over on its back and allowed its tummy to be tickled.  Then it jumped up and ran away like a scaredy-cat.  It might just be hungry, of course, but it’s not going to get fed around here.  Or it needs counselling.  Mysterious.      

*

The Only Word Is Exxes

“I loved as much as you will receive carried out right here. 

The sketch is attractive, your authored material stylish.
nonetheless, you command get got an nervousness over that you wish be delivering the following.
“unwell unquestionably come further formerly again as exactly the same nearly a lot often inside case you shield this hike.”

What I loved about this particular spam comment (which originated, as always, from Russia) is that it purports to link to a tanning salon in Braintree.

And its ‘found’ poetry.  The bastard child of Ezra Pound and William Burroughs after a good night in?  I particularly like “case you shield this hike.”

I HATE SPAM.  But just occasionally it throws up a gem.  Another recent one praised the insight, erudition, eloquence, etc. that I’d evinced in a photograph of a butterfly.

The real purpose of this post, of course, is to see what spam comments it attracts.  I’ll share the best, if any.

Lights out

I’m writing this just before ten o’clock, though I won’t post it until after eleven.

I can’t honestly act in personal remembrance of anyone who died, because none of my ancestors or relations did, as far as I know.  This doesn’t stop me from being aware of what happened, and I have read long lists of names on memorials, not just recently; but does it sound harsh to say that names are not the same as personalities?

I’m going to switch on the TV in a moment.  (The TV is, of course, a source of light.)  All but one of my house lights are off, but that’s not unusual at this point in the evening, so I can’t claim to be making any kind of gesture.

Just a last thought – wouldn’t it have been more affirming to ask everyone to switch their lights on, or light their candles, one by one, rather than extinguish them?  Or do we have to wait another four years for that?

***

It’s now 24 hours later.  I’d intended to add a postscript to the above – but as I was watching the ceremony, in the dark, I reached out for my wine glass and knocked it all over the computer.  It’s taken until now for the keyboard to dry out enough that ‘s’ doesn’t come out as ‘\s’, ‘q’ as ‘zq’, etc.  I’d spent the night and half the day worrying about whether I needed to buy a new keyboard, or a new computer, or what… but as you can see it’s now back to zqnormal (only jkidding!/)

I missed the last bit of the ceremony, obvs.  I see that a girl movingly proposed that names (or even the absence of them) can in fact be used to construct personalities – and that it doesn’t actually matter whether those are real or not.

As a final, slightly confused, thought: small mistakes (spilt wine, shot man) can lead to huge stupid consequences (new computer, world war), if we’re not careful. 

 

 

Elusive

Fall again. Fall better.

It was fellow-blogger Rog who pointed out, ages ago when for some reason I had touched on the subject, that once you pass seventy you don’t ‘fall over’ any more, you ‘have a fall’.  Well, judging from how I felt on waking up last Monday morning, I reckon I must have done both on my way to bed the night before.

I don’t want to go into details, even those I can remember.  Suffice to say that whilst I was failing to tidy the kitchen, the builders had been in and repositioned the staircase.  And I turned the landing light off instead of on, easy mistake.  And it was very late.  And …

It’s a cracked rib.  Been there, done that (you can’t wear a T-shirt under these conditions), so I knew what lay ahead.  The doctor was very sympathetic once I’d spun him my carefully concocted yarn about getting out of the bath, and gave me a truckload of codeine phosphate tablets.  They’re 15mg, and I’m allowed up to four at a time, up to four times a day, so I have plenty of dosage flexibility.

 

One of the instructions on the leaflet is ‘DO NOT drink alcohol with codeine phosphate, as it may affect you more than usual.’  I considered and rejected a couple of smart-ass sophistries – does that just mean don’t wash them down with wine? and can’t I just drink less than usual? – and have been experimenting with de-alcoholized wine, which is wine that’s been made the proper way then had nearly all the alcohol taken out.  I can report that it’s not (quite) as unpalatable as you might think.  The shiraz I’ve tried tastes almost like a cheap, rather sweet shiraz; and the wuzziness caused by the codeine neatly compensates (nearly) for the missing alcohol.  You can get used to anything.

The list of possible side effects is awesome – twenty of them in all.  If I’d had them all, there wouldn’t have been much of me left.  As a quibble, number 19 on the list should really have been number one.  (I’ll let you guess for yourselves what it is.  The clue is there.)  The most interesting one, though, is number 17: ‘Hallucinations’.  Sadly, I don’t think this has happened, though you can’t be sure, can you?  

Sky over here, this evening

Mare's tails?  Mare's nest?  I dunno.  Vapour trails, probably.

Hyperactive teenage tadpoles (cont’d)

Has anyone been ‘upgraded’ to the all-new BT Mail service recently?

Have you yet torn out all your hair or smashed yourself in the teeth?

BT have been trailing their divorce from Yahoo for over a year now, and the decree nisi finally came through last Friday.  You’d think that’d be long enough to provide, at the least, a stable service which doesn’t crash every few hours (if it manages to load in the first place); also that one would be able to do, at least, everything one could before.  (It’s supposed to be ‘better’, to use their word.) 

But no.  I had a call from a nice man in Mumbai, who unfortunately had clearly never seen this system before.  He took over my screen and clicked around all over the place, checking all the settings I’d already (obvs) checked, before informing me that ‘this function is not supported by the new BT Mail’.

(For the record, the function in question is the ability to skip to the next or previous email.)

I fumed for a bit, and muttered about switching to gmail.  (This may yet happen, those of you who have my email address, watch this space…)  Then I clicked on to Blogger (another Google ‘service’), to find that my dashboard can now only show one post at a time from my so-called Reading List.  I’ve been away, so hadn’t noticed this, but apparently the problem has existed for at least a week; hundreds of people have complained, and been exhorted to be patient.

I think I’ll buy a batch of postcards and first class stamps and send my communications by the Royal Mail.  Oh, hang on –

Send me an email, drop me a line, stating point of view.

Retail Entropy

Jackson’s, a legendary department store in the centre of Reading, finally closed down last Christmas Eve, after 140 years of selling school uniforms and sensible underwear and imitation Dresden knick-knacks, and of being as iconic a landmark in Reading as, say, Selfridge’s in Oxford Street or Lewis’s in Leeds.  Plans have just been unveiled to preserve the façade, whilst installing flats* and, yes, shops, behind it.

I think I shopped there three times.  Once for an unlined cream linen jacket (which I wore for many years) and a panama hat (I must have been going through some kind of Somerset Maugham phase), and twice for presents for elderly aunts.  Jackson’s was the go-to place for presents for elderly aunts.  So I can’t say I’ll miss it as a shop – but I think I will as a symbol.

A symbol of what?  Well, walk into T. P. Hughes, Pettits, or Ocky White’s, to take three examples I am (or was) familiar with, and you’ll be uniquely in Tenby, Wallingford or Haverfordwest: those shops are (or were**) intrinsic to the town where they were born and grew up.  Walk into John Lewis, Debenhams or House of Fraser, and you could be anywhere.  This is not to denigrate the big chains, just to say that something special is being lost.  Crankiness, quirkiness, localism, call it what you will.  I kind of wish I’d shopped in Jackson’s more.

In Bournemouth, where I was born and grew up, there were four big department stores, all very different.   Bobby’s turned into Debenhams, while Plummers also briefly became Debenhams (until Debenhams decided they couldn’t sustain two stores in the same town and closed it down).  The surviving Debenhams has recently been rebadged as ‘Bobby’s, though I doubt if the clock has been turned back to the fifties.  Brights is House of Fraser.  Only Beales survives.  The last time I was in there, ten years ago, it hadn’t changed much.  I bought a wallet, which I’m still using.

I was once told that you could identify a good town by the presence of a pet shop, an old-fashioned ironmongers’ and a second-hand bookshop.  Any candidates?

* Some of which will, apparently, be ‘affordable’, as opposed to the other sort – but that’s another debate.

** Ocky’s closed down in 2013.  I can’t say I regret the shop, only went there once, but I do rather regret the name.  

Please prove you are a robot

‘Eugene Goostman’, either a dysfunctional Ukrainian teenage boy or a computer-generated simulacrum, has, it’s claimed, passed the Turing test, by fooling a third of a panel of judges into believing that he (it) is the former.

There’s evidence that Alan Turing wasn’t being entirely serious when he proposed this test. But, having read a few of Eugene’s conversations (google them yourselves), I can only assume either that the judges weren’t being entirely serious either, or that they all exclusively inhabit the twitterverse – where that sort of gubbish is entirely normal.

I propose an updated Turing test: ask Eugene to write a blog.  That’ll sort out the brains from the bots.  

I find a poem

I've been having a clear-out, and came across a pile of old notebooks.  In one of them, I stumbled across the following, written almost exactly twenty years ago.  I've only changed a few words.

After the War

The sunshine shines

And the garden gets too hot

And Peter and Christopher

Line up all the shots

But their energy goes draining

Down the drain of tomorrow’s good ideas.

Oh dear,

Where’s the spirit of the War?

Peter says he was out there

While Chris stayed at home;

But Chris says what were you there for

When I was looking after Mum?

And the garden gets too hot

And the reason for the game

Gets lost.

Oh dear –

Was there a reason for the War?

The sun is going down

Melting in the West

And Peter sips his sunset drink,

And thinks about his best friend.

And the mother of these grown-up boys

Will be forty in July;

So she spreads the linen tablecloth

Gets everything arranged,

And doesn’t wonder why

Everything has changed.

The shadow of the cherry tree

Is heavy on the lawn

And Christopher and Peter

Pull up all the hoops

By their roots.

They stack them in the shed,

Ready for the next game.

Oh dear.

Nothing Doing Nothing

I see that a conceptual artist called Marina Abramovic is putting on a piece called '512 Hours' at the Serpentine Gallery from 11 June.  The work consists of her wandering around the Gallery for eight hours a day, six days a week, doing precisely nothing except interact with visitors.  To quote her: “There are no objects and no art works on the wall but there will be props … the public will be her [sic] living material which she is going to interact with 8 hours a day.”

As you know, I too am a conceptual artist, and never able to resist a challenge I’ve gone one better.  So I’m delighted to announce my performance piece, entitled ‘Nothing Doing Nothing’, which will commence tomorrow, for an unspecified duration and at randomly selected times.

I have taken Marina’s concept to its ultimate extreme by eliminating not only any artifacts, but also the audience itself.  Nobody but me will be present, and nobody will know precisely what the work consists of – it could be sitting on the sofa, emptying the dishwasher, scratching myself, refiling the LPs, singing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ to myself at midnight … You will never know what this artwork is, or was.

It may not be all that entertaining, but think what it will do for your imagination.

P.S. Abramovic is apparently, rather wonderfully, being accused of plagiarism.

Where does this stuff come from? And why?

I woke up this morning to find that sometime during the night I'd written, on the pad I keep by the bed for that purpose, the following:

That's "ANTS + Sartre = DALI".

Now, I know exactly what that means, which is Absolutely Nothing.  But I'd love to know what it meant at the time I wrote it.

Any clues?

More or Less?

To Tate Modern, to view the Matisse ‘cut-outs’.

Also, in my case, to view Tate Modern from the inside.  I’d spent many a happy lunch hour(ish) admiring the Bankside Power Station, amongst many other attractions (St Paul’s, the Cannon Street station San Gimignano-esque towers, many passing young girls) from the riverfront platform of the Anchor, back in the late 70s when I worked in a (thankfully) long-gone Seifert office block called New London Bridge House on roughly the site of what is now the Shard (about which, externally, I love everything except its location… but that’s another story).

Anyway, I’d never been inside Bankside Power Station before yesterday.  Not back then, obviously – it was still generating pollution until 1981.  (I’d love to have seen that turbine hall full of humming oil turbines.)   Frankly, I was a bit disappointed.  It’s all a bit too organised, corporate – I like my museums and galleries to be intimate, a bit chaotic, even tactile.  Go to Burrell in Glasgow, Lyme Regis, or (if you’re venturing to foreign parts) the Wilson Museum in  Narberth.  I’m being churlish, I know – the scale of the Tate Modern project is stupendous.  But I found myself people-watching rather than absorbing the art on roped-off display.  And I couldn’t find the Rothkos.  Bah!  (Though a single stumbled-upon Bacon portrait was sufficient compensation.)

And the Matisse?  Well, you have to admire the energy (although he did have a lot of help), and the film of him carving the precise form out of the huge sheet of coloured paper with a pair of scissors, like Michelangelo with his marble and chisels, removing the irrelevant bits to expose the vision within, was enthralling.  But there were too few Davids, too much wallpaper.  Maybe a couple of dozen images out of hundreds (the famous ones, obviously) jumped out and lodged in my emotional memory.  A small exhibition of the few undoubted masterpieces, rather than hundreds of bits of work-in-progress.  Too much is too little.

It was great to wander along the Bankside though, soaking up the sights and the sounds.   (Buskers seem to be actively encouraged, except where they’re banned.)   The views across the river have evolved, mostly upwards (the Gherkin is now dwarfed by the Cheesegrater, St Paul’s dwarfed by both – although it’s interesting how the cathedral re-asserts itself the closer you get, across the wibbly-wobbly millennium bridge).  

A faint memory of an old cartoon: two old geezers leaning on a gate, gazing across open fields.  “I remember when this was all Banks.”

Embarrassing Moments

I’m talking in particular about that special event that occurs when you’re on your own, no witnesses, but still feel embarrassed.  I’m sure there’s a word for it, but it’s slipped away, like so many words do.

Anyway, I’d bought some nice new wine glasses from J Lewis and parked the unopened box in the kitchen.  Much later that day, I put my half full glass down somewhere to answer the phone, and after the call was over I went to look for the glass, eventually wandering into the dark kitchen.

You can guess the rest.

Bluebell Commons

I would have inserted a picture of a Bluebell here, but Blogger's 'insert image' tool is, yet again, f**ked, so you'll just have to imagine it...




This is the time of year to see these best-of-British wild flowers, so we jumped in the car and set off on a partially plotted course towards Captain’s Wood, somewhere in Buckinghamshire, which had been recommended as a top-notch bluebell wood.  It soon became clear that we’d been told to turn right at a garage which, on all evidence, didn’t exist this side of Leighton Buzzard, so we stopped to ask directions, in the middle of a wide, open, grassy, populated Common: the sort of gorgeous public space that confirms my intention to vote Green at all future elections.

The nice local man asked us to hold his collie’s lead while he thought about it.  He wasn’t sure about Captain’s Wood, but reckoned that if we continued along this road for a couple of miles – past a garage, no less! – we’d go down a winding hill and pass some amazing drifts.  He was right, but unfortunately the bluebells were under a steeply sloping beech wood which would have required more time and energy than we had.  So we drove on, until we reached Wendover Woods, where we parked up, recklessly waiving the parking fee, and walked through some well-managed, well-tamed Forestry Commission land for half an hour or so.  There were some distant bluebells, faintly visible beyond the zip wires and the picnic tables.  Lots of families were having fun.

I’m in two minds.  On the one hand, it’s obviously great that public bodies like the Forestry Commission, the NT, English Heritage etc. are protecting what was once common land against corporate predation – but a perverse bit of me regrets the days when I was twelve years old and would be taken by my very proper parents to Uddens Wood to trespass, admire (and even pick) the bluebells in the spring, and steal the blackberries in the autumn.  Uddens is a housing estate now.  Is that good or bad?  Wild or tame?

 

Five sets of rhetorical questions, because ...

… because I’ve built up a head of steam, and a good rant is long overdue.  Here goes (I have others):

1. Does Farage (and the Mail) really believe that 75% of U.K. legislation emanates from Brussels?  The true figure is around ten per cent, and is declining.  Of that ten per cent, is it axiomatic that, because it emanates from Brussels, it must be bad?  How many of these laws or regulations would we have passed anyway?  And isn’t it better that we all play by the same rulebook?
2. Is it a good idea to have a national currency over which you have no control?  Does Scotland aspire to be like Greece?  (Different sort of oil, true, but at least Greece’s is renewable.)
3. Given that wind, and waves, are free, and that climate change seems to be creating more and more of them, is an opportunity being missed?  Or don’t we yet have enough climate change to satisfy capitalism?
4. How is it that when Putin supports insurgents he’s defending ‘Russian people’ in Ukraine, but when the Ukrainian government acts against those same insurgents it’s attacking ‘its own people’?  What nation did Orwell have in mind when he invented the term ‘Doublespeak’?
5. If a mere doubling of remuneration, as opposed to trebling could cause loss-making gamblers to take their incompetence elsewhere, who cares?  Why don’t the shareholders (and the customers) just say okay, off you go?*  And wouldn’t this chimeric ‘elsewhere’ rapidly evaporate once the bluff was called? 

* I know this one.  It’s because the big shareholders are also paying themselves 200% bonuses.  They’re all in this together.

Caravan Diaries - 2014

The four sycamores at the bottom of the field are still bare.  I used to object to them – they spoilt my view of Monkstone Point – but now I see them as structures, like veins or nerves.  They are black against the sea upon which, today, the horses are travelling white.  I’ll get round to disliking them again when they sprout leaves in a month or two (can’t they be decommissioned for the summer, like snow chains?), but for now I’m happy to trace their random intricacy.

No rabbit sightings this time.  But there are lots of moles.  I worry that some day I’ll turn up to find the caravan has dropped into an overwrought sinkhole of mole warrens; Joseph assures me this won’t happen.  “We’re busy bashing them on the head”, he assures me, possibly with a twinkle.

One lesson re-learnt: don’t drive to Wales on Good Friday.  In fact, don’t drive anywhere.  Stay in bed.  It took us six hours.  Some of this may have been self-inflicted: the M4 having clogged up even worse than my brachial artery was on 9^th January, we decided to duck down to the A4 at Newbury.  Good decision: a lovely empty road all the way to Bath, hardly any lorries or tractors; two-abreast cyclists the worst hold-ups.  So we stuck with it all the way to Bristol, which may have been a mistake.  Opinions differ over whether we should have rejoined the motorway at 19 or 21 – there’s not much point in arguing over the past, is there?  Especially when the relevant facts will never be known.

The site is nearly fully occupied.  Everybody comes down for a late fine-weather Easter.  Bee walked all the way round (I was too busy with the crossword) and reckoned that only a dozen or so vans were empty, and those mostly the ones who never seem to show up even though they’re happy to pay the rent.  So the power cut wasn’t well timed.

We’d decided to commission the pull-out bed under the sofa for the first time.  (‘Double’ beds in caravans aren’t quite what they claim to be.)  The procedure is simple once you get it, but not intuitive.  You need to follow the instructions (which consist of those infuriating step-by-step diagrams which I can never make any sense of).  Just after step one, the lights went out, and it became very dark.  I mean very – dark enough to be unsure which way is left, right or up, never mind find the torch, which turns out to have flat batteries – so we end up reading the bed-installation instruction graphics by the red light of the gas fire.  Bee went to her pre-installed bed.  Alright for some.

Next day, we discover that mains water supply has nearly been installed.  This is a major achievement, following on electricity (2002) and sewage (2011).  We confidently expect Wi-Fi next year.

 

Mirror, Mirror, Under the Table

Are you Leonardo da Vinci?  Probably not.  But can you mirror write?

There are two ways of doing this.  One, which was taught to me by my geography teacher (Mr Styles, I think), is to use your left hand (if you’re right-handed).  That’s quite easy.  The other, rather more interesting, way is as follows:

Get a piece of paper and hold it underneath a table or other flat surface.  Visualising the paper as if it was on top of the table, write on it (holding the pen upside down, obviously).  Left to right, forming the letters normally.

I’ve tried it, and it works – at least in principle.  My attempts so far are too embarrassing to show you, but they are definitely in mirror image.  I’ll keep practising, and publish my inverted version of ‘Finnegans Wake’ once I’ve mastered the technique.

Neurology is weird and wonderful.  Remind me to tell you about the physiotherapy ‘mirror box’ sometime.

Influential Albums #3

The 5^th Dimension: The Magic Garden 1967

Here it is on Spotify: The Fifth Dimension – Magic Garden

Jimmy Webb is best known for his evocative songs for Glen Campbell – ‘Galveston’, ‘Wichita Lineman’, ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix’ – and before that, the two albums with Richard Harris (cheekily recycling Rex Harrison) which yielded, amongst other lesser known chunks of grandiose kitsch, the seven minute soft green icing of ‘McArthur Park’.  Later, he’d pluck up the courage to sing with his own voice. (Check out ‘P. F. Sloan’, a loving tribute to an otherwise forgotten seventies non-iconic singer-songwriter, recently nicely covered by Rumer.)

Before any of that, though, he cut his teeth on two albums with the unlikely vehicle of this superficially manufactured vocal group (three guys, two girls, no stars).  The first contained the bouncy ‘Up, up and Away’ but was otherwise unmemorable.  The second was a masterpiece.

‘The Magic Garden’ is primarily a break-up album, in the form of a song cycle.  It’s framed by a ‘Prologue’ and an ‘Epilogue’, with the words “Have you tried love?”, which I remember thinking was a clever trick, spoofing some kind of soap powder advert.  In between, ten songs take you through the famous four stages of love – exhilaration (‘The Magic Garden’); doubt (‘Dreams/Pax/Nepenthe’*); resentment (‘The Worst That Could Happen’); and bitter resignation (‘Paper Cup’), with thematic links between tracks. 

There are a couple of anomalies – ‘Ticket to Ride’, although a stomping version, juts out a bit like a leftover from an earlier meal, and the coyly titled ‘The Girls’ Song’ is clearly a technical exercise in out-Burting Bacharach.  But these are minor blemishes – and they both fit into the story, actually.

And the sound!  Believe it or not, it was the first record I ever heard on stereo headphones.  Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps chemical enhancements played their part, but I had never heard music so deeply and widely before outside of a concert hall.  I like to think that it was mostly due to the sheer quality.  World-class production (the legendary Bones Howe) and performances (Hal Blaine’s ubiquitous West Coast ‘Wrecking Crew’), and of course the 5^th’s finely honed vocals.  Slap on the cans, press the pedal to the metal and catch track 7, ‘Requiem: 820 Latham’.**

 

Influential?  Well, it certainly was on me.  I spent the next twelve months trying to write Jimmy Webb songs – multi-structured, symphonically chordal, cryptically personal, cynically romantic.  I failed, of course, and no-one has ever heard them: but the attempt justified the failure.

 

 

*Jimmy could do cryptic titles with the best of them.

** Like I said.

Ceiling Space

Rereading ‘Master and Commander’, I came across the following phrase:

“Hanging tables appeared, dropping instantly from the beams …”

What a brilliant idea, I thought.  Although my dining room is certainly bigger than some, much of the floor is taken up with a large table which is used, usually, for no more than two hours per day.  If the table were suspended from the ceiling, the floor space could be put to all sorts of other purposes, such as, I don’t know – a dance floor?

It’s not a new idea of course.  Patrick O’Brian has rarely been faulted on historical accuracy through the twenty Aubrey-Maturin novels, so I’m certain this practice was commonplace in the eighteenth century Royal Navy, especially in a cramped misshapen little brig like the ‘Sophie’.  I first read this book in about 2004; but I realised today that the idea was by no means new to me even then.

In the kitchen of the house, 37 Watcombe Road, where I spent the first eleven years of my life, there was a thing called the clothes rail.  It consisted of, I think, five long wooden slats, held together by two cast iron davits, lowered and hoisted via a system of pulleys and ropes which were secured to a cleat on the wall.  The rail would be lowered, loaded with damp washing, and hauled back up to ceiling level for it to dry.  (If the clothes ended up smelling a bit of fried fish or boiled cabbage, that didn’t matter much in the 1940s.)

The kitchen of my present house must have had one of these devices too at some time, because its cleat is still there, just by the hall door.  I hang spare keys on it nowadays.

Spring

I used to have a big, deep pond in the back garden.  It was there when we bought the house, and over the years it evolved – fountains and waterfalls were added, various aquatic plants were introduced, the fish (which had come with the deeds to the house, it seemed) bred and multiplied and died and got taken by passing herons.  Blanket weed grew, was raked out, thrown into the compost.  It was an ecosystem of sorts, I suppose, but not a properly sustainable one.  Ecosystems, especially micro- ones, don’t thrive on neglect.

One day, about ten years ago, I looked at the nasty green swamp and said: “Let’s fill it in.”  Viv agreed, but was compassionately concerned for the fish.  As luck would have it, providence was on our side – a friend had just moved into a new home which had a pond, and was keen to stock it with goldfish.  And so it came to pass.  Our fish got fished out, well most of them, and somehow found their way to Caro’s pond, where they thrived.  (Until recently, when she decided to fill hers in; but that’s another story.)

At the time, I remember feeling some concern for the frogs.  Some years earlier, we’d been sitting out late on a warm humid evening enjoying the tail end of a bottle or two, when suddenly about twenty-five frogs leapt out of the pond and scuttled off into the undergrowth.  Half a minute later lightning flashed, thunder clapped, and a deluge descended.  “Those frogs know something,” I thought (and said, to anyone who’d listen, for months afterwards).

So when the Great Pond Fill-in started, I worried a bit about how they’d fare without their swamp.  Viv reassured me: “They’ve been around longer than us.  They’ll survive.”

 

This evening, about an hour ago, I wandered out into the garden for a ciggie, and heard an unmistakeable sound from the undergrowth.   I came in, started to write this, went out again just now (I wanted to be sure), and heard it again. 

Hope spring’s eternal.  

How Dare They!

The BBC, that is.  I was a bit perturbed by the announcement that BBC3 will sometime soon cease to be a television channel – but the suggestion by Danny Cohen (head of television) that BBC4 could follow it has me chewing the carpet.

Now, I don’t watch much television, and none of what I do watch is on BBC3; most of it is on BBC4.  (There are two main reasons for my admittedly atypical viewing patterns: firstly, I follow the quality; secondly, I refuse to watch adverts.)  But that’s just me.  What’s truly important here operates at a much more basic level. 

The BBC’s charter, as I understand it, obliges them to be a ‘public service broadcaster’.  The clue is in the last word.  I don’t think streaming a channel exclusively on iPlayer can truly be described as ‘broadcasting’.

What about people who don’t have internet access?  Or don’t happen to own an internet-ready television?  Or who would rather watch on their antique TV set than on their laptop, but (like me) lack the technology to join the two together?

I just about accepted, a few years ago, that I’d have to spend money once digital, without consultation or compensation, became mandatory.  (It meant I had to buy a new set, but the old one was nearly done for anyway, and it was a welcome boost to South Korea’s economy and the U.K. imports industry, not to mention John Lewis.)

But the doublethink that will lead me, in the future, to being unable to watch television on a television – well really!  Public service? 

History of the Universe, Part III: Towards Civilisation

Now that you’ve learnt how to think (see Part II), here’s how to become civilised:

Hunt and gather until you’ve used it all up.

Move somewhere else and repeat.  Invent nomadism.

Notice that when a seed drops from a plant, sometimes it sprouts.  Invent agriculture.

Invent tools, and pay people to make them for you.  Gather together and invent towns.

When other towns grow too close, merge with them, share skills and resources, and invent nations.

When other nations grow too close, subdue them.  Invent war.

Conquer enough other nations to form a civilisation. 

Believe that your civilisation will last forever.  Wait.

Fail.

‘Fail again.  Fail better.’