The back of my car got driven into, on the A303, by a careless van driver. My rear bumper was badly dented, but the car was still driveable. We got off the road, exchanged details, I comforted him for his obvious distress, poor lad, drove on and had a great weekend in Devon.
As soon as I got home, I phoned Privilege Insurance, fully expecting to be told that a form would be in the (postal-stricken) post, and then, etc. Instead, Craig patiently took the details of the accident and said OK, obviously not your fault, shouldn't be any issues, our repair people will be in touch, all warranties unaffected etc. Ten minutes later the repair people phoned - we can pick up the car for repair next Wednesday, OK? Ten minutes after that, the phone rings again - a bunch called DriveAssist, anxious to provide me with a replacement car, OK, would you prefer automatic or manual? fine, we'll deliver it next Wednesday morning ...
7.30 this morning (Wednesday) the phone rings - DriveAssist, is it convenient to deliver your courtesy car in ten minutes time? OK, give me time to get my trousers on ... 8.00, Graem delivers Vauxhall Zafira (not quite a BMW 335, but it is manual). 11.00, repair people come and collect the BMW with its sad little dent - 'should take about a week, but phone next Monday if you haven't heard anything ... shame about this tank of a replacement car, lady last week checked in a Focus and got a Porsche' ... So now all I have to do is learn to drive the tank.
We're not at the end of this story yet, things still have time to go medieval on my ass and it's obviously just my experience, but it does seem to me that levels of service have got significantly better since the start of this so-called recession.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
So what time is it exactly?
Tonight, the clocks go back. Every autumn this event triggers a chorus of complaints, from Guardian journalists and farmers, usually along the lines of 'why can't we keep British Summer Time all the year round?' - sometimes embellished with fancies about something called 'Double Summer Time' in the summer, so that we can preserve the biannual ritual of searching the house for those sneaky little clocks, watches or electronic devices which have to be adjusted even though we probably won't look at or use them for another six months. Oh yes, and don't forget the ones that craftily adjust themselves - but you need to know who they are, otherwise you'll go and reset them yourself and your microwave will get all confused and go into some kind of temporal denial ...
The whole thing's nonsense, isn't it? 'Noon' is the moment at which the sun is at its zenith at any given meridian, and no amount of faffing about with our clocks is going to alter that astronomical fact. Similarly, sunrise and sunset are determined by season and latitude, and are equally beyond our control. In Britain, until the 1840s, everywhere had its own local time (Cornwall is about twenty minutes behind Greenwich, I'm told). But that became impractical with the coming of the railways, which couldn't be expected to run to some kind of infinitely variable timetable as you moved east or west - so GMT was invented, and it seems most people were happy to settle for that. Then some clever civil servant invented 'British Summer Time', to give the farmers an extra hour of daylight in the morning (which they would, of course, lose in the evening). Nobody asked: why don't they just get up when it gets light? Then we go back to normal in October, and everyone moans because, guess what, it's darker in the winter, so we'd better bugger about with the clocks again ... It's robbing Eve to pay Dawn.
It did, however, strike me, years ago on an aeroplane halfway across the Altantic, to wonder 'exactly what time is it now, really?' I expect I could get an app to tell me this on my iPhone, if I had one.
Anyway, I need to get up early tomorrow, to do the great clock hunt ... gosh, is that the time?
The whole thing's nonsense, isn't it? 'Noon' is the moment at which the sun is at its zenith at any given meridian, and no amount of faffing about with our clocks is going to alter that astronomical fact. Similarly, sunrise and sunset are determined by season and latitude, and are equally beyond our control. In Britain, until the 1840s, everywhere had its own local time (Cornwall is about twenty minutes behind Greenwich, I'm told). But that became impractical with the coming of the railways, which couldn't be expected to run to some kind of infinitely variable timetable as you moved east or west - so GMT was invented, and it seems most people were happy to settle for that. Then some clever civil servant invented 'British Summer Time', to give the farmers an extra hour of daylight in the morning (which they would, of course, lose in the evening). Nobody asked: why don't they just get up when it gets light? Then we go back to normal in October, and everyone moans because, guess what, it's darker in the winter, so we'd better bugger about with the clocks again ... It's robbing Eve to pay Dawn.
It did, however, strike me, years ago on an aeroplane halfway across the Altantic, to wonder 'exactly what time is it now, really?' I expect I could get an app to tell me this on my iPhone, if I had one.
Anyway, I need to get up early tomorrow, to do the great clock hunt ... gosh, is that the time?
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
The Unthanks - Here's The Tender Coming
The sole purpose of this slightly drunken late-night post is to instruct you all to acquire, by whatever means, this extraordinarily wonderful album, and listen to it over and over. My ears are full of it, and I want to go to Northumbria, now. Goodnight.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Rooks and crows
'If you see one rook, it's a crow. If you see more than one crow, they're rooks'.
The truth of this old bit of folk wisdom was brought home to me over the weekend. On Friday evening, as I was sitting in front of the caravan sipping the first aperitif, at least a hundred rooks suddenly wheeled in from the east, circling and cawing, lighting in the treetops then taking off again. Twenty or thirty of them perched on the power line which crosses the site between me and the sea. It seemed that they were all facing in my direction. I thought of 'The Birds' - Daphne du Maurier, not Hitchcock; at the time, I was the only person in White Park Farm ...
On my way home this morning, I encountered a single crow which was pecking at some roadkill in the fast lane of the A40, just before Carmarthen. There wasn't much traffic. As I approached, the carrion crow glanced up, and disdainfully stepped aside a couple of paces to let me pass.
The truth of this old bit of folk wisdom was brought home to me over the weekend. On Friday evening, as I was sitting in front of the caravan sipping the first aperitif, at least a hundred rooks suddenly wheeled in from the east, circling and cawing, lighting in the treetops then taking off again. Twenty or thirty of them perched on the power line which crosses the site between me and the sea. It seemed that they were all facing in my direction. I thought of 'The Birds' - Daphne du Maurier, not Hitchcock; at the time, I was the only person in White Park Farm ...
On my way home this morning, I encountered a single crow which was pecking at some roadkill in the fast lane of the A40, just before Carmarthen. There wasn't much traffic. As I approached, the carrion crow glanced up, and disdainfully stepped aside a couple of paces to let me pass.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Wrong word
In my post earlier this evening I used the word 'amorphous' to describe the culture mix of old Calabria, as documented by Norman Douglas, but it's not quite right. What I'm looking for is an adjective that captures the result, visual or saporous, of stirring various fruit syrups or purees - strawberry, blackcurrant, apple, lime - into a bowl of white yoghurt, enough to make them cross over into each other and be impossible to isolate back out, but not enough to blend them into amorphousness.
I know, it's a big ask! My new Roget's Thesaurus doesn't help at all, waste of thirty quid that was (although it did yield up 'saporous' just now).
As you can tell, there's bog-all on the telly tonight. Off to Spotify some music (Florence and the Machine, my current fave rave I think).
I know, it's a big ask! My new Roget's Thesaurus doesn't help at all, waste of thirty quid that was (although it did yield up 'saporous' just now).
As you can tell, there's bog-all on the telly tonight. Off to Spotify some music (Florence and the Machine, my current fave rave I think).
Saints
I see on the News that the remains of St Terese of Lisieux (two bones, to be exact) are on a grand tour of Britain, currently in Liverpool. 45,000 people have queued to touch the perspex cover which protects the casket which contains the relics, presumably in the hope of some kind of miracle.
I've been rereading a rather wonderful travel book called 'Old Calabria' by Norman Douglas, first published in 1915. He has two chapters on the numerous saints of this amorphous part of southern Italy, who grew out of the mix of invasions (Greek, Albanian, Norman, Roman, Moorish) that fermented the cultural traditions of the region. Saints were a way of digesting all that, and they grew up in droves. They had many skills, apart from the usual healing and curing and resurrecting and metamorphosing . Most of them could fly - the champion was Joseph of Copertino, who hovered over altars in many locations for most of his life. My favourite miracle was performed by Egidio of Taranto. Having learnt that a cow had been wrongly purloined and butchered by a local merchant, he caused the various parts of the cow to be reassembled, in roughly the right order, on the butcher's floor. Egidio then uttered the appropriate words, whereupon Catherine (that was the cow's name) reassembled herself and wandered off contentedly.
Douglas's final words on the subject are: 'The state of mind which engenders and cherishes such illusions is a disease, and it has been well said that you cannot refute a disease. You cannot nail ghosts to the counter.'
I've been rereading a rather wonderful travel book called 'Old Calabria' by Norman Douglas, first published in 1915. He has two chapters on the numerous saints of this amorphous part of southern Italy, who grew out of the mix of invasions (Greek, Albanian, Norman, Roman, Moorish) that fermented the cultural traditions of the region. Saints were a way of digesting all that, and they grew up in droves. They had many skills, apart from the usual healing and curing and resurrecting and metamorphosing . Most of them could fly - the champion was Joseph of Copertino, who hovered over altars in many locations for most of his life. My favourite miracle was performed by Egidio of Taranto. Having learnt that a cow had been wrongly purloined and butchered by a local merchant, he caused the various parts of the cow to be reassembled, in roughly the right order, on the butcher's floor. Egidio then uttered the appropriate words, whereupon Catherine (that was the cow's name) reassembled herself and wandered off contentedly.
Douglas's final words on the subject are: 'The state of mind which engenders and cherishes such illusions is a disease, and it has been well said that you cannot refute a disease. You cannot nail ghosts to the counter.'
Monday, 21 September 2009
Today
I just noticed in my diary that today has been International Day of Peace. So I looked it up ...
http://www.internationaldayofpeace.org/
Nothing to add, really.
http://www.internationaldayofpeace.org/
Nothing to add, really.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Cuts and Debts
These seem to be the two words into which the crisis, or whatever we call it now, has been distilled. To summarise, we need cuts in order to repay debts: is that about right?
So (I assume you agree so far, otherwise I might as well stop typing) - cuts in public expenditure are now universally accepted as essential, aren't they? The argument seems to be about what, where and when, bloody good election manifesto that! But I submit, my learned friends, a statement today from British Aerospace (purveyors of WMDs, but leave that to one side) to the effect that they are obliged to make 'cuts' at a number of their UK sites, resulting in up to 800 job losses. Well, what's good for BaE must be sauce for the government gander. So, in future, whenever Cameron, Brown or who's the other one, oh yes, Clegg - whenever they use the C word in future (and they all do now), I'd like them to attach to it the phrase 'resulting in up to nnn job losses', where 'nnn' equals their best-guess lie. I simply don't believe that nowadays you can make 'cuts', in whatever sphere, without sacking people. And of course those people have to go somewhere, if they're not to be just culled (I don't think even the BNP has proposed that yet). And guess where, they're going to go into the benefits regime, aren't they? which means the state paying them (which it was doing anyway), which must of course ultimately result in more, guess what, debt ...
Gather.
OK, debt. Given that the national debt is in the order of £293768128946235 (I made that number up), or £4567890 for every man, woman, child, foetus, spermatozoon, rabbit and butterfly in the country - who do we owe it to? Who are these people who used to have all this money available to lend to governments, at a time when most humans couldn't raise the price of a Nissan Micra or a bag of Walkers? And, assuming that they haven't just borrowed it from someone else (which wouldn't really get us any further forward), are they now broke themselves? And if the UK government suddenly miraculously found itself able to repay this debt, at a stroke, what would happen then? If I were to donate to these anonymous creditors, free of any let or hindrance, the £1.5 trillion (approx) currently residing in my instant access savings account, what would they do with it? Lend it to some other impoverished government?
For every debit there's a credit. (If you ever try to read a balance sheet, an old banker's hint - the debits are the ones in the column nearest the window.)
It's a serious question, by the way. But of course we already know the answer. It's the Beatles, innit?
So (I assume you agree so far, otherwise I might as well stop typing) - cuts in public expenditure are now universally accepted as essential, aren't they? The argument seems to be about what, where and when, bloody good election manifesto that! But I submit, my learned friends, a statement today from British Aerospace (purveyors of WMDs, but leave that to one side) to the effect that they are obliged to make 'cuts' at a number of their UK sites, resulting in up to 800 job losses. Well, what's good for BaE must be sauce for the government gander. So, in future, whenever Cameron, Brown or who's the other one, oh yes, Clegg - whenever they use the C word in future (and they all do now), I'd like them to attach to it the phrase 'resulting in up to nnn job losses', where 'nnn' equals their best-guess lie. I simply don't believe that nowadays you can make 'cuts', in whatever sphere, without sacking people. And of course those people have to go somewhere, if they're not to be just culled (I don't think even the BNP has proposed that yet). And guess where, they're going to go into the benefits regime, aren't they? which means the state paying them (which it was doing anyway), which must of course ultimately result in more, guess what, debt ...
Gather.
OK, debt. Given that the national debt is in the order of £293768128946235 (I made that number up), or £4567890 for every man, woman, child, foetus, spermatozoon, rabbit and butterfly in the country - who do we owe it to? Who are these people who used to have all this money available to lend to governments, at a time when most humans couldn't raise the price of a Nissan Micra or a bag of Walkers? And, assuming that they haven't just borrowed it from someone else (which wouldn't really get us any further forward), are they now broke themselves? And if the UK government suddenly miraculously found itself able to repay this debt, at a stroke, what would happen then? If I were to donate to these anonymous creditors, free of any let or hindrance, the £1.5 trillion (approx) currently residing in my instant access savings account, what would they do with it? Lend it to some other impoverished government?
For every debit there's a credit. (If you ever try to read a balance sheet, an old banker's hint - the debits are the ones in the column nearest the window.)
It's a serious question, by the way. But of course we already know the answer. It's the Beatles, innit?
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Residents Parking Permits
Gosh, is that the time already? It hardly seems a year since I last wrote on this subject. But yes, the application form has arrived again. This time, all that brouhaha about the return envelope has been cunningly avoided; they don't even pretend to provide an envelope any more. They even give you (in rather small print) the address you should send the form to (in an envelope presumably of your own provision, sucker).
The covering letter begins menacingly: 'At the end of September 2009 all the parking permits in your zone will expire.' I shall set the alarm, and peer eagerly from the front window, at 11.59, to watch all the little puffs of smoke, then await the squads of body-armoured parking attendants who will, I hope, descend to ticket, clamp or destroy by controlled explosion all those cars that have suddenly become outcasts, parked pariahs.
But the form! And the rules! I wouldn't dream, my friends, of inflicting the whole thing on you - read the Maastricht Treaty for light relief - besides, it's time to cook my supper (bacon eggs and mushrooms since you ask); so just a random flavour of this bureaucratic madness:
1. Moving house. You must send your permit in for cancellation, otherwise they 'will not be able to issue permit(s) to the new occupiers.' Oh yeah? Tell that to the new occupiers please. Who, incidentally, can apply for a temporary permit whilst they chase you up - they have of course to submit various proofs, one of which can be a tenancy agreement, but (here's the good bit): 'Tenancy agreements are not acceptable proofs for a full permit.' Sorry?
2. Payment. (You can buy various extras.) 'If you are paying by cash a receipt must be sent with your application.' I can't make that mean anything at all.
3. My favourite - 'We regret that no refunds are available once permits have been issued.' They regret? Then why did they say it????
I think I'll apply this time, just for the fun of it - I have about three weeks to work it all out, after all.
The covering letter begins menacingly: 'At the end of September 2009 all the parking permits in your zone will expire.' I shall set the alarm, and peer eagerly from the front window, at 11.59, to watch all the little puffs of smoke, then await the squads of body-armoured parking attendants who will, I hope, descend to ticket, clamp or destroy by controlled explosion all those cars that have suddenly become outcasts, parked pariahs.
But the form! And the rules! I wouldn't dream, my friends, of inflicting the whole thing on you - read the Maastricht Treaty for light relief - besides, it's time to cook my supper (bacon eggs and mushrooms since you ask); so just a random flavour of this bureaucratic madness:
1. Moving house. You must send your permit in for cancellation, otherwise they 'will not be able to issue permit(s) to the new occupiers.' Oh yeah? Tell that to the new occupiers please. Who, incidentally, can apply for a temporary permit whilst they chase you up - they have of course to submit various proofs, one of which can be a tenancy agreement, but (here's the good bit): 'Tenancy agreements are not acceptable proofs for a full permit.' Sorry?
2. Payment. (You can buy various extras.) 'If you are paying by cash a receipt must be sent with your application.' I can't make that mean anything at all.
3. My favourite - 'We regret that no refunds are available once permits have been issued.' They regret? Then why did they say it????
I think I'll apply this time, just for the fun of it - I have about three weeks to work it all out, after all.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Spelling
My skills in this field have recently been questioned, specifically in relation to the word 'mackerel'. Well, really! I'll have you know I got what is now called an A* in spelling at primary school. I can even spell 'bee'. Put me to the test - write down any word you like and I'll tell you how to spell it. (Mind you, they've invented a bunch of new ones since then, so anything post 1953 is subject to fourth umpire adjudication.)
It's worth quoting the Chambers definition of 'mackerel' in full, because somebody clearly put a lot of loving care into it:
"n an edible bluish-green N Atlantic fish (genus Scomben) with a silvery underside and wavy cross-streaks on its back; a pimp (obs)" Poetry. Draw me one, reflecting both meanings.
It's worth quoting the Chambers definition of 'mackerel' in full, because somebody clearly put a lot of loving care into it:
"n an edible bluish-green N Atlantic fish (genus Scomben) with a silvery underside and wavy cross-streaks on its back; a pimp (obs)" Poetry. Draw me one, reflecting both meanings.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Weather forecasts
Now I bet that caught your attention! Rant follows:
Why do they always start each new regional summary with 'Now'? 'Now, for Scotland and the rest of Northern Ireland ...' 'Now, for the rest of England and Wales ...'
And why do they give us the exceptions first, then the 'rest of' bit? I tend to listen out for the bits that affect me, which tend to be part of the 'rest of', but I risk missing a subtle exception that might just matter to me. The other day I swear that, as my ears belatedly focussed (or whatever it is ears do) I heard something like ' ... except for the eastern parts of Western Scotland and some parts of rural Berkshire, for the rest of the United Kingdom ...' I exaggerate, but not much.
And by the way, why are they so obsessed with Western Scotland and its isles? I know these places have their own wonder and beauty, but let's face it, most people don't live there. I'd rather have a micro-forecast for West Reading than Stornaway (populations roughly similar I'd guess). Is it simply because they do, actually, have much more interesting weather? (I'd also guess that the good people of Stornaway don't listen to this crud, preferring to look at the sky - see below).
They should also be wary of voicing emotive words such as 'hurricane'. Tomorrow, it's going to be a bit wet and windy across the U.K., as a depression swings in, tail end of a hurricane which blew itself out mid-Atlantic a few days ago. All the forecasts use the H word, and old people who live alone and are hard of hearing and anxiety-ridden pick up only that. Kate, who ticks all those boxes, complains about being unable to sleep through fear that the three loose ridge tiles on her roof will come crashing down and kill her. We had to soothe her with assurances - they always get it wrong, remember Michael Fish in 87 ... luckily I don't think she heard.
Does one barbeque a summer make??
Oh yes, and what are 'organised showers' please?
Now, as I write, there's a mackerel sky, and black cumuli bubbling up. Not a hint of red. Well, I know what that means.
Why do they always start each new regional summary with 'Now'? 'Now, for Scotland and the rest of Northern Ireland ...' 'Now, for the rest of England and Wales ...'
And why do they give us the exceptions first, then the 'rest of' bit? I tend to listen out for the bits that affect me, which tend to be part of the 'rest of', but I risk missing a subtle exception that might just matter to me. The other day I swear that, as my ears belatedly focussed (or whatever it is ears do) I heard something like ' ... except for the eastern parts of Western Scotland and some parts of rural Berkshire, for the rest of the United Kingdom ...' I exaggerate, but not much.
And by the way, why are they so obsessed with Western Scotland and its isles? I know these places have their own wonder and beauty, but let's face it, most people don't live there. I'd rather have a micro-forecast for West Reading than Stornaway (populations roughly similar I'd guess). Is it simply because they do, actually, have much more interesting weather? (I'd also guess that the good people of Stornaway don't listen to this crud, preferring to look at the sky - see below).
They should also be wary of voicing emotive words such as 'hurricane'. Tomorrow, it's going to be a bit wet and windy across the U.K., as a depression swings in, tail end of a hurricane which blew itself out mid-Atlantic a few days ago. All the forecasts use the H word, and old people who live alone and are hard of hearing and anxiety-ridden pick up only that. Kate, who ticks all those boxes, complains about being unable to sleep through fear that the three loose ridge tiles on her roof will come crashing down and kill her. We had to soothe her with assurances - they always get it wrong, remember Michael Fish in 87 ... luckily I don't think she heard.
Does one barbeque a summer make??
Oh yes, and what are 'organised showers' please?
Now, as I write, there's a mackerel sky, and black cumuli bubbling up. Not a hint of red. Well, I know what that means.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Am I alone in thinking?
I sometimes wonder as I wander through the day. Here's a couple of recent examples:
1. I received a new chequebook today. The cover sheet explains that the number of cheques in the book has been reduced by five, 'to assist in fraud prevention, and in line with the general reduction in cheque usage'.
I can see the first point, yes, the thief will only be able to issue 25 fraudulent cheques instead of the previous 30. But what exactly can be the relationship between the number of cheques I write and the thickness of my cheque book?
2. At the entrances to several residential side roads that I pass going up the Oxford Road to Waitrose, signs have appeared saying 'ROAD SAFETY ZONE. PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY'.
I want to know what kind of zone I am leaving if I turn off into one of these roads.
Perhaps I should - maybe there are signs facing the opposite way which read 'ROAD IDIOCY ZONE. DRIVE HOWEVER YOU WANT'.
I'd resolved to do absolutely nothing today, but I see that I have emptied the dishwasher, Dysoned the living room, stewed the windfall apples and pulled up some weeds in the front garden.* I really must get a grip.
*In addition to writing this nonsense, of course.
1. I received a new chequebook today. The cover sheet explains that the number of cheques in the book has been reduced by five, 'to assist in fraud prevention, and in line with the general reduction in cheque usage'.
I can see the first point, yes, the thief will only be able to issue 25 fraudulent cheques instead of the previous 30. But what exactly can be the relationship between the number of cheques I write and the thickness of my cheque book?
2. At the entrances to several residential side roads that I pass going up the Oxford Road to Waitrose, signs have appeared saying 'ROAD SAFETY ZONE. PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY'.
I want to know what kind of zone I am leaving if I turn off into one of these roads.
Perhaps I should - maybe there are signs facing the opposite way which read 'ROAD IDIOCY ZONE. DRIVE HOWEVER YOU WANT'.
I'd resolved to do absolutely nothing today, but I see that I have emptied the dishwasher, Dysoned the living room, stewed the windfall apples and pulled up some weeds in the front garden.* I really must get a grip.
*In addition to writing this nonsense, of course.
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Hardwick Hall
(The first in an occasional series on the stately homes of England.)
Bess of Hardwick (nee Bess Talbot) was the second most powerful woman in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Of relatively humble origins, she married her way (four times) up to this position, via (#2) the Duke of Devonshire (who built Chatsworth for her - after he died it went to his brother, so she had to do a career swerve). Whilst being obviously recognised and favoured by the Queen, she was also good mates with Mary Queen of Scots - which says something about her swerving skills.
Anyway, once she finally fetched up as the Countess of Shrewsbury, she had Hardwick Hall mark one built for her. It's now a ruin in the grounds of Hardwick Hall number two - it took her only a few years to realise she hadn't set her sights high enough. The 'new' Hall has, on its roofline, the letters 'E S', Elizabeth of Shrewsbury, on each side, high against the sky. The house, on three floors, has as its main feature huge plain glass diamond-glazed windows, which in her day flooded the place with light and illuminated her amazing collection of tapestry wall hangings, which are still there. The higher the floor, the bigger the windows and tapestries - apparently, the grander you were, the more stairs you had to walk up to achieve recognition of your grandeur, at least by Bess's lights. (The servants ate at a long table in the ground floor entrance hall.) The ceilings are, interestingly, completely plain; she didn't want people looking up away from her tapestries, or herself.
There are three original portraits of Bess in the new Hall. In all of them, she has the eyes of Lady Thatcher. A charming National Trust lady agreed with me that it wouldn't have been wise to mess with Bess.
I don't know whether it's sad or not that she only lived there for nine years, much of which time she spent in a rather poky little bedroom on the first floor, quite a long way from the main action, if there was any by then. Norma Desmonde. Howard Hughes.
Bess of Hardwick (nee Bess Talbot) was the second most powerful woman in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Of relatively humble origins, she married her way (four times) up to this position, via (#2) the Duke of Devonshire (who built Chatsworth for her - after he died it went to his brother, so she had to do a career swerve). Whilst being obviously recognised and favoured by the Queen, she was also good mates with Mary Queen of Scots - which says something about her swerving skills.
Anyway, once she finally fetched up as the Countess of Shrewsbury, she had Hardwick Hall mark one built for her. It's now a ruin in the grounds of Hardwick Hall number two - it took her only a few years to realise she hadn't set her sights high enough. The 'new' Hall has, on its roofline, the letters 'E S', Elizabeth of Shrewsbury, on each side, high against the sky. The house, on three floors, has as its main feature huge plain glass diamond-glazed windows, which in her day flooded the place with light and illuminated her amazing collection of tapestry wall hangings, which are still there. The higher the floor, the bigger the windows and tapestries - apparently, the grander you were, the more stairs you had to walk up to achieve recognition of your grandeur, at least by Bess's lights. (The servants ate at a long table in the ground floor entrance hall.) The ceilings are, interestingly, completely plain; she didn't want people looking up away from her tapestries, or herself.
There are three original portraits of Bess in the new Hall. In all of them, she has the eyes of Lady Thatcher. A charming National Trust lady agreed with me that it wouldn't have been wise to mess with Bess.
I don't know whether it's sad or not that she only lived there for nine years, much of which time she spent in a rather poky little bedroom on the first floor, quite a long way from the main action, if there was any by then. Norma Desmonde. Howard Hughes.
Monday, 20 July 2009
Swine flu
First, an abject withdrawal of my prediction a few months ago that this was a scare which would vanish into the same black hole as SARS, bird flu etc. I was wrong. Hope nobody acted on my advice. (Although the bit about not snogging hogs stands. And while I think of it, how many pigs have died? They don't tell us that, do they, eh?)
But the advice we're getting, via the media, from a growing number of organisations which are crawling out from under their stones to pronounce their particular brand of wisdom (who knew of the National Childbirth Trust or the Royal College of Midwives before today? or the other one which acronyms as RCOG but is much too hard to spell in full), is becoming genuinely confusing, especially when the government, via the media, attempt to clarify it. Three examples, from today's BBC1 6 o'clock, will do:
I've checked my diary, and nothing planned over the next three weeks seems to infringe these or any other advice I've heard. Will someone please let me know when it's all over, so I can get back to risking the idea of not carrying on with life as normal but doing something different...
But the advice we're getting, via the media, from a growing number of organisations which are crawling out from under their stones to pronounce their particular brand of wisdom (who knew of the National Childbirth Trust or the Royal College of Midwives before today? or the other one which acronyms as RCOG but is much too hard to spell in full), is becoming genuinely confusing, especially when the government, via the media, attempt to clarify it. Three examples, from today's BBC1 6 o'clock, will do:
- Pregnant women, or those toying with the idea, should avoid 'crowds and unneccessary travel', but should nevertheless carry on with life as normal. (Presumably the rest of us can, well, just carry on with life as normal, right?)
- The over-65s are amongst those at greatest risk. Last week, we were amongst those at least risk. Turns out that, though we're still at least risk of catching it, we're at greatest risk of complications should we be gaga enough to do so. I'm not sure how exactly to modify my behaviour to take this into account.
- Amongst the measures to avoid contracting the disease, if you sneeze, do so into a tissue and dispose of it immediately. Leaving aside how exactly to achieve the latter, for example on the Tube - stuff it into someone else's pocket? - how does this prevent me catching it? Spreading it, maybe, but ... oh never mind.
I've checked my diary, and nothing planned over the next three weeks seems to infringe these or any other advice I've heard. Will someone please let me know when it's all over, so I can get back to risking the idea of not carrying on with life as normal but doing something different...
Monday, 13 July 2009
Exit Strategy
In the growingly converging worlds of media and politics, this expression is the new eye-watering elephant in the room. Today, I've heard it on the radio in the diverse contexts of Afghanistan and cricket, and a quick search will add in the financial crisis, a TV show called 'Lost', and (I kid you not) the Mohawk Indians' intention to withdraw from the US national electricity grid.
Before I use it myself in polite conversation ('gosh, is that the time? Better implement my E S!'), let's try for a definition, or at least a description. Exit strategies are what you invent when it's too late. You suddenly realise you're in this room, and hey, how did I get here, and, okay, there's the way out over there, but I can't see quite how to get from here to that door because there's an eyewatering number of elephants in the way. A youngster will be told 'well, you should have thought of that before you started down the hill on the skateboard/jumped off the bridge/dated those three girls at the same date time and place' ...
Did anybody, anywhere, ever, before starting something, define their exit strategy along with their entry one? I haven't come across an example.
Before I use it myself in polite conversation ('gosh, is that the time? Better implement my E S!'), let's try for a definition, or at least a description. Exit strategies are what you invent when it's too late. You suddenly realise you're in this room, and hey, how did I get here, and, okay, there's the way out over there, but I can't see quite how to get from here to that door because there's an eyewatering number of elephants in the way. A youngster will be told 'well, you should have thought of that before you started down the hill on the skateboard/jumped off the bridge/dated those three girls at the same date time and place' ...
Did anybody, anywhere, ever, before starting something, define their exit strategy along with their entry one? I haven't come across an example.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Rocky
One of the many interesting characters I met on my recent visit to the Peak District. Rocky is a tame sheep who lives in Rosie and John's paddock with his platonic partner Maud (Maud is black, woolly and camera-shy). If he spots you leaning on the fence eating crisps, Rocky will climb up onto it and nudge the back of your legs with his nose.
Why can't I make this text align to the left?
Monday, 22 June 2009
Official - They're All The Same
My local MP, ggg ggg, has been much vaunted (by others as well as himself), for having claimed absolutely nothing on expenses during the course of his parliamentary career. So imagine my dismay on discovering that in fact, according to the officially released data, he put in £5.99 for a box of Ferrero Rocher.
My sense of betrayal is indescribable. This local folk hero, tireless champion of underdogs and lost causes, relentless scourge of injustice and official obfuscation, eats (or at least buys) Ferrero Rocher?
I find myself scrabbling for excuses for him. Perhaps he needed to bribe an ambassador or something?
My sense of betrayal is indescribable. This local folk hero, tireless champion of underdogs and lost causes, relentless scourge of injustice and official obfuscation, eats (or at least buys) Ferrero Rocher?
I find myself scrabbling for excuses for him. Perhaps he needed to bribe an ambassador or something?
Friday, 19 June 2009
Pigeon Post
As you know, I like to post incisive, witty, original thoughts on current affairs, politics, international crises, dangerous behaviour by rogue nations and such like ... Hence my absence from these pages recently, frankly that stuff's all been so humdrum and predictable that I find it hard to stir my interest beyond the sell-by dates at my local Londis (which, incidentally, seem to operate on some kind of inverse principle - start from today and work back).
But at last, the pigeon mating season has arrived! The activity levels are intense enough that I fear for the integrity of my copper beech tree and the roofs of some of my outbuildings - and that's just the male rivalries and the foreplay; it's worse than Reading Broad Street at 2 a.m. Saturday morning. Who would imagine that these dumb, bumbling, uncoordinated slow-witted creatures could behave like that? And the pigeons are no better ...
Ah, some Breaking News: The gggggggggggggggg is a pigeon ggggggggg
But at last, the pigeon mating season has arrived! The activity levels are intense enough that I fear for the integrity of my copper beech tree and the roofs of some of my outbuildings - and that's just the male rivalries and the foreplay; it's worse than Reading Broad Street at 2 a.m. Saturday morning. Who would imagine that these dumb, bumbling, uncoordinated slow-witted creatures could behave like that? And the pigeons are no better ...
Ah, some Breaking News: The gggggggggggggggg is a pigeon ggggggggg
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Neighbourhood Watch
Just got back from a boozy watch meeting, which was mostly about fending off invaders who take the form of predatory property developers. (Details on application, but rather you didn't.)
Anyway, we were sitting outside in Sarah's garden, discussing how we might get our locale listed or protected, to fend off said etc etc, when suddenly these huge insect things start dive bombing us. Stag beetles? Mayflies? Nigel, who's a professor of this sort of stuff, reckoned stag beetles, because they're the rarest and so most protected - we can get some kind of 'site of special scientific interest stag beetle' status and so fend off the predatory house-building invaders ...
At about this point Clare and a few others announced that they were getting insect bitten and so had, reluctantly, to leave. I hope the stags didn't get them on the way. I stayed on for a few more reds, as you can see.
Off to Sandbanks tomorrow, for some reason.
Anyway, we were sitting outside in Sarah's garden, discussing how we might get our locale listed or protected, to fend off said etc etc, when suddenly these huge insect things start dive bombing us. Stag beetles? Mayflies? Nigel, who's a professor of this sort of stuff, reckoned stag beetles, because they're the rarest and so most protected - we can get some kind of 'site of special scientific interest stag beetle' status and so fend off the predatory house-building invaders ...
At about this point Clare and a few others announced that they were getting insect bitten and so had, reluctantly, to leave. I hope the stags didn't get them on the way. I stayed on for a few more reds, as you can see.
Off to Sandbanks tomorrow, for some reason.
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