Rathbone's Ramblin'
I was lying in the bath yesterday afternoon, listening to Salutation Road and giving myself a telling off. Here we were, a week in to the new year and no action taken on the resolutions.
I made three resolutions this year:
1. To make sure that the guitar stopped propping up the dining room wall and actually got played.
2. To reactivate Bimbo before it was too late.
3. To get Dorothy’s eyes sorted out.
The first one was easily sorted. I took the thing out of its case this morning, plugged it in and played along with Martin Stephenson and the Daintees (Salutation Road, of course.) How long that will last, we’ll have to wait and see. (The aim is half an hour a day, but that’s ambitious.)
The second was fairly straightforward as well. Bimbo 2007 has begun. When I was at University someone in our year (who shall remain nameless - won’t you Robin?) had the brilliant wheeze of submitting sub-standard work under a pseudonym. Soon all of use were doing it. If you had something which you knew really wasn’t up to scratch, off it went under the name of B. Plenderleith. Amazingly, the tutors caught on to this and would give B. Plenderleith marks for his work. By the time we came to graduate Mr. Plenderleith (now affectionately known as Bimbo) had amassed an impressive body of coursework, but pretty dire marks. After graduation, he developed into a reunion club. Bimbo now consists of almost all of the people in our year (there are some stick in the muds who don’t play along). We get together every five years and take over an hotel for a long weekend and create mayhem, then go off again and become decent citizens until the next time. This has been going on for decades. The next Bimbo weekend, in 2007, will be the fortieth anniversary. At each event someone is nominated to organise the next one. It usually takes ages, not least in finding a new, unsuspecting, hotel each time. This time round it is my mate Jim Jam’s turn to do the honours and I said I’d help, so this morning I sent out 41 e-mails checking everyone’s details and asking for suggestions for (a) the venue and (b) the mayhem.
The third is not so easy. Jim Jam’s wife Dorothy died in 2004. She had been ill for some time with ovarian cancer. My way of dealing with that was to paint a portrait of her as I wanted to remember her, which was laughing on a sunny day up Calton Hill. So off I went, painting away. Every time Jim Jam comes round to our house, he takes a look and says yeah, that’s okay, or no, that doesn’t look right. This has been going on for a year now and the only bits that haven’t got his seal of approval are her eyes. Maybe by the end of February?.......
I made three resolutions this year:
1. To make sure that the guitar stopped propping up the dining room wall and actually got played.
2. To reactivate Bimbo before it was too late.
3. To get Dorothy’s eyes sorted out.
The first one was easily sorted. I took the thing out of its case this morning, plugged it in and played along with Martin Stephenson and the Daintees (Salutation Road, of course.) How long that will last, we’ll have to wait and see. (The aim is half an hour a day, but that’s ambitious.)
The second was fairly straightforward as well. Bimbo 2007 has begun. When I was at University someone in our year (who shall remain nameless - won’t you Robin?) had the brilliant wheeze of submitting sub-standard work under a pseudonym. Soon all of use were doing it. If you had something which you knew really wasn’t up to scratch, off it went under the name of B. Plenderleith. Amazingly, the tutors caught on to this and would give B. Plenderleith marks for his work. By the time we came to graduate Mr. Plenderleith (now affectionately known as Bimbo) had amassed an impressive body of coursework, but pretty dire marks. After graduation, he developed into a reunion club. Bimbo now consists of almost all of the people in our year (there are some stick in the muds who don’t play along). We get together every five years and take over an hotel for a long weekend and create mayhem, then go off again and become decent citizens until the next time. This has been going on for decades. The next Bimbo weekend, in 2007, will be the fortieth anniversary. At each event someone is nominated to organise the next one. It usually takes ages, not least in finding a new, unsuspecting, hotel each time. This time round it is my mate Jim Jam’s turn to do the honours and I said I’d help, so this morning I sent out 41 e-mails checking everyone’s details and asking for suggestions for (a) the venue and (b) the mayhem.
The third is not so easy. Jim Jam’s wife Dorothy died in 2004. She had been ill for some time with ovarian cancer. My way of dealing with that was to paint a portrait of her as I wanted to remember her, which was laughing on a sunny day up Calton Hill. So off I went, painting away. Every time Jim Jam comes round to our house, he takes a look and says yeah, that’s okay, or no, that doesn’t look right. This has been going on for a year now and the only bits that haven’t got his seal of approval are her eyes. Maybe by the end of February?.......
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I had intended to devote this week’s ramble to trains, the steam variety, but had to go off for my monthly poke at the chiropractor’s first.
June, the receptionist, was in a real tizz. Duncan the Aussie has absconded. He went off to Woolamalong for the christmas holidays and never came back. It’s not that a dingo got him or anything, he just realised that he preferred the outback to here, so he decided to stay put. They only found out at the weekend, so none of us patients knew anything about it until today. So this morning I had my limbs caressed by a nice young lady called Kavita Singh.
All of a tingle, I will return to the steam railways.
For reasons I won’t bore you with, yesterday I found myself watching an old Ealing comedy, the Titfield Thunderbolt.
The film charts the efforts of Titfield villagers to fight the closure of their local branch line. They exploit the fact that 1947 Transport Act had only nationalised existing railways, not branch lines, so they can take over and run their branch line. Each of the villagers takes a role in running the railway. The Vicar becomes the engine driver, the local squire acts as conductor, the barmaid runs the buffet car and so on.
Unfortunately the local Coach Company "Pearce & Crump" have other ideas, blocking the level crossing with a load of bricks; ramming the train with a steam roller and finally succeeding in destroying the engine by removing a stretch of track just prior to a Whitehall inspection of the line.
Inevitably the villagers rally round in order that the inspection can go ahead. With less than twenty four hours to spare they steal the "Titfield Thunderbolt" (alias a real historic steam locomotive) from the town museum and press it into service. Of course it fires up straight away and, apart from some difficulty in coupling it to the carriages (which they do by means of a bit of rope) everything goes according to plan. The train appears to run without brakes and, for a machine the age it is meant to be, makes very good time.
In the last sequence, some men are playing cricket as the Titfield Thunderbolt makes its winning run to Mallingford. Abandoning their game, they rush to the embankment to see the train go by. The scene shows the batsman at the crease being distracted as the train appears in the distance, and being clean bowled as a result. However, although the bails on the wicket fall to the ground, the ball bowled by the bowler clearly sails more than a foot above the wicket.
Needless to say, the train passes its inspection and the villagers have struck a winning blow for local democracy.
A bit like trying to save your local shops from the onslaught of the Supermarkets, I thought.
June, the receptionist, was in a real tizz. Duncan the Aussie has absconded. He went off to Woolamalong for the christmas holidays and never came back. It’s not that a dingo got him or anything, he just realised that he preferred the outback to here, so he decided to stay put. They only found out at the weekend, so none of us patients knew anything about it until today. So this morning I had my limbs caressed by a nice young lady called Kavita Singh.
All of a tingle, I will return to the steam railways.
For reasons I won’t bore you with, yesterday I found myself watching an old Ealing comedy, the Titfield Thunderbolt.
The film charts the efforts of Titfield villagers to fight the closure of their local branch line. They exploit the fact that 1947 Transport Act had only nationalised existing railways, not branch lines, so they can take over and run their branch line. Each of the villagers takes a role in running the railway. The Vicar becomes the engine driver, the local squire acts as conductor, the barmaid runs the buffet car and so on.
Unfortunately the local Coach Company "Pearce & Crump" have other ideas, blocking the level crossing with a load of bricks; ramming the train with a steam roller and finally succeeding in destroying the engine by removing a stretch of track just prior to a Whitehall inspection of the line.
Inevitably the villagers rally round in order that the inspection can go ahead. With less than twenty four hours to spare they steal the "Titfield Thunderbolt" (alias a real historic steam locomotive) from the town museum and press it into service. Of course it fires up straight away and, apart from some difficulty in coupling it to the carriages (which they do by means of a bit of rope) everything goes according to plan. The train appears to run without brakes and, for a machine the age it is meant to be, makes very good time.
In the last sequence, some men are playing cricket as the Titfield Thunderbolt makes its winning run to Mallingford. Abandoning their game, they rush to the embankment to see the train go by. The scene shows the batsman at the crease being distracted as the train appears in the distance, and being clean bowled as a result. However, although the bails on the wicket fall to the ground, the ball bowled by the bowler clearly sails more than a foot above the wicket.
Needless to say, the train passes its inspection and the villagers have struck a winning blow for local democracy.
A bit like trying to save your local shops from the onslaught of the Supermarkets, I thought.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I went out for my Sunday run later than usual yesterday. My excuse was that there was a really severe frost overnight and the paths were slippy. What really kept me was reading further revelations from Sven the Svede, counting how many bad puns the tabloid could cram into one article.
The temperature had gone up about half a degree by the time I got out the door, so the paths were just that little bit slippier than if I had gone out at my usual time. I had to take it a bit slower than normal. Which gave me time to notice that all the lampposts through the town were sporting bright yellow pieces of card, tied round them at eye level. Big Ron’s Leather Jacket Sale, Red Lion, 2 o’clock, Sunday.
These were new. I get a bit hacked off with people who attach notices to lampposts and street signs. Not because of the fact that they are an eyesore, or that I mind people advertising in this way, but because they never come back and take them down. Big Ron’s sale could be any time from now to infinity. Happy Birthday Stan, it’ll be your fortieth for the next two months. That sort of thing. Please help find my cat a year after it came back from its night on the razzle.
Eventually Big Ron gave way to the trees of the countryside. I glanced at my watch, twenty to ten,and settled back into enjoying the music. I like to have the i-pod on shuffle when I’m running. You get some great combinations that way. Yesterday the Stooges No Fun was followed by Judy Collins and some whales singing Farewell Tae Tarwathie. Joy Division’s Transmission followed George Strait’s Most Of My Ex’s Come From Texas. It takes a computer to do that, the human mind wouldn’t go there.
By the time I got to Great Braitch Lane my mind was in free flow and I turned the corner straight into a whole batch of runner steaming round the bend. A marshall who looked about eighty put up his hand to stop me. “Sorryâ€
The temperature had gone up about half a degree by the time I got out the door, so the paths were just that little bit slippier than if I had gone out at my usual time. I had to take it a bit slower than normal. Which gave me time to notice that all the lampposts through the town were sporting bright yellow pieces of card, tied round them at eye level. Big Ron’s Leather Jacket Sale, Red Lion, 2 o’clock, Sunday.
These were new. I get a bit hacked off with people who attach notices to lampposts and street signs. Not because of the fact that they are an eyesore, or that I mind people advertising in this way, but because they never come back and take them down. Big Ron’s sale could be any time from now to infinity. Happy Birthday Stan, it’ll be your fortieth for the next two months. That sort of thing. Please help find my cat a year after it came back from its night on the razzle.
Eventually Big Ron gave way to the trees of the countryside. I glanced at my watch, twenty to ten,and settled back into enjoying the music. I like to have the i-pod on shuffle when I’m running. You get some great combinations that way. Yesterday the Stooges No Fun was followed by Judy Collins and some whales singing Farewell Tae Tarwathie. Joy Division’s Transmission followed George Strait’s Most Of My Ex’s Come From Texas. It takes a computer to do that, the human mind wouldn’t go there.
By the time I got to Great Braitch Lane my mind was in free flow and I turned the corner straight into a whole batch of runner steaming round the bend. A marshall who looked about eighty put up his hand to stop me. “Sorryâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
While watching Life On Mars last night a lump came to my throat as I caught sight of a copy of the Hotspur lying crumpled on the bed in young Tyler’s old room. Whatever happened to Ian Finlayson?
When we were growing up, Ian used to get the Hotspur and I used to get the Wizzard and we would swop. Truth be told, I preferred the Hotspur. The stories were a bit more adventurous. Looking back on them from the politically correct point of view, though, they were a bit gung ho, imperialist and racist.
I can remember one particular serial about a lost land in South America inhabited by Fuzzy Wuzzies and dinosaurs. It had been strung out over several weeks and Ian had all the issues, rationing them so that I only got the next bit of the story after I had passed over the most recent copy of the Wizzard.
My favourite in the Wizzard was Bernard “Bouncingâ€
When we were growing up, Ian used to get the Hotspur and I used to get the Wizzard and we would swop. Truth be told, I preferred the Hotspur. The stories were a bit more adventurous. Looking back on them from the politically correct point of view, though, they were a bit gung ho, imperialist and racist.
I can remember one particular serial about a lost land in South America inhabited by Fuzzy Wuzzies and dinosaurs. It had been strung out over several weeks and Ian had all the issues, rationing them so that I only got the next bit of the story after I had passed over the most recent copy of the Wizzard.
My favourite in the Wizzard was Bernard “Bouncingâ€
Last edited by rathbone on 31 Jan 2006, 12:16, edited 1 time in total.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Good one Rathers. I love Life on Mars. As I was watching last night, my mind wandered to whoever is responsible for props? You spotted the Hotspur, there was an old box of Kleenex, classic pub ashtray, the tvs sets, the cars, the clothes etc. I wonder is someone (s) is employed by the BBC to collect stuff from today for future Films and TV? How do they know what to collect?
I suppose there’s worse things than spending the week in a corset factory.
I spent last week at the former Spirella Corset Factory in Letchworth, where the Government is carrying out a Public Inquiry into the proposed East of England Regional Spatial Strategy. This is the unelected Regional Assembly’s plans for growth on an enormous scale, including 478,000 new homes by 2021, and no fewer than 67 road schemes.
The argument, put forward by the Government, is that the only way to address high house prices in the East of England is to built more, hence reducing the pressure on the market and bringing prices down.
Not everyone is convinced:
The effects on the countryside and quality of life in the region could be devastating, with development of large swathes of Green Belt land, especially around Harlow, Luton and Cambridge, causing irreparable harm to the character of historic cities, villages and towns and widespread damage to recreation and tourism assets;.  Light pollution in the region jumped by 21% between 1993 and 2000 and would increase by a further 12% under these proposals. Water resources would become over stretched — the region is already the driest in Britain. There would be vastly increased levels of road traffic, worsening already bad congestion and contributing to climate change and worse air quality.
You get the gist.
As this was a public inquiry there was lots of lively vox pop interventions. My favourite was from the chap from the Campaign Against Stevenage Expansion who made the point that as a layman, he had sat all morning not understanding a single thing that was being said. Everyone was talking about RSS this and RPG that. The Chairman tried to explain some of the terms, to which Mr. Case replied that he couldn’t understand the explanation either.
I pity the poor Inspector who has to make sense of all this and then explain it to John Prescott.
Perhaps he should take heed of the following guidance for the sellers of Spirella corsets:
To be ready to take advantage of every opportunity, you must always carry with you a sample of the Spirella stay, as a chance acquaintance may give you an opening for a new client. Make a list of all the corset wearers in the section of your district in which your own home is located and work this section thoroughly before beginning another. Plan your route before you start; leave your home every morning at a regular hour, nine o'clock if possible, because the morning hours are the best in which to secure the first interview with your client. At this time present the merits of Spirella through your sales talk which should secure the order. If there is a logical reason why the order cannot be taken at this time, make a definite appointment for an early date.
The Spirella museum was the highlight of my week. I stopped working on my proofs of evidence and began trying to work out how many people in the room were potential corset clients.
I spent last week at the former Spirella Corset Factory in Letchworth, where the Government is carrying out a Public Inquiry into the proposed East of England Regional Spatial Strategy. This is the unelected Regional Assembly’s plans for growth on an enormous scale, including 478,000 new homes by 2021, and no fewer than 67 road schemes.
The argument, put forward by the Government, is that the only way to address high house prices in the East of England is to built more, hence reducing the pressure on the market and bringing prices down.
Not everyone is convinced:
The effects on the countryside and quality of life in the region could be devastating, with development of large swathes of Green Belt land, especially around Harlow, Luton and Cambridge, causing irreparable harm to the character of historic cities, villages and towns and widespread damage to recreation and tourism assets;.  Light pollution in the region jumped by 21% between 1993 and 2000 and would increase by a further 12% under these proposals. Water resources would become over stretched — the region is already the driest in Britain. There would be vastly increased levels of road traffic, worsening already bad congestion and contributing to climate change and worse air quality.
You get the gist.
As this was a public inquiry there was lots of lively vox pop interventions. My favourite was from the chap from the Campaign Against Stevenage Expansion who made the point that as a layman, he had sat all morning not understanding a single thing that was being said. Everyone was talking about RSS this and RPG that. The Chairman tried to explain some of the terms, to which Mr. Case replied that he couldn’t understand the explanation either.
I pity the poor Inspector who has to make sense of all this and then explain it to John Prescott.
Perhaps he should take heed of the following guidance for the sellers of Spirella corsets:
To be ready to take advantage of every opportunity, you must always carry with you a sample of the Spirella stay, as a chance acquaintance may give you an opening for a new client. Make a list of all the corset wearers in the section of your district in which your own home is located and work this section thoroughly before beginning another. Plan your route before you start; leave your home every morning at a regular hour, nine o'clock if possible, because the morning hours are the best in which to secure the first interview with your client. At this time present the merits of Spirella through your sales talk which should secure the order. If there is a logical reason why the order cannot be taken at this time, make a definite appointment for an early date.
The Spirella museum was the highlight of my week. I stopped working on my proofs of evidence and began trying to work out how many people in the room were potential corset clients.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I was crossing the footbridge at the railway station on Thursday when an Intercity 125 went through. The updraft blew up a lot of dust, some of which went into my right eye. It really stung and by the time I got to the end of the bridge my eye was streaming and I couldn’t see.
Instead of going for the train I decided to go back across the bridge and down into the town centre.
The staff at Dollond and Aitchison were great. They fussed over me and washed out my eye with saline solution. Then they apologised to the next person waiting for an eye test and gave me a thorough check up. The optician thought that he could see particles which had penetrated into my eye and so wrote out a letter and sent me off to the Casualty Eye Clinic, which is in the next town.
Obviously I couldn’t drive, so I had to go back to the station car park to make sure that the car was secure. Then I had to get the bus to the Hospital. Driving by car to the next town usually takes about seven minutes. By bus it takes an hour and a half.
The Casualty Eye Clinic is actually an out patient department. If you are a ‘casualty’ they have to fit you in when there is a gap between the out patient appointments. Another hour and a half and I was squeezed in.
I had another eye check up and the opthalmologist said they would have to dilate. I was about to joke that my waters hadn’t broken, but she didn’t seem the type you could joke with. Instead she put some drops into my eyes and my pupils expanded to the size of tea plates. It was the first time I’ve had that effect legally.
I was then strapped into a machine that clamped my eyes open. A big bright light was focussed on my face and in she came with long pointy instruments. A couple of minutes later she advised me that a particle of salt was adhering to my vitreous fluid, but not to worry, with her long pointy thing she thought she could lift it off. I now understood why I was strapped into the machine.
There were more drops to freeze the eyeball and the pointy thing came in for the kill. Another good sloosh with fluid and some more drops which turned my eyeball bright yellow and I was out the door.
The bus journey home was a hoot, starting with a funny look from the bus driver as I was buying my ticket. I was sitting near the door and got funny looks from everybody who got on. Little kids pointed. It was only when I got home and could look in a mirror that I could see that I looked like Marilyn Manson, with one huge yellow eye and the other only looking half normal.
A couple of hours later I blew my nose and all the yellow dye came through my sinuses and made an attractive stain on the handkerchief.
To my disappointment, the cyborg effect had worn off by the following morning. Less disappointingly the car was still in the station car park and still in one piece.
Next week I go back again for another dilation, just to check that no damage was done. Perhaps by that time I’ll be seeing well enough to google British Rail and Public Liability.
Instead of going for the train I decided to go back across the bridge and down into the town centre.
The staff at Dollond and Aitchison were great. They fussed over me and washed out my eye with saline solution. Then they apologised to the next person waiting for an eye test and gave me a thorough check up. The optician thought that he could see particles which had penetrated into my eye and so wrote out a letter and sent me off to the Casualty Eye Clinic, which is in the next town.
Obviously I couldn’t drive, so I had to go back to the station car park to make sure that the car was secure. Then I had to get the bus to the Hospital. Driving by car to the next town usually takes about seven minutes. By bus it takes an hour and a half.
The Casualty Eye Clinic is actually an out patient department. If you are a ‘casualty’ they have to fit you in when there is a gap between the out patient appointments. Another hour and a half and I was squeezed in.
I had another eye check up and the opthalmologist said they would have to dilate. I was about to joke that my waters hadn’t broken, but she didn’t seem the type you could joke with. Instead she put some drops into my eyes and my pupils expanded to the size of tea plates. It was the first time I’ve had that effect legally.
I was then strapped into a machine that clamped my eyes open. A big bright light was focussed on my face and in she came with long pointy instruments. A couple of minutes later she advised me that a particle of salt was adhering to my vitreous fluid, but not to worry, with her long pointy thing she thought she could lift it off. I now understood why I was strapped into the machine.
There were more drops to freeze the eyeball and the pointy thing came in for the kill. Another good sloosh with fluid and some more drops which turned my eyeball bright yellow and I was out the door.
The bus journey home was a hoot, starting with a funny look from the bus driver as I was buying my ticket. I was sitting near the door and got funny looks from everybody who got on. Little kids pointed. It was only when I got home and could look in a mirror that I could see that I looked like Marilyn Manson, with one huge yellow eye and the other only looking half normal.
A couple of hours later I blew my nose and all the yellow dye came through my sinuses and made an attractive stain on the handkerchief.
To my disappointment, the cyborg effect had worn off by the following morning. Less disappointingly the car was still in the station car park and still in one piece.
Next week I go back again for another dilation, just to check that no damage was done. Perhaps by that time I’ll be seeing well enough to google British Rail and Public Liability.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Arghh! What an awful ordeal for you, Rathbone.
feels faint
Now, that sounds like the stuff of nightmares and reminded me of that scene from A Clockwork Orange.rathbone wrote: I was then strapped into a machine that clamped my eyes open. A big bright light was focussed on my face and in she came with long pointy instruments.
feels faint
A bit of a churchy week this week.
As a Valentine’s Day treat Mrs. R. and I went cathedral bagging in Rochester. It’s a nice little cathedral, Rochester. Mostly Norman and Early English. It has been cleaned since I was last there and looked very sparkly and inviting.
After doing the cathedral and the obligatory refectory passion cake test (they had none - one point deducted), we went for a wander round the town.
It’s thirty five years since I was last in Rochester and I had vivid memories of lots of really good second hand bookshops (which was to have been part of Mrs. R.’s valentine’s treat).
Coming out of the Cathedral and on to the High Street we turned right. It’s surprisingly untouched, still full of small georgian buildings, some of them still with their original shop fronts. We walked right down to the traffic lights at the far end, but no second hand bookshops were in evidence. Cross over and back up the other side. Still nothing, though there was a very good italian bakery, so we bought loads of cakes to take home. On past the point where we had first come in to the High Street and down towards the roundabout at the other end. At last we spotted a book shop. It was a nice, old fashioned one with editions of books that came from house clearances some time in 1920 and aisles that were so close together that everybody had to back out of the shop on to the pavement to let other people pass. Out of curiosity I asked the middle-aged guy behind the counter if my memory was correct. “Oh yesâ€
As a Valentine’s Day treat Mrs. R. and I went cathedral bagging in Rochester. It’s a nice little cathedral, Rochester. Mostly Norman and Early English. It has been cleaned since I was last there and looked very sparkly and inviting.
After doing the cathedral and the obligatory refectory passion cake test (they had none - one point deducted), we went for a wander round the town.
It’s thirty five years since I was last in Rochester and I had vivid memories of lots of really good second hand bookshops (which was to have been part of Mrs. R.’s valentine’s treat).
Coming out of the Cathedral and on to the High Street we turned right. It’s surprisingly untouched, still full of small georgian buildings, some of them still with their original shop fronts. We walked right down to the traffic lights at the far end, but no second hand bookshops were in evidence. Cross over and back up the other side. Still nothing, though there was a very good italian bakery, so we bought loads of cakes to take home. On past the point where we had first come in to the High Street and down towards the roundabout at the other end. At last we spotted a book shop. It was a nice, old fashioned one with editions of books that came from house clearances some time in 1920 and aisles that were so close together that everybody had to back out of the shop on to the pavement to let other people pass. Out of curiosity I asked the middle-aged guy behind the counter if my memory was correct. “Oh yesâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
It was back to the corset factory this week for the next stage of the East of England Enquiry in Public into the Regional Spatial Strategy.
After my last posting on this topic a couple of people asked me why I was going along to something as boring that. Easy. It’s how I earn my living. Since I was unceremoniously bundled out of my old job, I’ve moved into the wonderful and frightening world of consultancy. In this instance I have written some of the proofs of evidence for the Campaign for the Protection of Rural England.
Anyway, I was just settling down to enjoy the next round of mendacious property developers when there was a tap on my shoulder. I knew that hand.
“Morning, Mandyâ€
After my last posting on this topic a couple of people asked me why I was going along to something as boring that. Easy. It’s how I earn my living. Since I was unceremoniously bundled out of my old job, I’ve moved into the wonderful and frightening world of consultancy. In this instance I have written some of the proofs of evidence for the Campaign for the Protection of Rural England.
Anyway, I was just settling down to enjoy the next round of mendacious property developers when there was a tap on my shoulder. I knew that hand.
“Morning, Mandyâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Mrs. R and I, with the elder Rathbonette, went off to London on Wednesday to see Joan Baez at the Barbican. As it’s not worth going all that way just for a ninety minute concert, as soon as we hit the metropolis we split up and went our separate ways, agreeing to meet at five on the steps of St. Pauls.
Mrs. R. went off to St. John’s wood to some book group thing that she’s involved in. The elder Rathbonette was going to some swanky hairdressers to be transformed. I had decided on a bit of ancient culture, but, as the cognoscenti know, just along from the British Museum is a great little barber who will trim your number two, treat you like an intelligent human being and engage you in interesting conversation at a slow pace, all for a fiver, so I popped in there first.
The day’s topic was the gentle art of pugilism. To be more specific, the Calzaghe and Lacy fight, which, I have to admit, I enjoyed immensely. For some reason neither the Rathbonettes or their mother have ever been able to understand why I like boxing. I’m supposed to be a mild mannered, aging hippy, not a primeval throwback.
What that theory doesn’t allow for, however, is my Ungle George and Ingemar Johansson. Uncle George had been a bit of a fighter in his youth and I used to go round to his house a lot, to listen to his 78s of obscure american bluesmen, to drink what seemed like endless glasses of cherry brandy and listen to him talk about boxing. When I was 10 Ingemar Johansson was at his peak and I developed one of those irrational fits of adulation that young boys get for sports stars.
Johansson had it all: The looks, the class and the cool. By all accounts he didn’t train particularly hard and was often seen at night spots with his attractive secretary. Understandably, nobody thought that he could become world champion. The first two rounds of his title fight with Floyd Patterson saw him retreating from the champion, only flicking light left jabs. When he threw a wide left hook at Patterson in the third, Patterson parried it with his right. That left him open for a powerful right to the chin from Johansson. Paterson went down and went down six more times in that round before the referee stopped the fight. I thought it was great.
I had the same sort of feeling watching the Calzaghe - Lucy fight. So had the old geezer who was cutting my hair. (He must have been all of three years older than me.) He remembered the first Johansson -Patterson fight as well. Then he asked if I logged on to Calzaghe’s website. I said that I didn’t. It seems that someone with great perception posted the following on the site’s message board on 20 February:
“Professor Calzaghe invites all to attend his upcoming fistic lecture on the noble art of self defence to be held at the Manchester Evening News Arena on Saturday March 4th. Professor Calzaghe will be joined by second year student Jeff Lacy, upon whom the Professor will apply his patented lightning fast southpaw technique. Those interested in the come forward roundhouse style of attack and its resulting negative consequences will undoubtedly be interested in observing student Lacy, who will ably demonstrate all the stages of dismantlement, including collapse. “
I hope he also placed a bet.
My haircut took all of fifteen minutes.
Despite the sleet and snow the British Museum was chock-a-block with tourists and the print gallery, which is where I wanted to go, was closed for renovation.
I got to St. Paul’s on time. Mrs. R. was five minutes late. The Rathbonette was forty five minutes later - she’d been held up by the stylist who had argued that she didn’t really want that style, did she?.
Joan Baez was well worth seeing. On previous occasions I’ve seen her, her repertoire has been heavily biased towards Dylan. Now it is all Steve Earle and Elvis Costello. The audience consisted of middle aged hippies like us who had dragged their children along to show them what real commitment means.
Fortunately, on the train home (which was standing room only due to the Arsenal - Real Madrid match) we overheard the Rathbonette telling the person next to her that she had really enjoyed the concert. Thank heaven’s for that.
(Just come in to edit as the profanity filter seems not to like teams that it thinks are the bottom of the league.)
Mrs. R. went off to St. John’s wood to some book group thing that she’s involved in. The elder Rathbonette was going to some swanky hairdressers to be transformed. I had decided on a bit of ancient culture, but, as the cognoscenti know, just along from the British Museum is a great little barber who will trim your number two, treat you like an intelligent human being and engage you in interesting conversation at a slow pace, all for a fiver, so I popped in there first.
The day’s topic was the gentle art of pugilism. To be more specific, the Calzaghe and Lacy fight, which, I have to admit, I enjoyed immensely. For some reason neither the Rathbonettes or their mother have ever been able to understand why I like boxing. I’m supposed to be a mild mannered, aging hippy, not a primeval throwback.
What that theory doesn’t allow for, however, is my Ungle George and Ingemar Johansson. Uncle George had been a bit of a fighter in his youth and I used to go round to his house a lot, to listen to his 78s of obscure american bluesmen, to drink what seemed like endless glasses of cherry brandy and listen to him talk about boxing. When I was 10 Ingemar Johansson was at his peak and I developed one of those irrational fits of adulation that young boys get for sports stars.
Johansson had it all: The looks, the class and the cool. By all accounts he didn’t train particularly hard and was often seen at night spots with his attractive secretary. Understandably, nobody thought that he could become world champion. The first two rounds of his title fight with Floyd Patterson saw him retreating from the champion, only flicking light left jabs. When he threw a wide left hook at Patterson in the third, Patterson parried it with his right. That left him open for a powerful right to the chin from Johansson. Paterson went down and went down six more times in that round before the referee stopped the fight. I thought it was great.
I had the same sort of feeling watching the Calzaghe - Lucy fight. So had the old geezer who was cutting my hair. (He must have been all of three years older than me.) He remembered the first Johansson -Patterson fight as well. Then he asked if I logged on to Calzaghe’s website. I said that I didn’t. It seems that someone with great perception posted the following on the site’s message board on 20 February:
“Professor Calzaghe invites all to attend his upcoming fistic lecture on the noble art of self defence to be held at the Manchester Evening News Arena on Saturday March 4th. Professor Calzaghe will be joined by second year student Jeff Lacy, upon whom the Professor will apply his patented lightning fast southpaw technique. Those interested in the come forward roundhouse style of attack and its resulting negative consequences will undoubtedly be interested in observing student Lacy, who will ably demonstrate all the stages of dismantlement, including collapse. “
I hope he also placed a bet.
My haircut took all of fifteen minutes.
Despite the sleet and snow the British Museum was chock-a-block with tourists and the print gallery, which is where I wanted to go, was closed for renovation.
I got to St. Paul’s on time. Mrs. R. was five minutes late. The Rathbonette was forty five minutes later - she’d been held up by the stylist who had argued that she didn’t really want that style, did she?.
Joan Baez was well worth seeing. On previous occasions I’ve seen her, her repertoire has been heavily biased towards Dylan. Now it is all Steve Earle and Elvis Costello. The audience consisted of middle aged hippies like us who had dragged their children along to show them what real commitment means.
Fortunately, on the train home (which was standing room only due to the Arsenal - Real Madrid match) we overheard the Rathbonette telling the person next to her that she had really enjoyed the concert. Thank heaven’s for that.
(Just come in to edit as the profanity filter seems not to like teams that it thinks are the bottom of the league.)
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
-
sunnyporty
- Posts: 52
- Joined: 18 Jan 2006, 17:26
The football team is't called the same as mrs slocombes cat is it 
coz it filtered out my word as well but there are other words you can use for football teams 
Good ramblins bro.I seem to be the only one out of the 3 of us whose eyes have'nt been dilated.........WELL maybe once at what was meant to be a birthday party
but we wont go into that.
coz it filtered out my word as well but there are other words you can use for football teams Good ramblins bro.I seem to be the only one out of the 3 of us whose eyes have'nt been dilated.........WELL maybe once at what was meant to be a birthday party
but we wont go into that.theres no such thing as bad weather only the wrong clothes
I’ve never been very good at estimating the amount of enthusiasm that can be whipped up among the members of our local community.
Last Thursday night I put out thirty chairs in the village hall, hoping against hope that we’d get about two thirds of them filled.
As the community council convenor for the environment I’ve been trying for some time to get people to take an interest in looking after our trees. Everybody takes the trees for granted and assumes that they’ll live forever. Of course they don’t and people come bleating to the community council whenever one of the trees disappears (usually to make way for development).
Last year, just out of curiousity, I stopped people at random in the street and asked them how many trees they thought there were in the town. Answers ranged from a couple of hundred to a couple of thousand. Through the Environmental Forum we went out and actually counted them. There are 26,892.
So, the purpose of the meeting last Thursday was to try to recruit some tree wardens to look after them.
The tree warden scheme is run by the Tree Council and consists of local volunteers who will gather information about their local trees and undertake practical projects to do with trees and woods.
The information gathering involves recording where the trees are, what species they are, the condition they are in and whether they appear to be under any threat, whether that is from developers or from vandalism. The information is then passed on to the Council’s arboricultural section and practical projects set up to resolve the problems.
The tree wardens can also act as the local community’s liaison point, telling people what species are best to plant, how to deal with damaged trees and how to obtain grant funding for tree planting. They might not have all the answers, but they will be part of a larger network which knows how to find them. Above all, they can act as a pressure group to ensure that trees are not removed needlessly, or just because they prevent a developer adding that vital additional residential unit.
The wardens work with schools, setting up tree nurseries, creating conservation areas, organise guided tree walks and giving talks. In other places it has been found that this sort of work with school children and youth groups has substantially reduced vandalism.
Everyone who becomes a warden goes on a series of training courses run by the Tree Council, to teach them tree recognition, how to record tree condition, and how to look after trees. There are also grants for schools to allow them to participate.
As I said, I put out thirty seats, hoping for twenty people to turn up, so I had a problem when over seventy arrived. The Pilates class next door wasn’t too happy when I had to invade their space to get another forty chairs out of the store room.
People’s enthusiasm was overwhelming, most of them saying they had only been waiting for someone to set something up (.....typical).
At the end of the evening fifty two people signed up as volunteers and another ten said they would, provided the training courses didn’t clash with other things. All of the starter packs I had went and I’ve had to order more.
I notice from the Tree Council’s website that there is an Edinburgh branch of the Tree Warden scheme, but it doesn’t say whether there are any wardens for Portobello. If there are --- Hi there, keep up the good work. If there aren’t, try counting how many trees there are in Porty and then contact the Natural Heritage Service at 1 Cockburn Street to see what can be done about ensuring that there continues to be that many.
Last Thursday night I put out thirty chairs in the village hall, hoping against hope that we’d get about two thirds of them filled.
As the community council convenor for the environment I’ve been trying for some time to get people to take an interest in looking after our trees. Everybody takes the trees for granted and assumes that they’ll live forever. Of course they don’t and people come bleating to the community council whenever one of the trees disappears (usually to make way for development).
Last year, just out of curiousity, I stopped people at random in the street and asked them how many trees they thought there were in the town. Answers ranged from a couple of hundred to a couple of thousand. Through the Environmental Forum we went out and actually counted them. There are 26,892.
So, the purpose of the meeting last Thursday was to try to recruit some tree wardens to look after them.
The tree warden scheme is run by the Tree Council and consists of local volunteers who will gather information about their local trees and undertake practical projects to do with trees and woods.
The information gathering involves recording where the trees are, what species they are, the condition they are in and whether they appear to be under any threat, whether that is from developers or from vandalism. The information is then passed on to the Council’s arboricultural section and practical projects set up to resolve the problems.
The tree wardens can also act as the local community’s liaison point, telling people what species are best to plant, how to deal with damaged trees and how to obtain grant funding for tree planting. They might not have all the answers, but they will be part of a larger network which knows how to find them. Above all, they can act as a pressure group to ensure that trees are not removed needlessly, or just because they prevent a developer adding that vital additional residential unit.
The wardens work with schools, setting up tree nurseries, creating conservation areas, organise guided tree walks and giving talks. In other places it has been found that this sort of work with school children and youth groups has substantially reduced vandalism.
Everyone who becomes a warden goes on a series of training courses run by the Tree Council, to teach them tree recognition, how to record tree condition, and how to look after trees. There are also grants for schools to allow them to participate.
As I said, I put out thirty seats, hoping for twenty people to turn up, so I had a problem when over seventy arrived. The Pilates class next door wasn’t too happy when I had to invade their space to get another forty chairs out of the store room.
People’s enthusiasm was overwhelming, most of them saying they had only been waiting for someone to set something up (.....typical).
At the end of the evening fifty two people signed up as volunteers and another ten said they would, provided the training courses didn’t clash with other things. All of the starter packs I had went and I’ve had to order more.
I notice from the Tree Council’s website that there is an Edinburgh branch of the Tree Warden scheme, but it doesn’t say whether there are any wardens for Portobello. If there are --- Hi there, keep up the good work. If there aren’t, try counting how many trees there are in Porty and then contact the Natural Heritage Service at 1 Cockburn Street to see what can be done about ensuring that there continues to be that many.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Do you envisage branches all over the country?rathbone wrote:. If there aren’t, try counting how many trees there are in Porty and then contact the Natural Heritage Service at 1 Cockburn Street to see what can be done about ensuring that there continues to be that many.
Another inspirational story Rathbone thank you.
Talking about roots and problems, at last I’ve been able to get the potatoes in!
I think this is the latest that I’ve ever been in getting the annual veggies started. Short of scraping off the snow and using a pneumatic drill, things have had to wait this year.
There was a nice rain on Friday night, a sharp rise in temperature and a sunny morning on Saturday. Ideal. I was out there with the spade at the crack of dawn ( well... 9 o’clock) and hacking away at the vegetable plot.
The garden is all over the place again this year. By the time I had finished double digging and turning in the contents of the compost heap, the daffodils had grown about three inches and were showing buds. As I write this, two days later, the buds have opened into nodding wordsworths (... they don’t hang around in this weather). The camelias are in bloom, albeit slightly brown from the frost and surrounded by flowering snowdrops. Given that I usually have the snowdrops in February, the Daffs in March and the camelias in May, you can guage the way global warming has pushed everything off kilter.
Surprisingly the savoy cabbages I decided to let over-winter have survived the snows and look all the better for it. The celeriac is another matter. Out of the six I had left in I could only find two. One was a wrinkled little shrunken thing about half an inch across and the other a glorious, tumescent example which could be mistaken for a tumshie in a bad light. No matter, they all had to come out to make way for the Jersey Royals.
I wonder who it was that came up with the idea of crop rotation. I can never remember from one year to the next whether I should be putting in legumes, brassicas or what.
Digging away, I ruminated on two conundrums of the week:
(a) Why has our road been closed for three months with no visible signs of anyone coming to fill in the old mine workings which have kept us car free for the last quarter?
(b) Where did Epykat get her quote from that old third rate fellow traveller of Cabaret Voltaire, Francis Picabia?
(a) was answered yesterday morning when I walked down the hill to the newsagent to get the Sunday papers. In a nice, regular, metre square grid right down the street were shiny survey pins shot fired into the road and circled with bright yellow paint. Mrs. R., who is more observant than I am, says that two young lads with surveying tools spent most of Friday setting those out. I assume that someone will return in another three months to start drilling holes and pumping in concrete.
(b) was much more interesting. I hadn’t come across that quotation from Picabia before and it seems eminently rational, which is puzzling.
Picabia is one of those people that I keep coming up against whenever I spend any time at all investigating nihilism and the quote is far from being nihilistic.
Given that Picabia, in works such as Rongwrong and The Blind Man was trying to demolish aesthetic standards, and that the man himself acted as the link between the various Dada groups in New York, Paris and Zurich, it is also hard to square it with Dada’s stated principles of deliberate irrationality, anarchy and cynicism ..... and then I remembered that she changed her signature in response to the debate on the PHS thread. All was explained. Dada's technique to a tee.
During the increasingly frequent breaks in the digging, I noticed that a magpie is building a nest in the chestnut at the end of the garden. It was fascinating watching it scrabbling around under the hedge for twigs and then heading off for the tree for a bit of construction work. In a few weeks the nest will be completely hidden by the leaves on the tree and, no doubt, the paving slabs around the shed will be covered with magpie doo. Magpies and Dada -- both anarchic, cynical and life affirming. Ah, the joys of spring.
I think this is the latest that I’ve ever been in getting the annual veggies started. Short of scraping off the snow and using a pneumatic drill, things have had to wait this year.
There was a nice rain on Friday night, a sharp rise in temperature and a sunny morning on Saturday. Ideal. I was out there with the spade at the crack of dawn ( well... 9 o’clock) and hacking away at the vegetable plot.
The garden is all over the place again this year. By the time I had finished double digging and turning in the contents of the compost heap, the daffodils had grown about three inches and were showing buds. As I write this, two days later, the buds have opened into nodding wordsworths (... they don’t hang around in this weather). The camelias are in bloom, albeit slightly brown from the frost and surrounded by flowering snowdrops. Given that I usually have the snowdrops in February, the Daffs in March and the camelias in May, you can guage the way global warming has pushed everything off kilter.
Surprisingly the savoy cabbages I decided to let over-winter have survived the snows and look all the better for it. The celeriac is another matter. Out of the six I had left in I could only find two. One was a wrinkled little shrunken thing about half an inch across and the other a glorious, tumescent example which could be mistaken for a tumshie in a bad light. No matter, they all had to come out to make way for the Jersey Royals.
I wonder who it was that came up with the idea of crop rotation. I can never remember from one year to the next whether I should be putting in legumes, brassicas or what.
Digging away, I ruminated on two conundrums of the week:
(a) Why has our road been closed for three months with no visible signs of anyone coming to fill in the old mine workings which have kept us car free for the last quarter?
(b) Where did Epykat get her quote from that old third rate fellow traveller of Cabaret Voltaire, Francis Picabia?
(a) was answered yesterday morning when I walked down the hill to the newsagent to get the Sunday papers. In a nice, regular, metre square grid right down the street were shiny survey pins shot fired into the road and circled with bright yellow paint. Mrs. R., who is more observant than I am, says that two young lads with surveying tools spent most of Friday setting those out. I assume that someone will return in another three months to start drilling holes and pumping in concrete.
(b) was much more interesting. I hadn’t come across that quotation from Picabia before and it seems eminently rational, which is puzzling.
Picabia is one of those people that I keep coming up against whenever I spend any time at all investigating nihilism and the quote is far from being nihilistic.
Given that Picabia, in works such as Rongwrong and The Blind Man was trying to demolish aesthetic standards, and that the man himself acted as the link between the various Dada groups in New York, Paris and Zurich, it is also hard to square it with Dada’s stated principles of deliberate irrationality, anarchy and cynicism ..... and then I remembered that she changed her signature in response to the debate on the PHS thread. All was explained. Dada's technique to a tee.
During the increasingly frequent breaks in the digging, I noticed that a magpie is building a nest in the chestnut at the end of the garden. It was fascinating watching it scrabbling around under the hedge for twigs and then heading off for the tree for a bit of construction work. In a few weeks the nest will be completely hidden by the leaves on the tree and, no doubt, the paving slabs around the shed will be covered with magpie doo. Magpies and Dada -- both anarchic, cynical and life affirming. Ah, the joys of spring.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.