tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-216716652024-03-14T11:18:42.986+00:00Postcards From Across the PondDispatches from an Accidental ExpatMikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.comBlogger369125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-46934230101079717872021-05-19T07:59:00.003+01:002022-02-03T10:00:47.473+00:00The Last Post<p style="text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This Blog has moved.</span></b></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 15.4px;">Postcards From Across the Pond is still active, but is now in a new location. You can visit it at:</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="https://pcfatp.com">https://pcfatp.com</a></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 15.4px;">If you want to continue receiving post via email, please do this:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;"></p><ul style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px 2.5em;"><li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Go to: <a href="https://pcfatp.com">https://pcfatp.com</a></li><li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Go to this widget:</li></ul><o:p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px;"></o:p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px;"></p><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://postcardsfromacrossthepond.com/subscribe/" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWec720GUo0z8nqSMA47wDhbbdWQ6QyCKrIylejP1A4QPntq1xZj3kGpxH7BQiGczkB7j6psLj-7Jq_n_QjIvmbXa_tGKYzzIQg4kS6CD12A7dv74Wbrwuc3OjsQsyL3RcIC6QCQ/s16000/Moving01.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(255, 255, 255); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;"></p><ul style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px 2.5em;"><li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Put your email address in the “Enter your email address” box.</li><li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Click the SUBSCRIBE button.</li></ul><o:p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px;"></o:p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;">That’s it. You will continue to receive posts via email.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Thanks, and I hope to see you over there,</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 23.1px; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Mike</p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-21580188738757346092021-05-15T06:51:00.005+01:002021-05-15T06:52:25.329+01:00Moving<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">No, we’re not
upping sticks and heading to Corfu to become beach bums (though that doesn’t
sound a bad idea), I’m merely moving my blog from its current home at Blogger
to new digs at WordPress. I’ve done this before, twice in fact, so it feels a
bit like re-marrying your ex-wife, divorcing her again, then marrying her for a
third time, which is certainly a case of optimism triumphing over experience.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">When and why I
switched from Blogger to WordPress and back again isn’t important, and to tell
the truth, I barely remember when and the why was because they kept pissing me
off. Seems I was a bit excitable in my younger years. I have more equanimity
these days, and there are other mitigating factors that should make this move
permanent.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFu1mMKOQsZ-4Swph9C5d86BBLjZVj_0oIXzZohrwL-NGFaJdOOBX0ezKbcdazgBEyL3FniE_9ETvp4LiFpOs7qzr7s_-fyWeeNv1LchJ_Ck7BcsUOGm1bTy4DR3_CYRxVLu6kzQ/s400/Moving03.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFu1mMKOQsZ-4Swph9C5d86BBLjZVj_0oIXzZohrwL-NGFaJdOOBX0ezKbcdazgBEyL3FniE_9ETvp4LiFpOs7qzr7s_-fyWeeNv1LchJ_Ck7BcsUOGm1bTy4DR3_CYRxVLu6kzQ/s16000/Moving03.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Mainly, I have
all my other blogs there. Somehow, I managed to acquire a boondoggle of blogs
(boondoggle is the collective noun for blogs) and all of them are with
WordPress, so this is akin to re-marrying your ex for the second time, and then
having a couple of kids to hold you together. Also, I know what I’m getting
into. WordPress is shit, but having created and maintained other blogs with it,
I am getting used to how shitty it is and have since made peace with it. And
lastly, Blogger—which had a wonderfully intuitive interface and lots of nifty
widgets—decided the WordPress method was better, and turned their interface to
shit.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Even so, that,
in itself, did not tempt me to move. I was used to working with WordPress’s
shitty interface, so the WordPress-imitation shitty interface Blogger inflicted
on its users wasn’t much of a problem. It was the Feedburner. Feedburner is a
Google-based widget that allows fans of a blog to enter their email address
and, thereafter, receive new posts to their IN box, which is handy for
sporadically updated blogs like mine. It’s been working, and collecting emails,
for so long that I had forgotten all about it, until I received a notice from
Google the other day telling me they were going to “improve my experience” by stopping
the service. I hunted for a replacement, but there were none to be found. Oh,
there were plenty of similar products that touted a variety of bells and
whistles I didn't’ want or need—for a fee—so the doorway to that option closed,
especially when Blogger confirmed that they had no intention of replacing the
Google FeedBurner with one of their own.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0UHQHJ-9YnYnTmHos9Ys6cnpQL40Ij5By6K_7qtzOQwJ3wI5lAOoKE_LBQnULivVkH-w1HOd0oLWlES8Et92AMJduFfXWNJNXAUoDoe9DCbYUTk5T5AtnjTxZ9PgendD1YQURQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="250" data-original-width="520" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0UHQHJ-9YnYnTmHos9Ys6cnpQL40Ij5By6K_7qtzOQwJ3wI5lAOoKE_LBQnULivVkH-w1HOd0oLWlES8Et92AMJduFfXWNJNXAUoDoe9DCbYUTk5T5AtnjTxZ9PgendD1YQURQ/w400-h192/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">So, there was
no point in keeping my blog at Blogger any longer, except for the 368 posts
dating back to 2006. That’s a lot of history, and I was loath to leave it
behind, but then I discovered you could export your blog and import it into
WordPress.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Pardon me for
being sceptical, but, yeah, right.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">With that
thought in mind, and not much hope, I initiated the process. To my utter amazement,
it worked. All of my past posts, along with comments and photos, appeared in
the new WordPress blog. There were a few formatting issues with the old posts,
but I am more than willing to overlook that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The final
niggle was the URL — pcfatp.com — which was initially bought via Blogger, who
was then taken over by Google, who then sub-contracted it out to GoDaddy,
meaning I had to spend half a day tracking down the URL and getting it released
to WordPress. Allegedly, this is done, and I’ve paid for it; I’m just waiting
for it to take effect, which should have happened by the time you read this.
This will allow anyone who accesses my blog via that URL to do nothing, and
still find my blog. As for those of you receiving updates by email, I’m afraid
you’ve got some admin ahead of you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">If you want to
continue receiving post via email, please do this:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Go to:
https://postcardsfromacrossthepond.com/ — this will put you on the WordPress
blog, if you are not already there.</li><li>Go to this
widget:</li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWec720GUo0z8nqSMA47wDhbbdWQ6QyCKrIylejP1A4QPntq1xZj3kGpxH7BQiGczkB7j6psLj-7Jq_n_QjIvmbXa_tGKYzzIQg4kS6CD12A7dv74Wbrwuc3OjsQsyL3RcIC6QCQ/s400/Moving01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWec720GUo0z8nqSMA47wDhbbdWQ6QyCKrIylejP1A4QPntq1xZj3kGpxH7BQiGczkB7j6psLj-7Jq_n_QjIvmbXa_tGKYzzIQg4kS6CD12A7dv74Wbrwuc3OjsQsyL3RcIC6QCQ/s16000/Moving01.jpg" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Put your email
address in the “Enter your email address” box.</li><li>Click the
SUBSCRIBE button.</li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">That’s it. You
will continue to receive posts via email.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">If, on the
other hand, you are someone who signed up long ago for reasons you don’t
remember and now wish you had not, just do nothing. The posts will soon stop
arriving in your IN Box.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjYlGVpsg74cMbLKxuCJck0Ez0pqMHDqJBM-x7Yfmq1AaC_i-qpnptG1_tC45mzfPgFfqgu-K-77qA7os3iBIpoEKZ998pxNpdZcawwQAbXyKMrvhAtA5IZHSIOEcUu5VHetg6Q/s492/Moving02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjYlGVpsg74cMbLKxuCJck0Ez0pqMHDqJBM-x7Yfmq1AaC_i-qpnptG1_tC45mzfPgFfqgu-K-77qA7os3iBIpoEKZ998pxNpdZcawwQAbXyKMrvhAtA5IZHSIOEcUu5VHetg6Q/s16000/Moving02.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In case you are interested: One of my moves to WordPress came about when I was advised that, if you wanted people to take you seriously, you had to have a WordPress blog--or, at least, not a Blogger blog. This was a good lessen in not listening to unsolicited advice from well-meaning people.<br />The random example above shows the Archive widget. The one on the left is from the WordPress blog, which I pay a not insubstantial amount of dosh for and could not look less professional if I had cobbled it up myself. The elegant, easily navigated one on the right is from the FREE, unprofessional-looking Blogger blog.<br />That said, WordPress does have good customer service. Although, that's probably because they need it.</td></tr></tbody></table>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-12023138923436460502021-04-25T14:41:00.009+01:002021-04-25T14:50:29.347+01:00A Man Walks into a Pub<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Last Friday I went
to my April Book Club meeting. I haven’t talked about Book Club on this blog
because, well, the first rule of Book Club…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Anyway, this
month was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hearts Invisible Furies</i>
by John Boyne, and if you haven’t read it, you should. I warn you, about
halfway through I was tempted to fling the book across the room because the
main character did something I couldn’t abide, and I lost all respect for him.
If that happens to you, I encourage you to persevere. You’ll thank me. If, on
the other hand, it doesn’t bother you at all, you’ll have to make your own
peace with that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">But that’s not
important. I want to talk about how I got there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">It was a
lovely, sunny day, and the pubs had recently begun serving again (outside only)
so we no longer had to meet over Zoom and were, instead, meeting at The Greet
Inn in Warnham, about two and a half miles from my flat, so I thought I’d walk.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz23MuUDgWfwdKDYUHla_Hcamz9L2YuDFkg5UJgi5flnhxcB4VDSijjjLmmmcUFMkKW7YmkHZw-AnUiQLak12EZRQMrVmb7pb_OCIYLWMMsGAn_uPNg2mRTyDfyNc8M-ApXbnTFw/s400/Walk07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz23MuUDgWfwdKDYUHla_Hcamz9L2YuDFkg5UJgi5flnhxcB4VDSijjjLmmmcUFMkKW7YmkHZw-AnUiQLak12EZRQMrVmb7pb_OCIYLWMMsGAn_uPNg2mRTyDfyNc8M-ApXbnTFw/s320/Walk07.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lovely day for a walk.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The first half
mile of the mini-trek—from my flat to the Nature Reserve—is the worst bit, so
it was good to get it over with up front. The road is busy and getting busier
and, if the Council has their way, will become busier yet. But it didn’t take
me long to reach the relative quiet of the Nature Reserve and the peace and tranquillity
of the golf course just beyond.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The golf course
was lovely, expansive, green and serene, with a path running along the
verge—well away from the danger of flying golf balls—near the bank of the Arun
River. The only niggle was the knowledge that the Council is planning to concrete
it over and cram it full of cheap, substandard housing, so they and their
cronies can line their pockets. The residents of the town are raising an
almighty hoo-hah over this proposal, but the Council has a history of ignoring
residential hoo-hahs, especially when there is money to be made.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZg_H7kSzTMf8vsr3uJVkNagS1N-b7u908KrId6UA95DznV56UDCYNyLiT2KRkoWrd9oi4zFRxkm8t2zJn9vJtGhyphenhyphenGkkMCiABhE1NY82TchdJtephYNb3PbCKNgSsO72VyeMwMxA/s800/Walk01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="800" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZg_H7kSzTMf8vsr3uJVkNagS1N-b7u908KrId6UA95DznV56UDCYNyLiT2KRkoWrd9oi4zFRxkm8t2zJn9vJtGhyphenhyphenGkkMCiABhE1NY82TchdJtephYNb3PbCKNgSsO72VyeMwMxA/w400-h149/Walk01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the golf course looks What it the Council wants it<br />like now. to look like</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">But those were
thoughts for another day. I ushered them aside and concentrated on enjoying the
nature that was there now. I followed the trail around a crystal lake (a big
pond, really) and found myself on the trail to the underpass that would lead me
to the other side of the ultra-busy A24, where Warnham was. The sun was very
warm by now, the air was still, the birds were chirping, and it was ever so
peaceful. I could just about—</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">“ARMED
POLICE!!!!”<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOdkUhWV_U8oLUWzd4zQ27dmSdryEjIQsqOl50A4LWqOdiDUFn2YyScOgfJA0h7PnmVziqyaP4ZJCqFPAdgWUzt3reOKfCZhQTbMIXX-UsEVUPwM_mTHMlyXmFMFxiU9PRgu2ew/s400/Walk02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOdkUhWV_U8oLUWzd4zQ27dmSdryEjIQsqOl50A4LWqOdiDUFn2YyScOgfJA0h7PnmVziqyaP4ZJCqFPAdgWUzt3reOKfCZhQTbMIXX-UsEVUPwM_mTHMlyXmFMFxiU9PRgu2ew/s320/Walk02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Put your hands up and drop your liberal, bunny-hugger opinions!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">I’ve been watching a lot of <i>Line of Duty</i> so I know what that means. I was so shocked I didn’t even
think to raise my hands, something that, in America, would have seen me shot on
the spot. Instead, I looked behind me, expecting to see a dozen black-clad
swat-cops leaping from the undergrowth, pointing laser-guided assault weapons
at me. And I couldn’t imagine why.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Had I committed
some unknown offense? Perhaps I had crossed the golf course without having
donned the requisite style of clownish golf trousers. Or maybe they were
Government agents, sent to stop me from making any more cynical references to
the clown in Number 10. Or perhaps it was something closer to home, the Council
sensing that I was enjoying the golf course for what it was, instead of
gleefully imagining it covered in Soviet-style architecture.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPn3zY1ES_AU-bvV0TgPaItpb-UhpdnoMOL0SKFUkygMlqQVayUmZKsA7Z5WctMK6KxNUEPaT7H5Bad37CJEpgTUkyTfRU09OQ13apvbbhsFBKY9vdXpPnz2wUrRKA7C5RDhBPcw/s800/Walk08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="386" data-original-width="800" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPn3zY1ES_AU-bvV0TgPaItpb-UhpdnoMOL0SKFUkygMlqQVayUmZKsA7Z5WctMK6KxNUEPaT7H5Bad37CJEpgTUkyTfRU09OQ13apvbbhsFBKY9vdXpPnz2wUrRKA7C5RDhBPcw/w400-h193/Walk08.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clownish Golfer Clownish Tosser</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Nothing,
however, happened. Then there was the unmistakable sound of a door being bashed
in and the yelling and shouting one generally associates with a forced entry
(told you I’ve been watching too much <i>Line of Duty</i>). That’s when I realized it
was my phone.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Somehow, my phone,
in my shirt pocket, had turned itself on, opened my news-feed, navigated to a
story about a police raid and started the video accompanying said article. I’m
not sure I could do that myself, so I can’t understand how my phone did it all
by itself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">I didn’t stop
to ponder this, I was just relieved I wasn’t being hustled into a police van.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The remainder
of the walk continued without incident. I wasn’t even mugged by a deer when I
followed the footpath through a deer park. And deer can be fairly cranky.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">I arrived at
the pub and—after being indoctrinated on which door to enter by, leave by and
never, under any circumstances, touch, and where to sit and how to order and
what to do about the bill and the procedure for registering my visit with the
NHS Track and Trace System —was served a pint of beer. (Up until then, it never
occurred to me how much admin a pandemic requires.)<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmPKKCgB0-34EjoZ7aic7TFqCbdToHdN6JdzmsoZiQBz5l050mJtgIRkK9kUuFbWaMlP082cvqyFJsAm-4xlZmvUf2KqiumDd3ikvBANPXChs7wdxieRSwTfrUyaXBjCjD4ysCg/s400/Walk03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmPKKCgB0-34EjoZ7aic7TFqCbdToHdN6JdzmsoZiQBz5l050mJtgIRkK9kUuFbWaMlP082cvqyFJsAm-4xlZmvUf2KqiumDd3ikvBANPXChs7wdxieRSwTfrUyaXBjCjD4ysCg/s320/Walk03.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly there.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">At my table,
just at the edge of the outdoor seating area, the sun shone on my back, the
birds chirped soothingly in the background and around me was the gentle hum of
conversation. I lifted the pint of Harvey’s—the first I had enjoyed in many a
month—and took a sip. It was soothing, satisfying, and serene.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">But I checked
to make sure my phone was turned off, just in case.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdprvBQMphMr5Jtsk7Xa1M1SWLbHDZ8NjijBCfVHq2DWTL9xBmj8v4kCrO1L4cqLyexl7DDD2wPgxid57sza5idWbt6daXYb9haiNsVgyXzQcMBBX_Z5IPxkiXBiDMT3WC4TuNA/s430/Walk04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdprvBQMphMr5Jtsk7Xa1M1SWLbHDZ8NjijBCfVHq2DWTL9xBmj8v4kCrO1L4cqLyexl7DDD2wPgxid57sza5idWbt6daXYb9haiNsVgyXzQcMBBX_Z5IPxkiXBiDMT3WC4TuNA/w298-h320/Walk04.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Serenity at last.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-26556351871889555362021-03-20T17:07:00.004+00:002021-03-21T11:31:43.006+00:001984 – 37 Years Later<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In 1980, I bought a paperback
version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>, figuring I should
read it before the fateful year arrived. Forty-one years later, I’m still
carrying that book around and I still have not read it. But this week, I
finally picked it up and managed to move beyond its famous opening line:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">“It was a bright cold day in April
and the clocks were striking 13…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m well into the narrative now and
I’m finding it unsettling. I think, if I had read it when I meant to, I might
have taken it as a warning of what the world might become. But reading it now, in
2021, I have to acknowledge that most of what Orwell predicted has already come
true. And the irony is, we didn’t need a malevolent government to force us into
doing those things, we are willingly, and with unbounded alacrity, doing them
to ourselves. The government couldn’t stop us if they tried.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The book was written when
television was in its infancy, yet Orwell imagined we would have huge screens
in our homes, broadcasting propaganda 24-7. It seemed fantastical, impossible,
even, but here we are, with 120-inch, Ultra HD Smart TVs in homes, tuned to Fox
News or CNN, so they can tell us what to think and to shout our opinions back
at us all day and all night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And we don’t need the Government to
mandate the daily Two-Minute Hate, we do that to ourselves—for hours a
day—doom-scrolling our Social Media information teat in order to keep our
indignation boiling.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In Orwell’s book, the big screen in
your home—in addition to telling you what to think—watches and listens to you,
and there are microphones hidden around in the outside world to further track
your movements and conversations. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i>
TVs currently can’t hear what you are saying, Alexa, Echo, Siri and Google Home
can. And your phone keeps excellent tabs on you—and listens to your
conversations—even when you aren’t voluntarily broadcasting your location and
activities to the world at large, sometimes with tragic results.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIZgu0zC7ZpqQqj_Gzi9fJ3sIM1OuO2FujmoUIPaSgdvf639L144QM8YbC5WWwvKWCwkhP-e6IbLtn5sgpbYURhSwNsW32cKcnq6EdXLQTjpeQK1BwKl3upI9Pa-FvOSp2WAnJQ/s450/1984-04.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIZgu0zC7ZpqQqj_Gzi9fJ3sIM1OuO2FujmoUIPaSgdvf639L144QM8YbC5WWwvKWCwkhP-e6IbLtn5sgpbYURhSwNsW32cKcnq6EdXLQTjpeQK1BwKl3upI9Pa-FvOSp2WAnJQ/s16000/1984-04.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Bill Gates doesn’t need to inject
you with a micro-chip so he can track you (spoiler alert: he isn’t), your
mobile phone is doing a much better job.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In Orwell’s dystopia, the
government forces all these intrusions on the population. In our current
society, we buy them ourselves and gleefully integrate them into our lives.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We don’t even need the Thought
Police, as we have an army of volunteers who continually patrol the borders of
their shattered self-esteem, looking for ways to become offended and, when they
find a Tweet or FaceBook post (might be current, but it could be something from
long ago) they start a Twit-Storm to make sure that the person who offended
them loses their job and is shamed off of social media. That’s as close to
being vaporized—the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i> euphemism
for being totally erased from history and society—as you can get without
actually employing an army of IT hackers and Blackshirts.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And Winston’s job at the Ministry
of Truth wouldn’t be a paid position. Altering the past has become an avocation
for weekend culture-warriors. Pulling down statues, banning books, outlawing
toys and censoring people (via the aforementioned Twit-Storms) because of a
past they’d rather not acknowledge is accomplished by enthusiastic amateurs,
not government agents. Additionally, people have been known to alter past
writings to make it seem as if they had predicted something when they had not.
(I’m looking at you, Dominic Cummings.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>, the Government wanted you to believe 2+2=5. In 2017, the
government wanted you to believe that an inauguration crowd that wasn’t there,
did, in reality, exist. And we were encouraged to support this fantasy by
believing in “alternate facts.” And many did, voluntarily and without the
threat of incarceration. (I do wonder, however, how many people believed that
the President of the United States could change the course of a hurricane
simply by drawing lines with a Sharpie pen.)<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCjYlP13HtPHhMVxK1WJGFe8sCwglU18tLLbJQYP_1D6ywsGI6byLH9x-yLoiilY17sJ6pZ66jWDEC8lmDA4wbufU2VOqsWlWfqTTHalfblSzV1N_Gw9IkFvwBC74GxrQ7mANew/s500/1984-02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCjYlP13HtPHhMVxK1WJGFe8sCwglU18tLLbJQYP_1D6ywsGI6byLH9x-yLoiilY17sJ6pZ66jWDEC8lmDA4wbufU2VOqsWlWfqTTHalfblSzV1N_Gw9IkFvwBC74GxrQ7mANew/s16000/1984-02.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Big Brother, 1984: 2+2=5<br />Big Brother, 2017: The crowd on the right is bigger</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzk4ElJRC_RThUmbl-2LW3PZrpJhfjmAja8gwF09VvnrD0e8-g3a-MoKgfx8xHX-1V8TEquJrUwMyu1x_H00PP4LIlFDI6h8O6EQ1KGrhu85yxMy4VwviSDv-ruNaWHSm9aVWWCw/s500/1984-03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzk4ElJRC_RThUmbl-2LW3PZrpJhfjmAja8gwF09VvnrD0e8-g3a-MoKgfx8xHX-1V8TEquJrUwMyu1x_H00PP4LIlFDI6h8O6EQ1KGrhu85yxMy4VwviSDv-ruNaWHSm9aVWWCw/s16000/1984-03.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">As you can see, the hurricane is heading for Alabama...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But, despite all this voluntary
assistance, the government isn’t asleep at the wheel. They are working hard to
curtail the right to protest, and are pushing laws through that make it possible
to be arrested simply for holding an unpopular opinion. Not
far-out-batshit-crazy opinions, either. All you have to do is say
something—anything—that another person claims offends them, and you have broken
the law. And critics of the new Scottish Hate-Crime Bill, fear it leaves the
door open for people to be arrested merely for expressing unorthodox views even
in the privacy of their own homes.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">1984? It didn’t happen then, but
it’s here now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Watch out for Room One-Oh-One.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p><o:p> "</o:p>If you want a vision of the future,
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">imagine a boot <br /></span></o:p><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">stamping on a human face</span>-
forever."<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">-- George Orwell, </span><i style="text-align: left;">1984</i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvBS_b8X5dDnY4ZYDy_vfTdlGGbavTDMzMDfMRmuRR97x3UrkmUQmMUeUgXheH7WznwjlvfKwUNtmRnHo2GNou8__WdR1_r8JtUQi2tkpI28UOGf3sGhXCMyDFAce4cGWcY65Dg/s450/1984-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvBS_b8X5dDnY4ZYDy_vfTdlGGbavTDMzMDfMRmuRR97x3UrkmUQmMUeUgXheH7WznwjlvfKwUNtmRnHo2GNou8__WdR1_r8JtUQi2tkpI28UOGf3sGhXCMyDFAce4cGWcY65Dg/s16000/1984-01.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">No boot on face, but this is a
photo of Metropolitan City Police London violently restraining a woman at a
peaceful vigil, which was <i>not </i>a protest but a peaceful coming together of
women, to <i>highlight violence against women</i> and to mourn the death of Sarah Everard
who was <i>kidnapped and murdered by a serving Metropolitan Police Officer,</i>
occurring on the eve of a bill being introduced to Parliament that will
<i>substantially increase the power of police to disperse (violently, one must
assume) pretty much anyone at any time for any reason</i>, and you couldn’t fit more irony into
a sentence if you tried.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-50006065890571824232021-02-10T19:41:00.001+00:002021-02-10T19:41:18.076+00:00By the Numbers<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">All of my working life, I had a
dream: when I retired, I was going to take up painting. It was a dream that
sustained me through many long years of gainful employment, thinking about what
I could accomplish once I no longer needed to earn a living.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so, one happy day, I retired,
and my dream immediately foundered on the rocky shores of reality. Not only did
I lack the time, I also found myself bereft of talent, or any noticeable
desire. After all those years, it turns out I didn’t really want to paint a picture.
My feelings about art, instead, mirrored those of the many who say, “When I
retire, I’m going to write a novel,” which is to say, I wanted to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have painted</i> a picture.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Many happy years have come and gone
since then, and my determination to not paint has served me well. Painting
takes up space, and the more you do it, the more space it takes up. We might
live in a small flat, but no amount of writing is going to fill up my tiny
office the way even a casual interest in acrylics might.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">However, shit—as they say—happens,
which, in this case, takes the form of Lockdown Number Three. Being shut up
inside for six weeks and counting (again) had me looking around for some
additional diversion. For Christmas, my wife had given me, as a sort of joke, a
dot-to-dot book for adults (not to be confused with Adult Dot-to-Dot; Google
carefully) and I found that to be a soothing diversion. So, when I finished it,
I looked around for something to fill the time it used to take up and, somehow,
I came to the notion that there ought to be paint-by-number sets for adults
(not to be confused with Adult Paint-by-Numbers; Google carefully) and, sure
enough, there are. (Suggested motto: Paint-by-Numbers, because real art is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hard</i>.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiug2oDCTNYWuAIiJqlPy__J67uOKoWYITiOQzcpdJVI4-qarmSaHey0u2KjiMEiei-ZX6KOZB4d21v8MYf3bBTolP9ygdb8Mr0lkhPmMuXKtdVFV1eUz4USAFZ1kZYEnq1YF8omw/s500/PbN05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiug2oDCTNYWuAIiJqlPy__J67uOKoWYITiOQzcpdJVI4-qarmSaHey0u2KjiMEiei-ZX6KOZB4d21v8MYf3bBTolP9ygdb8Mr0lkhPmMuXKtdVFV1eUz4USAFZ1kZYEnq1YF8omw/s16000/PbN05.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Be careful how you Google.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Having memories of the paint-by-number
sets of my youth, I was slightly skeptical, but these new, more mature sets,
really tick the boxes. They are not, as I feared, the rigid,10x12 inch boards
that I remember. These are 16x20 inch canvases that come rolled up, along with
little plastic containers of the necessary paint, and three brushes. They take
up little room and, when you are done, you can toss the whole thing in the bin.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That is the best bit. You don’t
have to worry about where you are going to hang your masterpiece because, when
you finish, you’re more likely to find that your efforts look less like the
Mona Lisa and more like someone tied paint brushes to a terror of toddlers
(that is the collective noun for toddlers, isn’t it?) and let them roll around
on the canvas. But the point isn’t the finished product, it’s the zen-time
spent dabbing paint on a brush and trying to stay inside the lines. You can do
that perfectly (spoiler alert: you won’t) and you’ll still end up with
something you really should hide away somewhere.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The problem is the way they are
made, which is also the great thing about them. The canvases are printed by a
computer program that scans a real painting, recognizes color and pattern and
translates it onto a canvas. As with many automated tasks, however, the outcome
is only as good as the software, and sometimes this translates to an overcast
sky you are instructed to paint lime-green, or distant objects that disappear.
The upside is, this makes these sets inexpensive enough that you won’t mind
chucking them out (or at least rolling them up and stuffing them behind a
bookcase) when you finish.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKdtFTQr7CfsBpfrVdHvZFPhRcMLAEDwzvLWsm56f21bd9gbxS6tgi0hOLgaFDZsdCFjdxS3TjM56XpbI5G6qvSVLasLoUk9NTQb8mrLf6GV0CtHChImzuMfdXaRwHQFLTD-xeA/s500/PbN06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKdtFTQr7CfsBpfrVdHvZFPhRcMLAEDwzvLWsm56f21bd9gbxS6tgi0hOLgaFDZsdCFjdxS3TjM56XpbI5G6qvSVLasLoUk9NTQb8mrLf6GV0CtHChImzuMfdXaRwHQFLTD-xeA/s16000/PbN06.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">What the detail in the picture looks like what the detail on the canvas looks like</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Admittedly, my experience is
limited. I’m only on my second picture and both have come from the same
company. There may be others that have better software but, as I’ve noted
above, that is hardly the point.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Even so, when I order more, I may
go with another, more expensive, company to see if there is an upgraded version
of the software that might render a picture more accurately. But until then,
I’m content painting my skies green, and doing what I can to fill in the gaps.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">So if, like me, you find yourself
at a loose end this lockdown, you could do worse than try a paint-by-numbers
kit. Unless, of course, you are really working on that novel.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Hmm, I wonder if the world is ready
for a novel-by-numbers kit.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-74723764809042280812021-01-14T10:24:00.000+00:002021-01-14T10:24:00.471+00:00You Learn Something New Every Day<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I have decided that 2021 is the
year to put that bit of folk wisdom to the test. The challenge, however, is not
merely in the learning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For example: on the first day, I
learned that scenes from the 1947 film Black Narcissus were filmed at
Leonardslee Gardens, which is just down the road from where we live. This gave
me unexpected delight and prompted me to begin this year-long odyssey.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The second day, I learned
something, then forgot what it was. Later, through great mental effort, I
managed to recall it. Then I forgot it again. So, that day, I learned that
I cannot rely on my short-term memory.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEZzF_VuVqAnlvk7Bk7-sKoBL2k2L8ajyjxAtTHN7obj_vrYMY5jQVymvoeoh7U9DWUzkUZmcVeKxSO_-Fi0s7FqKMESG45oOEmjN3ZJI3yf5K0F1_Yv_KuUFL28_5_Kny3LRUQ/s450/YLSNED01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEZzF_VuVqAnlvk7Bk7-sKoBL2k2L8ajyjxAtTHN7obj_vrYMY5jQVymvoeoh7U9DWUzkUZmcVeKxSO_-Fi0s7FqKMESG45oOEmjN3ZJI3yf5K0F1_Yv_KuUFL28_5_Kny3LRUQ/w320-h213/YLSNED01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And this is what I believe the
benefits of the exercise will be, the simple act of remaining open to new
knowledge and experiences and committing them to memory (and then to a
spreadsheet; I have no illusions about my ability to retain 365 tidbits of
esoteric information for instant recall).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Over this year, I hope to gather a
mix of surprising facts along with learned skills. I do not count things I
simply found out, such as, “I just checked my Twitter feed, and it turns out
Jason is a right Muppet.” No, it would have to be a more uplifting bit of
actual knowledge, such as the fact that when you climb Mt. Everest, you are
required to return with a load of at least 30 pounds, consisting of your shit,
anyone else’s shit you run across, and other miscellany you find strewn about. This
is to help with the effort to keep Everest shit-free and de-cluttered. If you
fail to do this, you forfeit your $4,000 deposit. I feel I’m a better person
for knowing that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The trick to this, as well as the
benefit, is simply remembering what you did learn. Many lessons come to us
every day, but they are often lost in the maelstrom of daily life, so I find
being continually on the lookout for something that may enriched my knowledge
base helps me look forward to the day. And on that note, I originally thought
that 2021 might be the worst year to attempt such a thing, seeing as how there
is very little stimulation at the moment, but then I realized this is the
optimum time, because it not only helps you appreciate the slower pace of life,
but it reaffirms the notion that you are always learning, no matter what else might
(or might not) be going on.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Such as: despite common belief,
only 4% of the content on the Internet is porn. Don’t ask me how I know this.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDZxE2gyyVjGpAqzi1DUDq8267xlIRa3veM2i7FaoL6b1pIPBIPHM_lQ_1Eh55q4KtpXJh_DG0VVKEktB5lGozqCkqO6i6lmMdCk6g3cKJs8vYZ2qsCAXqPR-PYixiTr3kV3ZUA/s450/YLSNED04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDZxE2gyyVjGpAqzi1DUDq8267xlIRa3veM2i7FaoL6b1pIPBIPHM_lQ_1Eh55q4KtpXJh_DG0VVKEktB5lGozqCkqO6i6lmMdCk6g3cKJs8vYZ2qsCAXqPR-PYixiTr3kV3ZUA/s16000/YLSNED04.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I do wish I had more skills on the
list, such as “Learned to play Edelweiss on the piano” (alas, I have not) but,
so far, all I can claim to have learned is that, if I just stuff my jeans into
the socks I wear with my wellies, it feels fine.( I had been neatly wrapping my
jeans around my ankles and carefully pulling the socks over them. This took
time and the result always caused a pressure point on my ankle. Just pulling
them on saves time and doesn’t end up annoying me on the walk.) It’s a little
thing, but it does add to my quality of life.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Not everything does, however. I
also learned that there is such a thing as a Vampire Finch. It’s a variety of finch
(duh) that lives on a remote volcanic island. They are too small to get off (they
likely got there on the winds of a storm) and there is nothing for them to eat
so they survive by drinking the blood of the other sea birds there. The strangest
thing is, the sea birds don’t seem to mind. This still gives me nightmares.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5pzIHtzfHtAqspv1TffJSWw9FuWZIAJPbQGvdH78WU6mn97tgUcSM0dogLC163OzHqk3Ai4EAUCpnb8r56-OHK-ECfRlSqB7prtf3IWNV9f3SvBFxQEfTxYt9g3ByvQfN19MAQ/s450/YLSNED05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5pzIHtzfHtAqspv1TffJSWw9FuWZIAJPbQGvdH78WU6mn97tgUcSM0dogLC163OzHqk3Ai4EAUCpnb8r56-OHK-ECfRlSqB7prtf3IWNV9f3SvBFxQEfTxYt9g3ByvQfN19MAQ/s16000/YLSNED05.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The Vampire Finch, the stuff of nightmares.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Although this has enhanced my knowledge, it is not as beneficial as this nugget: When one computer in your home
is used to buy something, or even browse something, all other Internet-connected
devices in your home—phones, laptops, tablets, the microwave—will get ads for
that item in their FB feed or on Google. This is because all of them share the
same IP address, which is associated with the router, not the individual
devices. And that really is handy to know. (See the 4% item above.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Some items are multi-faceted,
allowing you to learn several things at once. Such as this historical oddity:
The unique typeface of Dove press, after an acrimonious court battle, was
destroyed by one of the owners (Thomas Cobden-Sanders) who secretly threw the
punches into the Thames over the course of several months, in late 1916 and
early 1917. (The reason this took so long is that the total weight of the
punches was 2,600 lbs—this wasn't digital type.) 100 years later, Robert Green,
who was working on a project to recreate the typeface, hunted for, and located
150 pieces.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdD6Zp_-6SEDzox4MglYTQbx_5KPSzvjaQxO9UMRwIUTKzC4x8uIh5w0TpzJlIh6Z9GgoLaJwfMQUsKBROct-lMNnYVffbbi1lPBnYBLL8WdlCh7VREislMmH071TSQPmtZIzAbA/s450/YLSNED03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="450" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdD6Zp_-6SEDzox4MglYTQbx_5KPSzvjaQxO9UMRwIUTKzC4x8uIh5w0TpzJlIh6Z9GgoLaJwfMQUsKBROct-lMNnYVffbbi1lPBnYBLL8WdlCh7VREislMmH071TSQPmtZIzAbA/w400-h286/YLSNED03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Some of the recovered Dove Typeface.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This is fascinating, not only from
the archaeological angle, but the fact that anyone cares enough about a
typeface to go through all that, and that, back in the day, a typeface was not
to be taken lightly (see what I did there?). They were carved and moulded and cast in
metal and were worth enough that it caused the two men who developed this one
to fall out over the money.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">While admittedly enlightening, the
above is not as potentially useful as the fact that it is perfectly legal to
buy and possess a flamethrower in forty-nine of the fifty states (Maryland is
the only state where you cannot).<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRXHejqg3TqiVbl_qFcHsurpf_iD1mG07L0qTNEeJ9cuNqyozNHqQ-90uLOAJnXZPg2moGaDNe3lDFRjxdwIm27SJ0Ol6fqk0fo2mMQkB9q1Vmh0vkzkkk2CQrblBnhWKtl6r4A/s450/YLSNED02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRXHejqg3TqiVbl_qFcHsurpf_iD1mG07L0qTNEeJ9cuNqyozNHqQ-90uLOAJnXZPg2moGaDNe3lDFRjxdwIm27SJ0Ol6fqk0fo2mMQkB9q1Vmh0vkzkkk2CQrblBnhWKtl6r4A/s16000/YLSNED02.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The photo was stolen from an article titled:<br />You can buy a flamethrower online, and it's legal</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My most recent acquisition,
however, has proved to be—thus far—the most useful, because it put to rest
something that has been on my mind of late.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m over here, gathering my
information about world events through my media of choice. I think they are
good choices, I think they tell me enough of the truth to allow me to make my
mind up about what I believe. And I think I’m right. But there are others, who
have their own information streams and who also think they are right. They
think they are right as strongly as I do. So, who is right? I truly did wonder
about this, but then I discovered a way to tell: If you are unsure about which
side you're on, next time you are at a gathering of your group, look around. Do
you see Nazis? If so, then you are on the wrong side.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The final benefit of this
undertaking is: despite all that is going on in the world, I am looking forward
to finding out what each new day can teach me. It’s a good way to get through
the year, even if I never do learn to play Edelweiss on the piano.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-32300015552044226652020-12-31T17:03:00.002+00:002020-12-31T17:16:24.464+00:00A Dangerous Year of Reading<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This past year may have been one
huge cluster-fuck of bad news, but one of the good things to come out of it was
I had a lot of time to read. So much so, that I have finished 2020 having read
more books than ever before (I have a spreadsheet; of course I do). The
not-so-great news is, even with all this reading time, I still only managed to
finish 44 books, which tops my current record by a slim margin of 1, leaving
me, in equal measure, pleased and chagrined. Additionally, and in the spirit of
full disclosure, I must admit that, when I saw I was closing in on my erstwhile
record, I cheated a bit by selecting two rather slender volumes, the last of
which I finished only this afternoon.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHpTGSKqR_Ug4ap6gj8r1ObNVPyEVopQcZ2cT2t9lnZxmrZDG8ktkHAD-pfiyX5Slyf47L1RT4RJnokRZ7TMkquKAM4AFK_gKW7DNqLN0J8D6yxWOAs4uv2e53_-lNzugQll25Q/s600/Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHpTGSKqR_Ug4ap6gj8r1ObNVPyEVopQcZ2cT2t9lnZxmrZDG8ktkHAD-pfiyX5Slyf47L1RT4RJnokRZ7TMkquKAM4AFK_gKW7DNqLN0J8D6yxWOAs4uv2e53_-lNzugQll25Q/w333-h400/Books.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Still, an ugly win is still a win,
and perhaps this will encourage me to try harder next year.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I am, you see, not a very fast
reader. I have friends who can finish a book in a day (at least they tell me
they can; I’ve never actually seen them do it) whereas I spend up to a
fortnight on your average murder-mystery. What I found helpful, especially in
my rush to ram as many books as possible into these final weeks of December, is
a quota of pages per day, and I discovered something rather remarkable about
it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">If you accept the notion that the
average book is around 350 to 400 pages long, all you need to do is decide the
number of books you want to complete in a year and read that many pages every
day. (e.g. 1 page a day will get you 365 pages, or a single book, 2 pages, two
books, etc. You’re welcome.) It helps if you develop a reading habit, such as
devoting your lunch hour to reading while you scarf down your tuna-and-mayo
sandwich, or reading before bed, or carrying a book with you everywhere you go
so you can fill the downtime by reading instead of staring at the back of the person
in front of you in the queue. (Ebooks work great for this, as do audio-books.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In his book, <i>A Year of Reading
Dangerously</i>, Andy Miller states that he decided on 50 pages a day and,
subsequently, read 50 books. (I didn’t read his book, by the way; my wife did,
and told me about it.) In addition to a scattering of popular titles, such as <i>Catch-22,
Lord of the Flies, The Da Vinci Code </i>and<i> The Tiger Who Came to Tea</i>,
Miller also tackled the types of books people claim to have read but actually
haven’t, including <i>Don Quixote, The Epic of Gilgamesh, The Communist
Manifesto, Beowulf, Jane Eyre, War and Peace, Middlemarch, Frankenstein</i> and
that bane of every American English Lit student, <i>Moby Dick</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My list for the current year is
shorter, less ambitious but, quite likely, more entertaining:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I admit to gravitating toward
popular fiction, and murder, mayhem and madness in particular, therefore, the
Jack Reacher books of Lee Child are on my Guilty Pleasures List. Unfortunately,
Mr. Child has recently retired, so that particular stream has dried up. I had
also been enjoying the books of Edward Marston (Keith Miles), but I’m afraid
that has soured for me, as well.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mr. Marston is, if nothing else,
prolific. His historical thrillers—set in the 1850s, 1100s, WWI, et al—are
fast-paced and superficially interesting, but also read like a first draft
turned in by a talented 16-year-old. I used to be able to get beyond that, and
take delight in the fact that I could point out things I would never do (like
have two characters sitting in a room telling each other things they already
know simply to get the information to the reader; simple, Writing 101 stuff)
and thereby feel that I was a superior writer. But the fact that he has
published nearly 100 books and has been nominated for an Edgar Award sorta puts
a damper on that bit of fun. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As a substitute, I have discovered
the books of Elly Griffiths, and I recommend reading anything with her name on
it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In addition to low-brow lit, I also
read some non-genre fiction, thanks to the book club I belong to. This year,
these included:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i>Bluebird, Bluebird</i> by Attica
Locke, a murder mystery set in the south. I recommend it.</li><li><i>Warlight</i> by Michael
Ondaatje, cold war shenanigans, really interesting.</li><li><i>The Snakes</i> by Sadie Jones,
good book, ruined by the final chapter. Don’t bother.</li><li><i>The Ballroom</i> by Anna Hope,
love in a prison. Recommended.</li><li><i>Wanderers</i> by Chuck Wendig, a
weighty but highly recommend tome about (gulp) a pandemic. Must read!</li><li><i>The Midnight Library</i> by Matt
Haigg, quirky, very entertaining, and short.</li><li><i>My Sister, the Serial Killer</i>
by Oyinkan Braithwaite, ditto.</li><li><i>Girl, Woman, Other</i> by
Bernardine Evaristo, really quirky and not as short, but I still recommend it.</li><li><i>How to Fall in Love With a Man
Who Lives Under a Bush</i> by Emmy Abrahamson. The title says it all. It’s fun,
entertaining and short. </li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Books I highly recommend are:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i>A Tree Grows in Brooklyn</i> by
Betty Smith. If you have not read this book, go out, buy a copy and <i>read it
now</i>. </li><li><i>His Dark Materials</i>, a
trilogy by Philip Pullman. Stunning in scope and imagery.</li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Books I do not recommend:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i>Black Eyed Susans</i> by Julia
Heaberlin. Prominently displayed at my local bookshop and heralded as a great
read. It was anything but.</li><li><i>Lockdown</i> by Peter May. He
wrote this years ago and his publishers passed on it but, when the real
lockdown happened, they pulled it out of mothballs and hyped the shit out of
it. I read it, and now I know why his publishers passed on it. Utter rubbish.
Read <i>Wanderers</i> instead.</li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And I would be remiss if I didn’t
mention the books by Catherine Ryan Howard. <i>Rewind</i> and <i>The Nothing
Man</i> were both good books and Ms Howard is gaining traction as an upcoming
talent. Keep an eye on her, and buy her books.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That is my reading year in review.
I wish you all a Happy New Year and hope you enjoy many good books in the
months to come.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’ve got my spreadsheet ready for
2021, with 45 empty slots for the books I’m going to read, as long as I can fit
in 45 pages a day.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-60913940278711858602020-12-21T10:54:00.003+00:002020-12-21T10:54:40.637+00:00An Early Christmas Present<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9PoxjdNrPu0D7uq7hxiIXrilic8FpRfe_-XQZRa8KnNij93MzlteTRi-sJMPcrrEYnyyx9Jzst0Wx-c_8KiDM9Wg3ctDami1b-44Lqra1zXgIlMiEzWrtLiExFDStgyLk1uWEA/s500/Shingles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9PoxjdNrPu0D7uq7hxiIXrilic8FpRfe_-XQZRa8KnNij93MzlteTRi-sJMPcrrEYnyyx9Jzst0Wx-c_8KiDM9Wg3ctDami1b-44Lqra1zXgIlMiEzWrtLiExFDStgyLk1uWEA/s16000/Shingles.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p> <span style="font-size: medium;">“Ask about getting a Shingles vaccine,” my wife says, as I prepare to leave for my flu jab.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Shingles? Isn’t that some medieval affliction, like cholera, typhoid fever, or the Black Death, and similarly consigned to the fringes of society? She assures me it is not, and is, furthermore, something I do not want to have.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so, I ask the needle nurse about getting a Shingles vaccine. She tells me I won’t be eligible until I am 70. I am comfortable with that. I have never given Shingles a thought, and was certainly not planning on contracting it, so I tell her I will ask again in five years’ time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then I went home and got Shingles.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This caused great consternation, for two reasons. First, it is jolly uncomfortable, but more on that in a bit. Secondly, and initially more concerning, was this: for the past ten months I’ve been masked, sanitized, distanced, and going through bars of disinfectant soap like a wino through boxed Lambrusco (in a “gone as soon as it’s open” sort of way, not actual consumption), so how did this malady evade all those defences? And, more to the point, what else might get through? (I’m looking at you, COVID.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My fears were quelled, however, when I learned that one does not “catch” Shingles. Apparently, I’ve been carrying this around with me, like unwanted baggage, for some 63 years, ever since I had Chicken Pox. The virus, Dr. Google informed me, has lain dormant all that time, waiting for a chance to strike.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I blame my wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been happily going about my business with this sleeping virus inside me, not causing a bit of bother, until she pipes up and starts talking about it. I’m certain the virus perked up its ears when it heard her mention “Shingles” and thought, “Someone’s calling! Time to get to work!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That’s my version and I’m sticking with it because there is no way I would have done this to myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It began innocently enough. Just a patch of tender skin, slightly tingly, like someone had rubbed it vigorously with extra-fine sandpaper. I dismissed it, but my wife put on her concerned face.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day, it had spread over the right side of my torso and my wife pronounced it to be Shingles. I dismissed it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day, the rash appeared. My wife managed to avoid saying, “I told you so,” and I consulted Dr. Google.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was advised to call the non-emergency health number (111). So, I did. I explained my symptoms to the person who answered the phone (they said they were a Doctor, but you never know; he could have found the gig via the Job Centre and took it because it was a step up from Loft Insulation cold-calling) and they told me to call my local GP. So, I did. There, at least, I was told up front that the person I would be talking to was not a doctor, but to spill all the gory details anyway, because that’s what they were there for.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I told the lady I had Shingles and she replied (literally, I am not making this up), “What do you expect us to do about it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Taken aback, I said, “Well, nothing, really. I checked your website. It said to call 111. I did. They said to call you. So, I am. I’m just ticking boxes. I have Shingles. If it gets worse, I’ll call back. Okay?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She was happy with that, and I was certain the disease was already at its zenith and did my best to forget about it. Then I spent the next four days in bed, unable to move.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I know I must have, at some point in my life, experience more pain and discomfort than I have from Shingles, but I struggle to recall when that might have been. It was so excruciating and supremely uncomfortable that it was impossible to stand, or even sit. All I could do was lie in bed and pop paracetamol like a Ketamine junkie. Even breathing was painful.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Further research informed me that Shingles lasts from three to six weeks and that, sometimes, the rash and blisters go away, but the pain doesn’t. It can, Dr. Google affirms, last weeks, months, or even years.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thrilling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">However, despite all this, given the choice between COVID, the flu or Shingles, I’d take Singles any day, mainly because its list of common outcomes does not include “death.” (I have since learned that you can, indeed, die from an extreme case of Shingles, but in much the same way that you can die from an extreme case of Stubbed Toe.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">At any rate, after a few days, the pain subsided to a point I would call “Manageable,” which allows me to get up and go about my business in a manner I would describe as nearly normal but involving more paracetamol and lengthy naps. If the malady follows its normal course, I can expect to enjoy it over Christmas and have its company as I ring in the New Year. I can only hope it is well and truly gone before my birthday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I didn’t include any pictures on purpose. If you really want to see what it looks like, consult Dr. Google. I don’t advise this, however; some of those graphics are horrific.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In a way, now that I have Shingles, it seems like it was meant to be. What better way to end 2020 than with yet another unwelcomed calamity?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I hope your Christmas is as festive as it can be under these circumstances. And if you are ever offered a Shingles vaccine, take it.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-78605712297655105322020-11-10T07:29:00.002+00:002020-11-10T07:29:15.309+00:00Lockdown 2.0<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">I ended my
first Lockdown Diary on 18 July, and posted to this blog about it. The post
ended with a mocked-up photo of my fictional, future Lockdown #2 diary. I don’t
recall thinking that it would really happen, but here we are.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2LMovaDI1IJGAX5GyYfSWAf5RNmEpQY6uQNL8H4AOOulwsQ5LrMHib1ci8Rp25gBKIYqlP6xCEdjqSa9GCFd-1K4bxqqBQmnxfEcns-nLllfyekbDt3QUDdyMoh3h7HVlBWznA/s400/LD06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="119" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2LMovaDI1IJGAX5GyYfSWAf5RNmEpQY6uQNL8H4AOOulwsQ5LrMHib1ci8Rp25gBKIYqlP6xCEdjqSa9GCFd-1K4bxqqBQmnxfEcns-nLllfyekbDt3QUDdyMoh3h7HVlBWznA/s16000/LD06.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Lockdown 2.0
isn’t much like Lockdown version 1, however. In fact, if I didn’t know a
lockdown was in progress, I might not even notice. (That, however, would mostly
be down to me being so unobservant.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The traffic is
lively, but lighter, if you notice those sorts of things. Many shops are
closed—the hairdressers, pubs, restaurants—and we can’t go to the leisure
centre, the cinema or the bookstore, and, although my wife can still work with
her volunteer group in the park, it is now in pairs instead of groups of six.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmOWNnEobQXIiBfzZNXNx8GS-8TysTKYJ_ERGpQPPZg5ColRRWJ2rqEU8lxKOjOyDYTRsOWPae4gAoothDTGPagckA1zLDzYv9GjKSB8XzJdRl5SeJ8mrIPmfRzGDeoCIWPAxJA/s450/Lockdownv2.0-04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="450" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmOWNnEobQXIiBfzZNXNx8GS-8TysTKYJ_ERGpQPPZg5ColRRWJ2rqEU8lxKOjOyDYTRsOWPae4gAoothDTGPagckA1zLDzYv9GjKSB8XzJdRl5SeJ8mrIPmfRzGDeoCIWPAxJA/w400-h312/Lockdownv2.0-04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Traffic, Lockdown version 1</b></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgMLCHcNAQc2TMXSJgaXWilnFYh18PV8s56yLjbK1oSBWybx3oHDbSShW1U-AEZt6pRSmX08gPyEEol95vLrLmoph5NEcfzAjr1iJuRRuMovbV2zMo253y7e8wHp_yfBRb-EptQ/s450/Lockdownv2.0-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="450" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgMLCHcNAQc2TMXSJgaXWilnFYh18PV8s56yLjbK1oSBWybx3oHDbSShW1U-AEZt6pRSmX08gPyEEol95vLrLmoph5NEcfzAjr1iJuRRuMovbV2zMo253y7e8wHp_yfBRb-EptQ/w400-h304/Lockdownv2.0-02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Traffic, Lockdown 2.0</b></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">On the other
hand, we can still go out as much as we want. There is no “one hour a day”
restriction, and when we walk through town we can still shop at the markets, go
to the mall and even get a cup of tea, though it is take-out only.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">I realize that,
like the first lockdown, many, many people have been adversely affected but,
also like the first lockdown, we are in the very fortunate position to not be
one of them. And because of that, to me, this seems more like Lockdown Lite
than Lockdown 2.0.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">And as a bonus,
there isn’t any panic-buying going on, and there is a lot less angst. This
isn’t our first rodeo, so we know what to expect; the virus is no longer an
unknown bogey-man, the hospitals are better at treating it and, even without
the continual prompting, we all know what to do (wash your hands, wear a mask,
don’t French-kiss random strangers) even if we don’t always do it.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRTWhkF7hX_N0EV9DnKZamCfW5XWnXfzQOrgcVZ31B5addSHK_SB67VcGxzWrwKUecaloISXECvKG4AoUPo9nJ7vExx4VXAe36M0II_ZW_oZKspWhPcW-jiRHS10K1MZLl55d1w/s450/Lockdownv2.0-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="450" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRTWhkF7hX_N0EV9DnKZamCfW5XWnXfzQOrgcVZ31B5addSHK_SB67VcGxzWrwKUecaloISXECvKG4AoUPo9nJ7vExx4VXAe36M0II_ZW_oZKspWhPcW-jiRHS10K1MZLl55d1w/w400-h303/Lockdownv2.0-03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Town Centre, Lockdown version 1</span></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">In a way, this
lockdown takes me back to those heady days of early summer when Lockdown
version 1 was letting up—the ragged queues for take-out coffee, paying
attention to the masking tape on the pavement, feeling like you’ve made a
significant accomplishment when you finally step up to order, and mentally high-fiving yourself when a shop you need to go to is actually open. It’s a strangely nostalgic
feeling, associated with freedom and hope.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJApZnubs6Fu_7NWtAwqM0rfobMDcOyVvaCddYy-UBTPUStMOhgdgdC39NaIpkNgoyXwAwleo9lE_nWg2CClTJUp4HO5gkq7kgD750TR6MGNC8z9NWeyelCiUVdH6D6bguutcjg/s400/Lockdownv2.0-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="400" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJApZnubs6Fu_7NWtAwqM0rfobMDcOyVvaCddYy-UBTPUStMOhgdgdC39NaIpkNgoyXwAwleo9lE_nWg2CClTJUp4HO5gkq7kgD750TR6MGNC8z9NWeyelCiUVdH6D6bguutcjg/w400-h393/Lockdownv2.0-01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Town Centre, Lockdown 2.0</span></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The final
difference is, this one is finite. Unlike the rolling three-week extensions of
Lockdown version 1, Lockdown 2.0 is set to automatically expire* on the 2nd of
December, and when it does, some/most/all of us will get back to the “normal”
we were experiencing before. Which raises an interesting question: if we leave
these restrictions and return to what we had come to know as normal life, does
that mean things are back to Normal?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">Perhaps this
has been the Government’s strategy all along.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;">*<span style="font-size: x-small;">I know the
Government hasn’t had a stellar run of kept promises, but they really mean to
stick to this one. No, really, they do. They won’t U-Turn on this one, they promised.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-75959085721359973252020-10-29T14:28:00.005+00:002020-10-29T14:28:41.634+00:00Strange Coincidence<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Long ago, in the Before Time —
before Breixt, before Trump, before COVID — I began writing a fantasy/adventure
series for my grandsons. Any dedicated reader of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards</i>… will be aware of this, as I keep banging on about it.
Previously, however, I have only talked in general about the series; today I am
going to mention something quite specific.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The series involves Arthurian
legend and a stone—an obsidian Scrying Mirror called the Talisman—that holds
the power to save the Land or, in the wrong hands, destroy it. The good thing
about writing fantasy (something I had never envisioned doing) is that you can
make shit up. So, I did.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Talisman gets its power from
Brighid (an actual goddess, supposedly, the origin of the goddess Britannia)
and becomes even more powerful when placed in the Sacred Temple hidden deep
beneath the Glastonbury Tor. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Of course.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Tor is a place imbued with
mystery, which made it the ideal location to hide a sacred temple. But how does
one get at that Temple? What I came up with was the idea of a big, round stone,
set into the side of the tor. The stone would mark the entrance to the
underground temple and, to open the gateway, they had to…but that would be
telling. What I can tell you is, I arbitrarily set it on the south side at the
5th level, simply to make it hard to get to as well as to avoid having it at
the top, a location where there is, quite obviously, no large, round stone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Earlier this year, while writing
the final book, I needed to take another look at the Tor to help set up a
scene, so I fired up Google Maps, as I have done countless times in the past.
This time, however, I noticed something new: a location indicator pointing to
something called the Egg Stone. A quick check revealed that this was the stone
I had been writing about all along, without even knowing it was there.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuEXdJmvfaR0Xfjhn1YRYOFO3tjJO-VtTQBwN5r_2aK2qr9qad81LxOEu7GwWJXNSFFedLPT1v_HDmloUEJKSsaHi6CO5ai53nZd0SaV7Vemarq0zxY7bl_8ebI19yW2ehfdsZA/s450/Coincidence01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="450" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuEXdJmvfaR0Xfjhn1YRYOFO3tjJO-VtTQBwN5r_2aK2qr9qad81LxOEu7GwWJXNSFFedLPT1v_HDmloUEJKSsaHi6CO5ai53nZd0SaV7Vemarq0zxY7bl_8ebI19yW2ehfdsZA/w400-h299/Coincidence01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Egg Stone (said by some to be
the “Dragon Egg” laid out by the Dragon of Avalon) has been there probably as
long as the tor, and over the years has become mythologized as the gateway to
the underworld, which is exactly what it is in my books. Even more
coincidentally, it is in the same location as the stone in my books—the south
side, on the 5th level.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was a weird feeling, discovering
that the fictional stone I had been writing about for eight years actually
existed. I felt I needed to go see it in person so, on a lovely, sunny day in
September—while my wife and I were on holiday in Somerset—we made a side trip
to the Tor.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eaMfGtV0F02G-rtca7oMRWoTjgXTF5y2KZrMMa6XkuDtKe26y9TunBeFrySdfM86oJS0m4nIdKVAz4nSGHcuxjQ5LZ40Kz73foYlLVxco9DS-HBnsxbnEMH4_uG5mTHCrHh3vQ/s450/Coincidence02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eaMfGtV0F02G-rtca7oMRWoTjgXTF5y2KZrMMa6XkuDtKe26y9TunBeFrySdfM86oJS0m4nIdKVAz4nSGHcuxjQ5LZ40Kz73foYlLVxco9DS-HBnsxbnEMH4_uG5mTHCrHh3vQ/w400-h300/Coincidence02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Level 5 on the South Side</b></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We walked to the top, enjoyed the
views, and then I set off to find the Egg Stone. It wasn’t difficult locating
it—I’ve known exactly where it sits for years—but getting to it wasn’t easy,
which is how it is in the books. I scrambled up a nearly vertical slope,
dodging sure-footed sheep, prickly bushes and stingy nettles, to find it as I
imagined, nestled in the slope rising from the fifth level. I was really
chuffed, but there was no one to share my moment with. Then a woman came down
the slope, wearing sandals, a psychedelic tee-shirt and glittery harem pants.
She descended to the level ground and gave me no notice, even when I greeted
her. Instead, she placed her hands on the Egg Stone and just sort of stood
there, touching it.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSp17hTqqPH7cSioU1Gi-vop9I5m6OWOTMLjz-q9BkhBrRA3eFwH95CagDOYXV7xr4lPJ2EEiIq0Qyw5b191nL34rovgoJMmxnwW2P8QJ941jVym1B__uKbr7lvhZkKr_N4kpteg/s450/Coincidence03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="450" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSp17hTqqPH7cSioU1Gi-vop9I5m6OWOTMLjz-q9BkhBrRA3eFwH95CagDOYXV7xr4lPJ2EEiIq0Qyw5b191nL34rovgoJMmxnwW2P8QJ941jVym1B__uKbr7lvhZkKr_N4kpteg/w400-h390/Coincidence03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The Egg Stone, right where I said it would be.</span></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I figured that must be the thing to
do, so I joined her, placing both my hands on the rock, but I didn’t feel
anything, just cold stone and a rising embarrassment. Having achieved my goal,
I left her to it, not bothering to say, “Good-bye” as I left.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Good thing, too, as I later found
this review of the Egg Stone:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">“A very peaceful and very spiritual
place. I wouldn't disrespect it by taking photos. The best way is to go and
experience it quietly and respectfully.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">So, I was a New Age Boor because I
did both. But then she didn’t feature it in a fantasy/adventure epic, so I
guess we’re even.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibsRgxxL0ItrCJm5t2W_1NiAdtoOk6KTms7giXp-ngc1yJviR-gNs3Y3dYj5_0EIMHbj1j_bCOIABGBFZ30o1Nx9BHyzMFkpL9gZcp0bd-L3dp_HtOAurYa9tHM1ZxOBDwrs0hg/s530/Coincidence04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibsRgxxL0ItrCJm5t2W_1NiAdtoOk6KTms7giXp-ngc1yJviR-gNs3Y3dYj5_0EIMHbj1j_bCOIABGBFZ30o1Nx9BHyzMFkpL9gZcp0bd-L3dp_HtOAurYa9tHM1ZxOBDwrs0hg/w340-h400/Coincidence04.jpg" width="340" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-21798884179000364492020-10-18T16:40:00.000+01:002020-10-18T16:40:03.387+01:00Holiday II<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">We’ve just returned from holiday and, as usual, it already feels like we never left. There is laundry to be done, dishes to wash, and it seems that no one did the hoovering while we were gone.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">Wait a minute! That’s the same thing I wrote last month. It’s like deja vu all over again.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">But the truth is, we went on holiday. Again. This time up north, to Yorkshire, where we enjoyed the “atmospheric” (Read: clouds, rain and wind) scenery, which truly was stunning.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">Scenic though it was, and even though we hiked and drove repeatedly thought the Moors (in various states of weather), I managed to take not a single photo of the breath-taking vistas. So, here’s one I nicked off the web. It’s better than anything I could do and, as a bonus, it’s not raining.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmCI5dV8UeqCx9nEqmBZzyGOTelWBd6KScZFVgARaySkB_y4f_6bpHZm4e3m9NOZx8-lvnUeJu49t0Xt1xm8xyU1Q4kKy-OwPn7ErFAW8xY8M5sDwWLrkubLKlyO6y-AH8MGHiQ/s500/Hol-II_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="500" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmCI5dV8UeqCx9nEqmBZzyGOTelWBd6KScZFVgARaySkB_y4f_6bpHZm4e3m9NOZx8-lvnUeJu49t0Xt1xm8xyU1Q4kKy-OwPn7ErFAW8xY8M5sDwWLrkubLKlyO6y-AH8MGHiQ/w400-h254/Hol-II_02.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">One of the highlights of the trip was a ride on the North Yorkshire Moors Heritage Railway. I’m not really a train buff, but it was certainly interesting and quite an experience.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC6SwjGrEvAtW4sNtXKOOuDRI7kLsNdz4xSwwNlvcSX1HLlgIb5vezDtX8Nezy1d_kjDKSSrVAcUhplTe9o8POyFgc1PwIzHSejXdCv3LY6oQzaAZn6gtwitpCyTKb7B0loOd8g/s450/Hol-II_07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC6SwjGrEvAtW4sNtXKOOuDRI7kLsNdz4xSwwNlvcSX1HLlgIb5vezDtX8Nezy1d_kjDKSSrVAcUhplTe9o8POyFgc1PwIzHSejXdCv3LY6oQzaAZn6gtwitpCyTKb7B0loOd8g/w400-h300/Hol-II_07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Getting ready to board.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VrNgHH5Vx-hrVne4j8iVS2DbRZ2eoR1H0X5-9ppTG-sCr7UfzWTxQ-gY1G0_LDSAZEJgLugO4N1So1wzgTmL-J281CkWx4v3BKVMVYWgIYSTLpqknKKKIcscp8hcLznG09PjuA/s450/Hol-II_08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VrNgHH5Vx-hrVne4j8iVS2DbRZ2eoR1H0X5-9ppTG-sCr7UfzWTxQ-gY1G0_LDSAZEJgLugO4N1So1wzgTmL-J281CkWx4v3BKVMVYWgIYSTLpqknKKKIcscp8hcLznG09PjuA/w400-h300/Hol-II_08.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It's a steam train, what did you expect?<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19yxEFecLNPDnXa0M0o_hHJG_DoYv5bZlbL-R_cCJXxFaIDcpOf-0_21dljlZWUyhL7sJv6-YxjJUiKvp30VW-Q0P_Z4xKTBHKfR_9eVdPSWbZjd2IAxbyJP2QCtqxpayGNJ7jw/s563/Hol-II_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19yxEFecLNPDnXa0M0o_hHJG_DoYv5bZlbL-R_cCJXxFaIDcpOf-0_21dljlZWUyhL7sJv6-YxjJUiKvp30VW-Q0P_Z4xKTBHKfR_9eVdPSWbZjd2IAxbyJP2QCtqxpayGNJ7jw/w320-h400/Hol-II_03.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is what it looked like when we went through a tunnel.<br />Must have given those Victoria couples quite the opportunity.<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3wjC3d2rhCdXovsTsz4KzgRZEAJSje36qpHV45rOSfEILJhsZkTn5YtbsSGbfXLXb7jjWwJZCXdCUt7OP2gellpcgx529OI5x_JgAbWSWknZy8tdC3MAGhFQ8gQn9PPWFFZ6Zg/s450/Hol-II_09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3wjC3d2rhCdXovsTsz4KzgRZEAJSje36qpHV45rOSfEILJhsZkTn5YtbsSGbfXLXb7jjWwJZCXdCUt7OP2gellpcgx529OI5x_JgAbWSWknZy8tdC3MAGhFQ8gQn9PPWFFZ6Zg/w400-h300/Hol-II_09.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For you trainspotters, here's the engine.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">The train brought us to the town of Whitby, a place famous for its Jet jewellery. It was a lovely town and we had a nose around, then dried out in a convivial café to wait for the train to leave and marvel at how the locals kept their famous Jet so well under cover.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_wbzRXxvU5WWwlovPTzKkZizBbD-b5xn_Wy4ByqlYE2X5f6fR_yizeFLd_689s-oD0Hd9f97Djlqa0v9uAocjwnZDyGQC3DES3SHPicV0hxMZ43dtLE-NOvX1D5YXB61HFrSTQ/s450/Hol-II_01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="386" data-original-width="450" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_wbzRXxvU5WWwlovPTzKkZizBbD-b5xn_Wy4ByqlYE2X5f6fR_yizeFLd_689s-oD0Hd9f97Djlqa0v9uAocjwnZDyGQC3DES3SHPicV0hxMZ43dtLE-NOvX1D5YXB61HFrSTQ/w400-h343/Hol-II_01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">We also went to Scarborough and, yes, the fair was in town. I think it’s always there.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhYui44TO7-G50tUr-E-gtRBzKvOaxdhNxkzMscgC-0QAI3x6jq_fbrDRodouxllZ3bjYyo4K5u6v_rm4TsyBaQyBu9B2pqNo_QVLWd7C9cbaZmZVfQjBYHa-ti3SlhvT5ElB2A/s450/Hol-II_06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhYui44TO7-G50tUr-E-gtRBzKvOaxdhNxkzMscgC-0QAI3x6jq_fbrDRodouxllZ3bjYyo4K5u6v_rm4TsyBaQyBu9B2pqNo_QVLWd7C9cbaZmZVfQjBYHa-ti3SlhvT5ElB2A/w400-h300/Hol-II_06.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnJ5HcxDrDSJkljUnHiomCr2FsjIRmSSMrqiD_0cBXhLPu_M3oXf7xiNKv2RRSckYyVrYym1M-pFWxJOAGfFCclK3AviT9CR1TBRw8rOsl1R5P73ECbQCFwG7rkP374sCqF8kzQ/s450/Hol-II_05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnJ5HcxDrDSJkljUnHiomCr2FsjIRmSSMrqiD_0cBXhLPu_M3oXf7xiNKv2RRSckYyVrYym1M-pFWxJOAGfFCclK3AviT9CR1TBRw8rOsl1R5P73ECbQCFwG7rkP374sCqF8kzQ/w400-h300/Hol-II_05.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Here's the beach. And this was one of the better days.<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">On the way back from one of our excursions, the SatNav decided to take us on an adventure, leading us onto narrower and narrower roads, up and down near-vertical inclines and over what they call a “Splash,” which is a road that runs under a creek instead of over it; a circumstance, one must suppose, reserved for those hamlets that lack the funds, ability or ambition necessary for building a bridge.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcG4IjBqM2jrvR_-zLAUQAE9kY0-zSFWUZsP_W-hKg9hVr9xTHl3tpL9hBLBPTOVA0wcuAkN6yLuHVwDFrIODn1k1td7U362IsRZkMRcpoInmx8WJfIv4Eg5ch1AG8vJCrFJHUA/s450/Hol-II_04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcG4IjBqM2jrvR_-zLAUQAE9kY0-zSFWUZsP_W-hKg9hVr9xTHl3tpL9hBLBPTOVA0wcuAkN6yLuHVwDFrIODn1k1td7U362IsRZkMRcpoInmx8WJfIv4Eg5ch1AG8vJCrFJHUA/w400-h300/Hol-II_04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Makes you wonder how they get to the shops after a heavy rain.<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">Oddly, the most exciting thing we did on holiday was listen to the news. Every evening we sat, giving the flat-screen affixed to the wall our full attention, as region after region fell under the juggernaut of COVID. One by one, the surrounding counties fell, like used face-masks, by the wayside, but the county of North Yorkshire remained resolutely in Tier 1, as did our home county of Sussex.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">It might not have been such an exciting sideshow, but the Government (bless them) managed to keep everyone on their toes through obfuscation, random rule-changing and offering us the opportunity to realize the sad, yet frightening, truth that they, themselves, had no idea what they were doing.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">That particular week, they came up with a sort of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Need for the COVID era, with a Tier System ranging from One to Three, as opposed to the traffic light system they came up with a few weeks back that went from Green to Red. Same number of levels, same meanings, same confusion.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bzBxhZ4q08MHTZOyD4W7MP5jscXv73bRWUlXCNgZxNnUIhD8FUlMYxPOOCSBB59SjfPbYbWIOZHPHJRybRhGJ4j47tr6Qa_3473uQ5n2IFzTPmQ2f01rolRoZG9ukZ_7BXTxlg/s450/Hol-II_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="450" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bzBxhZ4q08MHTZOyD4W7MP5jscXv73bRWUlXCNgZxNnUIhD8FUlMYxPOOCSBB59SjfPbYbWIOZHPHJRybRhGJ4j47tr6Qa_3473uQ5n2IFzTPmQ2f01rolRoZG9ukZ_7BXTxlg/w400-h303/Hol-II_10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new Tier System.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">The idea that we might be locked down in North Yorkshire and unable to leave or, worse yet, locked out of Sussex and unable to return, or perhaps be required to drive a circuitous route home to avoid locked-down counties, gave a little extra spark to our otherwise peaceful holiday.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">As it turned out, we were able to leave North Yorkshire while it was still in the Green (I mean, at Tier 1) and were not required to avoid driving through any counties on the route home (fortunately, we were nowhere near Wales) and we arrived to the Sussex we left, which, though still in Tier 1, is slowly, politely, climbing the ladder—as is the rest of the country—toward Tier 2, and beyond.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">Good thing we had a holiday when we could. We won’t be going anywhere else for a long time.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-16286398126535561102020-09-20T15:41:00.003+01:002020-09-20T15:41:23.682+01:00Holiday<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We’ve just returned from holiday (or, as you in the US might say, We just got back from vacation) and, as usual, it already feels like we never left. There is laundry to be
done, dishes to wash, and it seems that no one did the hoovering while we were
gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And right now, what sticks foremost
in my mind, is not the relaxing time we had, but the driving.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In traveling to and from the
cottage—as well as nearly every excursion we went on during the week—we
routinely ran into ROAD CLOSED signs. As you can imagine, due to the roads in
that locality being unfamiliar to us, this caused quite a bit of consternation.
And our Sat-Nav was of little use. No one had informed it of the road closures
so all it did was lead us <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> closed
roads and then try to circle us around so we could see the ROAD CLOSED sign
again.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8_39jnJCuzaqPWY83jJeAarbkxtcq2EQOfkuTU38ucj-bhBgG9ON_K9E9vucJrObZIxi2yee0PqDTLsTKJqMzJO0Xpc2kQ7WjVz4Mu1OkC371mgC_IeP6puJokUUywEglk9F6Q/s400/Somerset04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8_39jnJCuzaqPWY83jJeAarbkxtcq2EQOfkuTU38ucj-bhBgG9ON_K9E9vucJrObZIxi2yee0PqDTLsTKJqMzJO0Xpc2kQ7WjVz4Mu1OkC371mgC_IeP6puJokUUywEglk9F6Q/s16000/Somerset04.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We saw a lot of these on holiday.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Travel aside, the weather was
stunning and at least we were able to go on holiday.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When things began to open up, we
decided to try to go…somewhere. Abroad was out of the question as it was too
much of a crap-shoot: you might book a holiday only to find your location added
to a “No Go” list at the last minute or, even worse, get there and then find
your destination on the “No Go” list. Therefore, we stayed in-country, opting
to go to Somerset, instead, which was very nice, indeed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The cottage was located in the
countryside, with the back garden bordering a broad field, offering views of
curious alpacas and the gentle, unending hum of a nearby highway. Inside, the
furnishings were POSH, almost too POSH.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYR_dZxsBMauWmhJFJM-trcfSQHDuz1TNjfqew0PoIo3eIousBCtoplYZXRiE_yI6zSfvYeWDAkxmUYX1vWw1OPL4K8Tzuwi9TvL0fpZvAN1KqYNkDAc4XH2JE1OoJu3kTUUWLA/s400/Somerset02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYR_dZxsBMauWmhJFJM-trcfSQHDuz1TNjfqew0PoIo3eIousBCtoplYZXRiE_yI6zSfvYeWDAkxmUYX1vWw1OPL4K8Tzuwi9TvL0fpZvAN1KqYNkDAc4XH2JE1OoJu3kTUUWLA/s16000/Somerset02.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evening companions.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The dishes were heavy and thick and
gaily decorated in an afternoon-at-gran’s sort of way. The place mats were
likewise flowery and eager to alert me to the fact that Digitalis Purpurea
translates to Foxglove and Syringa vulgaris is the Garden Lilac. The cutlery
was so substantial I wouldn’t have wanted to accidentally drop a soup spoon on
my toe, not unless I was wearing steel-toed boots.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The bathroom, as in many of these
places, appeared to have been an afterthought. It was, however, nicely
appointed, with a heated towel rail, plush bathmat, and posh toilet paper. It
is a good thing, though, that toilets come in a standard size, or I am sure
they would have bought one from the same Munchkin factory that produced the
absurdly tiny sink. The shower was of adequate size, which was handy because
you had to dry yourself while standing in it as there wasn’t enough room if you
stepped out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Still, these were small
considerations; we only rented the place for a week, it’s not like we signed a
seven-year lease.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On the first day, we did a
twelve-mile hike to Shepton Mallet. The weather was grand and so amenable to
walking that neither of us felt it was too long. As a bonus, we were able to
start and end at the cottage, as the circular hike coincidentally ran right by
where we were staying. We went, for a good deal of time, along an old Roman
road known as the Fosse Way, which is everything an old Roman road should
be—straight and wide and well-used, and great for walking. In the peace of the
countryside, it was easy to forget about face masks and social distancing. It
was nice.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXpQYq1awLErsUE-_HEfwvtz-midDeGlgoWRYiYwLFZ3_wi6GkMcPTCumLbs5ZYVC-v_n8Lf9Or4l9g9-1QJheR68jD4lHseFyKjrl7dO1Uo1pxi4J4HPClD38aP6a8mb3Y8bxQ/s400/Somerset07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXpQYq1awLErsUE-_HEfwvtz-midDeGlgoWRYiYwLFZ3_wi6GkMcPTCumLbs5ZYVC-v_n8Lf9Or4l9g9-1QJheR68jD4lHseFyKjrl7dO1Uo1pxi4J4HPClD38aP6a8mb3Y8bxQ/s16000/Somerset07.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fosse Way<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And it was good that the hike
included a loop through Shepton Mallet, as it saved us a special trip to see
what it was like, which is a bit down-at-heel. It appears to be the poor cousin
of Wells, and looks a little ropey and sorry for itself. Still, it was an
approachable town with some nice places to sit and eat lunch. We didn’t feel
the need to go back, however.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On another grand day, with blue
skies and low wind, we set off to Glastonbury and the Tor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Glastonbury Tor is famous, and
prominent. You can see it from almost any place in central Somerset, except
Glastonbury.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt123TFsXoBZJ2CSZYfrAjqaVYSseJG4cjt-osueqEauzg0KHLYco1NeecWgVCldvB0PFEicA0QF-3pUhgoH4mNA4GUlGhEmqJZSbEnPINn8wdagTNjCFpog-9HksqLQD8jgGkeA/s400/Somerset06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt123TFsXoBZJ2CSZYfrAjqaVYSseJG4cjt-osueqEauzg0KHLYco1NeecWgVCldvB0PFEicA0QF-3pUhgoH4mNA4GUlGhEmqJZSbEnPINn8wdagTNjCFpog-9HksqLQD8jgGkeA/s16000/Somerset06.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We parked our car, followed the
signs to the Tor and were pleased to discover that the prehistoric people who
built the Tor kindly put in steps and concrete paths, knowing their descendants
would be unable to climb to the top without such assistance.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Due to the Tor and its mythical
history, and the ancient well, and Arthur’s Tomb, there are a lot of shops in
town selling necessities like healing crystals, dream catchers and vegan
sandals to people dressed in flowing garments and shimmering harem pants. It
made me think that it must be a difficult place to live if you want to be a
chartered accountant, or have a sudden urge for a bacon cheeseburger.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXqSXQceFwfeRWXS4untIaSy7K8T5sAt0PTccQjI58EjjN3D2wE6vuTpZSJxRafIYKgXj_shVJ80rpgJFVP-sUH6_RfRSXzo0kzYzxVA8yH8UufvR7RnB7lIBaufre7lBdzPdpw/s400/Somerset05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXqSXQceFwfeRWXS4untIaSy7K8T5sAt0PTccQjI58EjjN3D2wE6vuTpZSJxRafIYKgXj_shVJ80rpgJFVP-sUH6_RfRSXzo0kzYzxVA8yH8UufvR7RnB7lIBaufre7lBdzPdpw/s16000/Somerset05.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magic Wands and crystal dragon skulls--all your shopping needs.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On another day, we visited
Weston-Super-Mare. It was a nice town, approachable, tidy and filled with
amusements; all the things you want in a seaside town, except people. Granted,
we visited on a weekday in mid-September, but it was sunny and warm and in any
other time (READ: The Before Time) the place would have been heaving. I suppose
I shouldn’t complain, I’m less comfortable in crowds than I used to be, and
hundreds of people pressing in from all sides would have made for a less enjoyable
day. Still, the near solitude couldn’t help but get me thinking about all the
money they must have lost this season.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE7TqVNOLKPqkUF7S3CRxiPodVFT_l5KIaJK3eIrjBoVMKsSGHJFbpntz0KMWpWXKrQDc-sD64uKObnDh0G3z6HZj2b6EWS4ES5Mh7RGSJHgqD7H2XJpWt2EYjtExGqh3BdXFVw/s400/Somerset03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE7TqVNOLKPqkUF7S3CRxiPodVFT_l5KIaJK3eIrjBoVMKsSGHJFbpntz0KMWpWXKrQDc-sD64uKObnDh0G3z6HZj2b6EWS4ES5Mh7RGSJHgqD7H2XJpWt2EYjtExGqh3BdXFVw/s16000/Somerset03.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weston-Super-Mare<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">By noon, the place began to fill up
with a reasonable number of people, though it still didn’t compare to anything
you might have expected in a more normal time. Most things were open, however,
and the people did their best to flock to them. We went to a nice bistro, which
was bustling, where we enjoyed a satisfying, socially-distanced lunch. I’m sure
they were glad for our (and everyone else’s) business.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That, of course, was last week,
when things were looking a bit more rosy. Now, we’re just glad we got away when
we could.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJw0Yz1zD_uuEkfDFBs_ejB6iePE1fiPbiUEHAPqBPBgnvv9M7wRygEbrQGuYBViDI8JdButDaCjCX1RtuLo1O4kEdjhyphenhyphenVN_8gnwwHfNGeQlJ6JmMhY33QbG8KWeol8kO9imMF3w/s400/Somerset01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJw0Yz1zD_uuEkfDFBs_ejB6iePE1fiPbiUEHAPqBPBgnvv9M7wRygEbrQGuYBViDI8JdButDaCjCX1RtuLo1O4kEdjhyphenhyphenVN_8gnwwHfNGeQlJ6JmMhY33QbG8KWeol8kO9imMF3w/s16000/Somerset01.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-62256135337482796122020-08-21T08:55:00.003+01:002020-08-21T09:03:01.490+01:00Closing the Barn Door<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards</i> books were published a decade ago, and some of the essays
in them are nearly twenty years old. So why did I suddenly, and so belatedly,
re-release them?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Am I really that vain? Do I crave
riches and glory? Have I run out of things to say?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Okay, I’ll cop to some of that, but
the real, honest-to-God reason I began this revision journey was because,
incredibly, people are still buying the books.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It remains a source of pride,
humility, chagrin and incredulity that every month a dozen
or so people, for some reason or other, purchase one or more of my ten-year-old
humor books. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased as a puppy in a squeaky-toy factory,
but after a time I started feeling like people were paying good money for
day-old bread. This was why, some years ago, I dropped the Kindle price to $.99
on all the books. (The paperbacks have always been set to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nearly</i> their lowest price, and there’s nothing I can do about
that.) Then, in the lull between finishing my latest book and picking up the
next one, I thought I’d combine all three books into one so the price could be
even lower.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This took a couple of days and the
results looked fine and I was about to release it into the wild when a nagging
voice from the back of my mind said, “Really, if you’re re-publishing it, you
ought to give it another once-over.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Now, these manuscripts have been
read and re-read, and checked and re-checked, and proofed and re-proofed, but I
couldn’t shake the notion, so I thought I’d try a new proofing trick I had
just learned and…oh…my…lord. There were errors, small ones (mostly), ones
readers might not even see, but their numbers were scandalous.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The trick is this: MS Word now has
the ability to read your text back to you. Reading your work out loud has
always been a basic method of proof-reading, but having a machine read it works
a hundred times better than reading it yourself. The robotic voice never reads what it thinks it sees,
or glosses over missed words; it says just what is there, exactly as it is
written. It even has inflection, so extraneous (or missing) punctuation is also
highlighted.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BJL-urxahSqmL50YahcauhNo21wwYmUURnD3npm9wK7nKcjvjUJWGjq7-7paJlSUFsR4OFc2UlrkP3wp6Ayl6t1o1Wt5k_jy0laY9mJmubNyJrpO0dfFXVyLV_nrqEmGk2BiSg/s1938/word02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="1938" height="71" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BJL-urxahSqmL50YahcauhNo21wwYmUURnD3npm9wK7nKcjvjUJWGjq7-7paJlSUFsR4OFc2UlrkP3wp6Ayl6t1o1Wt5k_jy0laY9mJmubNyJrpO0dfFXVyLV_nrqEmGk2BiSg/w400-h71/word02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Click for larger image</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so, I spent a few days listening to
George as he read through the new tome—all 542 pages of it—interrupting him
every few paragraphs to eradicate yet another of the astoundingly frequent boo-boos we found. (Yes, George. The Read Aloud function has three different voices:
George, Susan and Hazel. If you are in a document set to UK English, you get
David, Zira or Mark.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This, however, allowed me to put
the book up on Amazon with a clear conscience. Then that niggling voice said,
“What about the ones already up there?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so, I spent a few more days
fixing each, individual manuscript and re-loading the updated books to Amazon.
They are all up there now—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards From
Across the Pond</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More Postcards From
Across the Pond</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards From
Ireland</i>—and they are as error-free as is humanly possible. (Well, possible
for this human, anyway.) Now, the baker’s dozen of purchasers will, at least,
be getting better books. Sucks about all the other people but I can only do so
much.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The lesson learned: Never, never,
(never) publish anything until you have it read back to you by a machine,
and—despite this—there are always, always, (always), ALWAYS more errors.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTidhMnZjqG0tLeE7vy1EfFlEEj8JsbhiB7SnV7TJ7z2TM8iYOwO2atUEWcUqce4Q3Fsm5QmFxOVQO0GdmRoUZIf5ITA4JRcXQhni-1cmZHF01yiAYxvjbIrLYZ8aV8Y5YN9OBsQ/s2048/PC-Complete_ebookCover02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTidhMnZjqG0tLeE7vy1EfFlEEj8JsbhiB7SnV7TJ7z2TM8iYOwO2atUEWcUqce4Q3Fsm5QmFxOVQO0GdmRoUZIf5ITA4JRcXQhni-1cmZHF01yiAYxvjbIrLYZ8aV8Y5YN9OBsQ/w200-h320/PC-Complete_ebookCover02.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">All of my books are available on Amazon:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Harling/e/B002BOHIIU/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="42" data-original-width="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeRJ8IPk4T50PobUG72kNo_RJmspGHqhkg4E-DwlIN9HMDDeUAwlVDo0Ah91LANgi_X9TBu52NV0y2AfbeDaYPgmLxzIIF9qoSG4-rAuGU51vs7l0KZJW2nUmxEJzYLohd7iR34w/s0/AmazonCOM125wDrpShadow.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Harling/e/B002BOHIIU?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1597996417&sr=8-1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="42" data-original-width="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuyQh_EU-Q8RHyUaw9077g1LVa2aDBIKjYbwcacuQVCdOsdTKj919RhH6HVSglJ3Rvps5J_XJ6UefbiEc3rgyKi4DmI7cIUk1rBlmT5UDr4JiLbuHdj2J-m3uP47jA4asFkFmqg/s0/AmazonUK125wDropShadow.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-67528356717280041372020-08-13T14:52:00.000+01:002020-08-13T14:52:13.583+01:00Summer, Revisited<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">2020</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m sitting in my office with a
limp breeze floating in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of
dry grass and sun-baked tarmac, as well as a distinctive “new clothes” smell,
as I am wearing a shirt I just bought from FatFace. The odd combination brings
to mind vivid memories of the first day of school, and an ache of nostalgia.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My intention was to write about the
blue skies, blazing sun and record-breaking heat we’ve been enjoying (well, I
have, anyway) this past week or so, but I think I’ve done that to death and,
rather than rehash something I’ve already said, I will, instead, offer up a
post I wrote a decade ago, of another heat wave, as it takes place in the “Before Time” and speaks of the same subject, but in prose so poetic that I can
only look back on it in wonder.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5YItb2N-Up68n4UBlwReEvOQDmjUsu400BQnCNy2N-hbtUdGmMQe13yl1EfXdCAOlkrfavceJSFvNnpmdk43xoHg2XR0h0fqH_6AE65mYyFbR6qSdVjJZCU4wBGIzcgDVxDWQgQ/s450/Summer01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="450" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5YItb2N-Up68n4UBlwReEvOQDmjUsu400BQnCNy2N-hbtUdGmMQe13yl1EfXdCAOlkrfavceJSFvNnpmdk43xoHg2XR0h0fqH_6AE65mYyFbR6qSdVjJZCU4wBGIzcgDVxDWQgQ/w320-h318/Summer01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">2011 </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so, it is summer. A heatwave: that’s what the locals are calling it,
despite the improbability of it meeting—as far as I am concerned—any of the criteria.
But who would want to quibble over esoteric details on such a fine day? Certainly
not I, especially when I’m on a mission.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The days here are hot, the nights long and soft, leading me back to my
younger days when, like today, I remained at leisure while my elders toiled
these most enjoyable of days away. I’m heading into town, to journey to a place
I have never been before; a rare adventure, which makes the pull of my youthful
memories even stronger. And so, as I wander past the shops selling mobile
phones, iPads and the latest in electronic wizardry, I find myself yearning,
with an intensity that makes me ache, for those days when a game of
hide-and-seek was enough to satisfy, and the latest in high-technology was a
three-speed bicycle. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RTVhZPJ8oZ12Wve16YsymLPXG2CpYVlDvW4kn0GwvqaEym1LZmejZlPWeYyrag4tXLqD43kFb-9aok93ctyw31bOVVO4KKrZrrOnFNRG-OSGvh_68B5Db-Cmq3GFdwCCxdv2nw/s450/Summer03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="450" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RTVhZPJ8oZ12Wve16YsymLPXG2CpYVlDvW4kn0GwvqaEym1LZmejZlPWeYyrag4tXLqD43kFb-9aok93ctyw31bOVVO4KKrZrrOnFNRG-OSGvh_68B5Db-Cmq3GFdwCCxdv2nw/w400-h282/Summer03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One, lone person, brave enough to face the heat.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I wait in solitude at the edge of the market square, watching life buzz
around me: Near the bandstand, a clutch of young mothers clucks and coos over
the latest arrival while, at the bus stop, a doddering of matrons looks on with
approval. In the shade of the chestnut tree, an elderly woman stands still as a
frightened fawn, watching other pensioners parade past in jackets and jumpers. On
the benches a languor of long-limbed ladies (heedless of the dangers of
excessive alliteration) lounge lazily in the sun, their white skin steamy in
the sultry heat. Nearby, an indolence of boys—bare-chested, tattooed, and
rugged—gaze on in anticipation. There is nothing for me here, so I move on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m on a reconnaissance mission to scope out a local village in
preparation for a meeting I have there next week. I find it advantageous to
make a practice trip in such instances for reasons that become obvious even as
the bus rumbles along the impossibly narrow country lanes: if you have never been
to a place before, how do you know when you have arrived?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When we enter an area where there are at least a few houses, I get off
the bus. I had envisioned a twee village, perhaps with a cobbled main street
lined with shops, an old stone church and the pub I was searching for. Instead,
there were just empty roads, some houses and, alarmingly, no people. I walk up
the road and down the road but find nothing promising. At the opposite bus stop
I see a young woman and, as she is my only option, I approach her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Do you know…” I begin, but then I realize I have nothing intelligent to
ask her. “Where I am?” would make me seem hopelessly inept and, perhaps,
dangerous. Asking the location of the pub would be a good opening line, but I
have neglected to memorize it. I didn’t feel the need, as I have memorized what
I regard to be the one piece of information I need to know: it is the only pub
in the village. But where is the village?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So I continue. “Is there anything that resembles a village around here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She seems puzzled by the concept of “village,” so I take her to be a local.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well, if you go up this road and take a left, you’ll find a pub and a
store,” she tells me. I thank her and set off, but soon begin to wonder if,
having noticed my accent, she has decided to play “trick the tourist.” The road
I am on is narrow and empty and I am about to turn around and try the opposite
direction when I round a corner and find, just as she promised, a pub, a store
and little else.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwogedgFAgCirjKTzFkwBfQv5qmG4C3k5ArSg_A769e4cUes2xJyOmx6OmigUT5JZ23hao2I4TV7MQ9cr5tOevk0cf3N-JOz2vtThJzHayv4zkau8QMsILbrtGwEF1fe8jCqV1UA/s450/Summer06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="450" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwogedgFAgCirjKTzFkwBfQv5qmG4C3k5ArSg_A769e4cUes2xJyOmx6OmigUT5JZ23hao2I4TV7MQ9cr5tOevk0cf3N-JOz2vtThJzHayv4zkau8QMsILbrtGwEF1fe8jCqV1UA/w400-h268/Summer06.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the pub is lovely, old and dark with low, beamed ceilings, and the
publican is cordial. I had planned nothing more than a quick drink and a return
trip, but the waitress explains to me that the bus service is…well, …<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Crap?” I offer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She smiles, relieved at not having to break the news to me herself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“So, I’m going to have to stay here until four o’clock?” I ask,
incredulously.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She shrugs and looks at the pristine sky.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“It’s such a lovely day; I shouldn’t think you’d mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And, indeed, I don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-tdDcrgcQJ0tQRyFIJE4q5lmDr53q0Ze3c7aymWJZwi7N4dPedGsBocUXZ9Bzy4Q0XLUkp2VwW2UL8hsQPZVVsFXtnMFZb63u6w3bODtUNn7YXaRvyn9nn_I9OxZ2Dey0shSXw/s450/Summer07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-tdDcrgcQJ0tQRyFIJE4q5lmDr53q0Ze3c7aymWJZwi7N4dPedGsBocUXZ9Bzy4Q0XLUkp2VwW2UL8hsQPZVVsFXtnMFZb63u6w3bODtUNn7YXaRvyn9nn_I9OxZ2Dey0shSXw/d/Summer07.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-33291951245395071572020-08-03T14:36:00.002+01:002020-08-03T15:55:13.103+01:00Faking It<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The US 2020 Presidential Election
is beginning to gear up, and we all know what that means: the tidal wave of
Fake News (<i>real</i> Fake News—not
opinions you don’t like) that is currently swamping Twitter and Facebook (and
wherever else virtual people gather in virtual meeting places to argue with
virtual strangers) is set to swell into a tsunami.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For the most part, people seem
unwilling or unable to do much about Fake News other than spread it. I do not;
I’m one of those obnoxious people who call it out.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQNiFXCEf49NAg_vp32kzr-zVIsO7BR2GBIX8gpA9dd7O3wRAJyZyBojI2A_zVsyAOE0OKus81ZAQ7h4USF1ciSkKCpCigCoHS9i4LSFfwOyQ8NJ_HT84hoftY4tJdE74jOVa8A/s449/Fake_01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQNiFXCEf49NAg_vp32kzr-zVIsO7BR2GBIX8gpA9dd7O3wRAJyZyBojI2A_zVsyAOE0OKus81ZAQ7h4USF1ciSkKCpCigCoHS9i4LSFfwOyQ8NJ_HT84hoftY4tJdE74jOVa8A/w285-h320/Fake_01.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do you think? Real, or Fake?</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This, however, gives me little
satisfaction, and it takes enough time as it stands now, so when the election
really gets rolling, it’s going to become a full-time job. Unless I do
something about it, and since I can’t stop it, the only thing I can do—the only
thing that remains in my control—is to not look at it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This won’t be easy, as it is so
pervasive, but what I propose is this:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">If anyone I follow posts Fake News,
I will block and/or de-friend them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I don’t take this challenge
lightly, as I have few enough friends—real or imagined—as it is, but at least
the few that I am left with will have their feet firmly planted in reality. I’m
not saying I’ll agree with them, I’m just saying I don’t want to engage in
conversations with people—real or virtual—who base their opinions on
fantasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Fake News Spreader comes in a
variety of flavours, but I don’t wish to sample any of them:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">- The Originators: I don’t have to
worry about these people, they are not on my Friends List, and most of them are
in Russia, operating out of some dank warehouse, churning out pseudo-news for
fun, profit or world domination.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">- The Believers: These are the
people who can look at a mocked-up news story that wouldn’t fool a
five-year-old and exclaim, “Oh, my GOD! I have to send this to as many people
as possible! This has to get out! People need to know this! How come CNN,
FoxNews, NBC, ABC or any major news outlet anywhere in the entire world has not
picked up on this yet…ow! My head hurts! I must be doing something I’ve never
tried before…like…like…thinking…”<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGP7zfDeOHcQjbC1RiYu8tkQfQQ4qYWXusIHr38YHCjqK0bYBcWh-Er-8NW5EcJNsfaVOOS9ToCHT_sV7kxqG_83_GFOIWneYj8igqwgQB4sGRjwtbh8Au4dT0xbWoFxpoOPrACw/s570/Fake_07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGP7zfDeOHcQjbC1RiYu8tkQfQQ4qYWXusIHr38YHCjqK0bYBcWh-Er-8NW5EcJNsfaVOOS9ToCHT_sV7kxqG_83_GFOIWneYj8igqwgQB4sGRjwtbh8Au4dT0xbWoFxpoOPrACw/d/Fake_07.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="2">From the 2016 Election. A Chihuahua could tell this has been Photoshopped.</font></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">- The Provocateurs: These people
know they are posting lies, but they don’t care. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTVZxMdDqle2bvFkECb0V56dAFus9172BI-JpiwEpWBQ3z1QJQoXrymnF6t238wH7BRjhvTIsWUanjDhPNv1BmsCHrcKW07nBAwTsfpa3rlXNyCd59SKzZvj0D-83x7x5zBVHxKw/s400/Fake_05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTVZxMdDqle2bvFkECb0V56dAFus9172BI-JpiwEpWBQ3z1QJQoXrymnF6t238wH7BRjhvTIsWUanjDhPNv1BmsCHrcKW07nBAwTsfpa3rlXNyCd59SKzZvj0D-83x7x5zBVHxKw/s0/Fake_05.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="2">I tagged this as Fake. The thread was deleted. Then it was <br />put back up without my comment on it.<br />So I tagged it again...</font></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There really is no lower form
of human endeavour, except, perhaps…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">- The Clueless: These are Believers
who are so wilfully stupid that they cannot tell the difference between real
fantasy and fake reality, causing them to post satire and call it truth. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigLKrDTnCjeE88bHybKWXLhd9fvHRuHKnsuPG-FcXUAGQDL0ty5r8U_GQ4KNNQxfdxUZVXgP7I5fp1fAuoy8lmBitbA6aJV3yvfvoV_76TsA-qNBFGLO2b0M73UHFQmISub6Htg/s450/Fake_02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigLKrDTnCjeE88bHybKWXLhd9fvHRuHKnsuPG-FcXUAGQDL0ty5r8U_GQ4KNNQxfdxUZVXgP7I5fp1fAuoy8lmBitbA6aJV3yvfvoV_76TsA-qNBFGLO2b0M73UHFQmISub6Htg/s0/Fake_02.jpg" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">These people should not be allowed
out without supervision, and should be discouraged from watching movies like
Game of Thrones, The Hobbit and Avatar.<o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgJqV76l4Zx6VsfKzsqYvs3nE0iEcbfZ25FViE3ca4QsJlSZnNSt4MkdCBqCYEKtZLRqZK_LwIhnQrGRhNpEG-6FbzQL8aa63TSztKo4X_1K1oeah6pwlzuwsMsnJoUO_Sr2Zjw/s500/Fake_08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgJqV76l4Zx6VsfKzsqYvs3nE0iEcbfZ25FViE3ca4QsJlSZnNSt4MkdCBqCYEKtZLRqZK_LwIhnQrGRhNpEG-6FbzQL8aa63TSztKo4X_1K1oeah6pwlzuwsMsnJoUO_Sr2Zjw/s0/Fake_08.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m not saying it’s going to be
easy, or that I might not come upon some disappointing truths while attempting
to ferret out lies.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZXqOlFKYIclMnm3fWioIMSnWHcNEHBKyNldrSsvG7n1lwFTprFGwXrSW2yj6hHQU23-mNEoE9h7Akvv673-P7u0d30Df0JKIk1W2bEpx8cyOpZ4NXxVCs44vdQhMKJbBBYdP-g/s488/Fake_04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZXqOlFKYIclMnm3fWioIMSnWHcNEHBKyNldrSsvG7n1lwFTprFGwXrSW2yj6hHQU23-mNEoE9h7Akvv673-P7u0d30Df0JKIk1W2bEpx8cyOpZ4NXxVCs44vdQhMKJbBBYdP-g/s0/Fake_04.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="2">I looked this up. It really did happen. I guess, as far as the <br />US Government is concerned, black lives <i>don't </i>matter.<br />But using it to scaremonger a vaccine is just crazy.</font></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Nor do I harbour any hopes of being
able to completely avoid it. But I do hope, when the tsunami does hit, that I
will be on ground solid enough and high enough where I will only get wet and
not washed away.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xdYdhP96-9I2cr2HihmRMPFcEEXzIHApjRjxeGiWJSlGzk95kLXfnnpyrelNYA8nS8wGy_jm5c6E8B6fkszay-G5pgznTnStUN4b_ZJHDXj3bsoJ0PQxXNmlHBL8nCCRWhvahA/s400/Fake_06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xdYdhP96-9I2cr2HihmRMPFcEEXzIHApjRjxeGiWJSlGzk95kLXfnnpyrelNYA8nS8wGy_jm5c6E8B6fkszay-G5pgznTnStUN4b_ZJHDXj3bsoJ0PQxXNmlHBL8nCCRWhvahA/s0/Fake_06.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-59339502355958149592020-07-18T13:48:00.007+01:002020-07-18T13:56:31.350+01:00The NeverEnding Story<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
During those long-ago days, when
Lockdown first began, I—and almost
everyone else in Britain—began a Lockdown Diary.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
For me, this wasn’t a big change. I
have been keeping a journal since the age of eleven and the only difference
between the Journal and the Lockdown Diary was that I proposed to update the
Journal every day and number the entries accordingly. Therefore, I am, as of
today, up to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lockdown Day plus 117</i>
(reminiscent of the WWII designations of D-Day plus ##).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUxgs6QfZPQiatIgQx1tgd8QkxMeX3y6IykLVUxvKzazY6J4gg7MPtEdm8FryGcSfLcFZjm0MVm8cCRKQgGbx8fQ8KbQ8buxIeTc08A753XE4gf1i4obJziJTgyck92xYI0yRrA/s1600/LD05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUxgs6QfZPQiatIgQx1tgd8QkxMeX3y6IykLVUxvKzazY6J4gg7MPtEdm8FryGcSfLcFZjm0MVm8cCRKQgGbx8fQ8KbQ8buxIeTc08A753XE4gf1i4obJziJTgyck92xYI0yRrA/s1600/LD05.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Initially, I determined to keep the daily lockdown entries going until normal life returned. After a few weeks,
however, I realized this was never going to happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The earliest entries in the Diary
contain accounts of the peculiar qualities life had taken on, followed by the
repeated chronicling of events before the shutters came down — the period I now
think of as <i>The Before Time</i> — and the unbelievably rapid unravelling of
normal life. Accordingly, for a week or so, I obsessed over <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Time I</i>… </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>went to the cinema</li><li>had a drink in a pub</li><li>got a haircut</li><li>visited a tea shop</li><li>browsed a bookstore</li><li>rode on a train</li><li>etc... </li></ul></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was, I see now, my method of mourning for a life that, deep
down, I knew was never going to return.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
After that, it became a record of
how we, and the rest of the world, were coping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
But then things began to open up
and, gradually, the entries became more (for want of a better word) normal: we
were allowed a second walk, we had a cup of tea in the park, we could go to a
different park, we could drive to another part of the county…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It was then that I thought the
Diary had gone on long enough, but I wanted a clean way to cut it off, so I
decided on an event that would act as a bookend, of sorts, and signify that
Things Had Returned to Normal. That event was to meet up with my friend in a
pub for a pint.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkjh_1Sg_5PkVyUpWewisgETdAGSUq58OtSBb3k-S3plgNHJ0b1mSV9zgKe2NYyaeExlYhJYNdMQevX537EBDc49JhK38QZFh7TgaivQjyRzPkClBaaAaUifP1qaLmlD6bQAe8Q/s1600/LD01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="400" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkjh_1Sg_5PkVyUpWewisgETdAGSUq58OtSBb3k-S3plgNHJ0b1mSV9zgKe2NYyaeExlYhJYNdMQevX537EBDc49JhK38QZFh7TgaivQjyRzPkClBaaAaUifP1qaLmlD6bQAe8Q/s320/LD01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't take any photos in the pub, so I had to steal this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It had been one of the final
normalities in that eventful week before Lockdown, so the ability to revisit
the event would, I supposed, confirm that Lockdown was over. Only, as the day
approached for our planned meeting, I began to have doubts. We might be meeting
in a pub for a pint, but things were far from normal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
First of all, I had to make a reservation.
For a drink. In a pub. Then, I was shown to my table by a staff-member wearing
a facemask. I ordered food and drink from an app on my mobile phone and the
items were brought to the table by other staff members, also wearing facemasks.
Could I really claim that this was enough like The Before Time to allow me to
call an end to my Lockdown Diary? I didn’t think so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
But as we sat and chatted, certain
things began to occur to me. While it might not have been Normal when compared
to The Before Time, it was as normal as it was going to get for now. Also, I
rather enjoyed the idea of having a time slot rather than just showing up and
hoping I could find a table. And ordering via the app was kinda fun: you press
a few buttons on your phone and someone comes and gives you food. What’s not to
like? Finally, the pub, although not full, was buzzing and busy and a lot less
surreal than the original visit I was comparing it to, where my friend and I
were, for the most part, the only two customers, and the bar staff clustered
around a container of hand-sanitizer worrying about not having any jobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0jiR3MXm6pmFk-EZ_HGDz3lmc4_Je3kdblyzaZniLFFCeMreEUldlidsrltd5GLtGZarAdDQmwv4K3tCKjmQJ7zMYSDige5J5HZwxcMJ88JC_NWb1XNfS5uELLr4AH5ycdlodA/s1600/LD03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0jiR3MXm6pmFk-EZ_HGDz3lmc4_Je3kdblyzaZniLFFCeMreEUldlidsrltd5GLtGZarAdDQmwv4K3tCKjmQJ7zMYSDige5J5HZwxcMJ88JC_NWb1XNfS5uELLr4AH5ycdlodA/s1600/LD03.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the pub pretty much looked like the last time I was there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That visit, back in March, during
those twilight days just before Lockdown, was much more surreal, and laced with
foreboding, than the visit I was currently enjoying. Therefore, I felt it
met—and, indeed, exceeded—the criteria.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And so, what I am calling Lockdown
Diary #1 has—instead of becoming a never-ending story—finally come to an end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Let us all hope I do not have
occasion to begin Lockdown Diary #2.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdyNAwvMFNsfXiFoXTar3GC8uhgNkhhKwBjT_rPuZPgg0mylWkEm7GtMFCV-s4CKsASRqniK3S-cmvz7BapXewULXajYA-N9iKIQiekTWJ0Kf5309G15HqmPRhKEEX1fW9rvShw/s1600/LD06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="119" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdyNAwvMFNsfXiFoXTar3GC8uhgNkhhKwBjT_rPuZPgg0mylWkEm7GtMFCV-s4CKsASRqniK3S-cmvz7BapXewULXajYA-N9iKIQiekTWJ0Kf5309G15HqmPRhKEEX1fW9rvShw/s1600/LD06.jpg" /></a></div>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-87699740206434314212020-07-06T11:03:00.010+01:002020-07-08T06:36:23.029+01:00Adventures in BakingI’ve always had a fondness for baking bread. It was a nice winter pastime, something to do on a snowy afternoon when I had no place to go and nothing else to do. I hadn’t done it in a few years, mostly because I’ve been too busy. But then came <i>a lot of free time</i>, and my thoughts turned to baking—along with about 47 million other people’s. (I’d say 60 million but I assume some people must not be baking, though I have no proof of that.)<br />
<br />
Consequently,… but you already know this; there was no flour to be had. Anywhere.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIaZ-z6G-UwOEHss7i0FmZ5b3REYs9U-0M5of4AMjHdDwbx2A7fRmGuoVDt-hDJ6bs_4Z8vkNBOYxVsYsFW4GZGc_MxIaXGzISfzhT4OX-XyVbAU2wbws7brrmquRp-f4u5Ht6g/s1600/baking02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="450" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIaZ-z6G-UwOEHss7i0FmZ5b3REYs9U-0M5of4AMjHdDwbx2A7fRmGuoVDt-hDJ6bs_4Z8vkNBOYxVsYsFW4GZGc_MxIaXGzISfzhT4OX-XyVbAU2wbws7brrmquRp-f4u5Ht6g/w400-h245/baking02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remember the Great Flour Shortage? It came right after The Great Toilet Paper drought.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The odd thing was, despite the empty shelves, there was not a flour shortage, there was simply a shortage of flour in 1.5 kg bags. So, I went on-line and ordered a 16 kg bag. Problem solved.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UKhXXDKHzwtxo76v4tRgSnIBHlBiGV3odJ1k_d36pgU_wRsc-0E2qiuur7yPEG7UGhUd4yO44AL2GCFu_BHeQ12vvYWHX7-YAUFuEOFMcYRdpo0gsrQGsCkqMd3VRqWZbLNYBA/s1600/baking03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="450" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UKhXXDKHzwtxo76v4tRgSnIBHlBiGV3odJ1k_d36pgU_wRsc-0E2qiuur7yPEG7UGhUd4yO44AL2GCFu_BHeQ12vvYWHX7-YAUFuEOFMcYRdpo0gsrQGsCkqMd3VRqWZbLNYBA/s320/baking03.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, 37 pounds of flour, delivered by Amazon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sort of. But after we found a place to store it, things went a little easier.<br />
<br />
And so, for the past two months, we have not bought any bread. I am making two loaves and a dozen rolls every week. With mixed results. Thing is, I’m a numbers guy; I believe in formulas and precision, and the notion that, if you follow the instructions and do it the same way every time, you will get the same results, sort of like those chemistry experiments we did in high school.<br />
<br />
Turns out, baking isn’t science as much as it is art—and a dark art, at that.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd6JhPyhAJp_b8b27oqNnbZl9SVQasGUgZn8kjEdA1YXS7LIALGAjo0NTUdnSiJ3so-t-DIXSzRExH22tKE_nqTXzpPQU0789ijbvnIDPKd0xOpq3d23oJyAz__svwRgxNXfw5A/s1600/baking04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="450" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd6JhPyhAJp_b8b27oqNnbZl9SVQasGUgZn8kjEdA1YXS7LIALGAjo0NTUdnSiJ3so-t-DIXSzRExH22tKE_nqTXzpPQU0789ijbvnIDPKd0xOpq3d23oJyAz__svwRgxNXfw5A/s320/baking04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not sure what caused this...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The variables are too numerous to track and on-line advice needs to be treated like anything else you read on-line: with suspicion.<br />
<br />
For example: prior to buying 37 pounds of plain, white flour, I did my research to make sure I could use it for bread making. The alternative was to have one 37-lb bag of bread flour for me and another 37-lb bag of plain flour for my wife (she manages the cakes and scones baking division). That wasn’t really an option, but I was assured—on several bread-baking websites—that you could make bread with plain flour. Bread flour, they told me, was optional. And it was—the same way that wearing underpants with your new blue jeans is optional: you don’t need to, but you may experience unanticipated outcomes if you don’t.<br />
<br />
This resulted in several disappointing weeks of attempting to make sandwiches between slices of bread with the consistency of battenberg cake. (This, however, was an improvement on the loaves I baked that had the consistency of a breeze block.)<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I discovered that you can make plain flour into bread flour with just a bit of wheat gluten. The downside was I could only buy it in 1 kilo bags, so I now have enough wheat gluten to make 25 kilograms (55 pounds) of bread flour.<br /><br />
Unfortunately, this did not solve all of my loaf-consistency issues. Too much flour, too much kneading, too much moisture in your oven—all of these things (and many more) contribute to the stability of your loaf (no, that is not a euphemism).<br />
<br />
And then, stable or not, crumbly or not, cake-like or not, you have to cut it. Whoever said, “the best thing since sliced bread,” knew what they were talking about, and being a generation or two away from the era where a bread-knife was in daily use, trying to obtain an actual, store-bought-loaf-sized slice of bread is something of a challenge, especially with those aforementioned stability issues.<br />
<br />
Seeing as how we are committed to eat whatever results from my weekly bread-making fiestas, lunchtimes might have become a gruelling exercise, had it not been for the buns. Oddly, happenstancially, and thankfully, I make really good bread rolls. And I don’t mean in comparison to the disappointing loaves, I mean I’d rather have the ones I bake than the ones we used to buy in the store. They are that good.<br />
<br />
Given that, if my experiments with loaves don’t yield better results after another few weeks, I at least have the option of switching exclusively to rolls.<br />
<br />
They’re easier to cut.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OAEzS9ylyTUhNRqEUoIr2l1Z2fED58NLNkVskYIuSIfy2bJ18UYOY2f2pWxhxd4TL4av4izzAPwUAZKUig4n0WRrQs-lfmxrzLluX3CmKQDFExLp5xnhiNZ3NMvU_NENr1TZCw/s1600/baking01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OAEzS9ylyTUhNRqEUoIr2l1Z2fED58NLNkVskYIuSIfy2bJ18UYOY2f2pWxhxd4TL4av4izzAPwUAZKUig4n0WRrQs-lfmxrzLluX3CmKQDFExLp5xnhiNZ3NMvU_NENr1TZCw/s1600/baking01.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dodgy loaves; nice buns!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-7356924125332763562020-06-16T15:37:00.004+01:002020-06-17T19:17:52.422+01:00Lockdown LetupSorry I’m late with this post, but I’ve been sorta busy.<br />
<br />
I had to take the car in for service this morning and the traffic was bad. And then I took it to get washed. We filled the tank yesterday for the first time since March, and it cost so little I didn’t think it was done pumping. And last Friday, I actually double-booked myself and had to chose between a Zoom Book Club Meeting and visiting our friends for an afternoon of seared meat and alcoholic beverages. (Guess which won.)<br />
<br />We’ve also had to pop to the shops to pick up some needed items and later today we’re out for some volunteer work.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-X4SzTZSGEEkCo2QCgeU4TbNCyRQ7Ja3tQC3esNOpIxJUsx9TeXyJcz8dGYkSoR7L0NizLHxqqt5B6O50MWfaFpdgV0dv7hCsnfj-APqM6Dao5Ng1RR4qa0PUGnRoZhVDQcly8g/s1600/LD_Traffic.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-X4SzTZSGEEkCo2QCgeU4TbNCyRQ7Ja3tQC3esNOpIxJUsx9TeXyJcz8dGYkSoR7L0NizLHxqqt5B6O50MWfaFpdgV0dv7hCsnfj-APqM6Dao5Ng1RR4qa0PUGnRoZhVDQcly8g/s1600/LD_Traffic.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traffic in early Lockdown Traffic now </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Yes, the Lockdown is letting up here in Blighty, and none too soon, in my view. I think the Government looked at Dominick Cummings and his thinly disguised lies (I mean, absolutely rational excuses) about what he was doing at Barnard Castle and figured the population was catching on that no one in power was planning on following the Lockdown Rules, so they’d better loosen the leash on the public or there might be riots.<br /></div>
<br />Then, of course, there were riots, but not about Lockdown, so that was okay.<br />
<br />I’m pleased to see that the new rules include a “Social Bubble,” which allows a person who is isolating by themselves to select someone else to share their bubble with. This was to encourage lonely grandparents to pick their favorite grandchild but I suspect it’s being used to rekindle all the illicit affairs that had to be put on ice these past three months (unless you were a member of the Government—I’m looking at you Professor Ferguson).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6R-39UJ0fuGACBp1osfWrSuxp1rWk6F9jYLUIr4YHVPq7BLrLM8d94c2f7K0CBjFVKRekUHEvLrrZoKiEngbpJMqleCx4N4Iyd-JgJY4W-No7iRzw-bVN4bko75pwUnGtW-1Aw/s1600/LD_WestStreet.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6R-39UJ0fuGACBp1osfWrSuxp1rWk6F9jYLUIr4YHVPq7BLrLM8d94c2f7K0CBjFVKRekUHEvLrrZoKiEngbpJMqleCx4N4Iyd-JgJY4W-No7iRzw-bVN4bko75pwUnGtW-1Aw/s1600/LD_WestStreet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Street in early Lockdown West Street now </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Life is, little by little, becoming busy. Our social outlets are expanding, retail opportunities are proliferating and even our volunteer work is back on, sorta. This means we are going out into the world more often and for longer and with more to do while we are there. It is not, in any meaningful way, getting back to how it was before Lockdown, it’s more a case of it settling into that <i>New Normal</i> everyone was talking about a few weeks back.<br /></div>
<br />This new world is one decorated with Sneeze Guards, One Way arrows, lots of warning signs, and markings on the pavements telling us where to stand. It’s a world where it’s hard to tell the difference between a group of people milling around and a queue. And it’s an evolving set of social conventions where walking across the road to avoid someone is looked upon as polite, and talking with friends involves shouting.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLorG-PA9oDokQrkKlfeRyumPnJs1CnEUYTVCZxNqPiahC-MAhWqTWAJ5hyA98wfMW4SRy35OZivo_AP21ZyTmf14GxA4QrCY4W4_FA6YLM1nfeztdyle536J2hSy-JYegYodQEQ/s1600/LD_Stores.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLorG-PA9oDokQrkKlfeRyumPnJs1CnEUYTVCZxNqPiahC-MAhWqTWAJ5hyA98wfMW4SRy35OZivo_AP21ZyTmf14GxA4QrCY4W4_FA6YLM1nfeztdyle536J2hSy-JYegYodQEQ/s400/LD_Stores.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
Note the hand sanitizer, footprints and arrows.</div>
<div>I'm pretty sure this will be the norm for quite a while.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Time was, when we left the flat to go into town, I checked for my keys and my wallet. Now I check for my keys, wallet, hand sanitizer and face mask. And I think it’s going to be this way for some time.<br /></div>
<br />And so, in the mornings, we go for a walk into town, just as we usually did. If it’s a market day, we buy what necessities we can there in order to support local businesses. Otherwise, we pick up sundries at Wilkinson’s or Waitrose. We note that Waterstone’s is now open, but remind ourselves that we don’t need any more books and a nostalgic visit to the bookstore would not be a good idea. We go for a cup of take-out tea in the park and sit in the garden behind the Registry Office, enjoying the flowers and the surprisingly bold wildlife.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTvMpiw5dS8VNfZzQUP-dFQR3-HikZfiHVQXaU3nHCA_wpks52aBMczLNxNttoYm6G-SPsbRl05es8F4C8WMHFoeyEKxLoy7ugxWCNfqWyfUoR25afbkJgOiSCrfk3pc-nEW2xw/s1600/LD_Park.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTvMpiw5dS8VNfZzQUP-dFQR3-HikZfiHVQXaU3nHCA_wpks52aBMczLNxNttoYm6G-SPsbRl05es8F4C8WMHFoeyEKxLoy7ugxWCNfqWyfUoR25afbkJgOiSCrfk3pc-nEW2xw/s1600/LD_Park.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Park in early Lockdown The Park now </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>As we continue through town, I am pleased that they finally have a system in place to avoid collisions. Keep Left signs are now as prominent on our streets and in our malls as Keep To The Right signs are in the London Underground. It helps us maintain social distant, as much as is possible, now that the crowds are becoming larger, and it is a long-overdue improvement on the game of Bumper-People we were forced to play back when people just barged toward you and expect you to get out of their way. Or not.<br /></div>
<br />As we leave town with our purchases, satisfied that we have done our bit to jump-start the UK economy, we look forward to a nice walk through the park on our way back home, only to find a leisurely stroll is not in the cards as a primal urgency takes over and forces us to cut our walk short. This is due to one of the more unexpected wrinkles in this New Normal: a lack of public conveniences.<br />
<br />
Therefore, in the future, our Leaving-the-Flat ritual needs to be updated to: keys, wallet, hand sanitizer, face mask, and use the loo. <br />
<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgicn8dMPB7baYeTgeu1aDy4qWYsNrNBivyYwsqPMBfeVAVSNq22cAfYurqL83vn61v4Ig2PQSAvPot-9HkUHKtSXFYYucyMVOEHlNa-iEkJCZbtf22ywG7NVA3Pe7sLGH_MRq5Tw/s1600/LD_toilets02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgicn8dMPB7baYeTgeu1aDy4qWYsNrNBivyYwsqPMBfeVAVSNq22cAfYurqL83vn61v4Ig2PQSAvPot-9HkUHKtSXFYYucyMVOEHlNa-iEkJCZbtf22ywG7NVA3Pe7sLGH_MRq5Tw/s200/LD_toilets02.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
<br />MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-41201193279399343642020-05-12T15:21:00.002+01:002020-05-12T15:21:44.565+01:00It’s a Classic<div style="line-height: 150%;">
One day, while I was still in
single-digits, somewhere around 6 or 7, I went exploring in my parent’s bedroom
closet. This was because I was young, unsupervised, and very bored (there was
no Netflix back then; explain it to the youngsters). At any rate, I dug through
the shoes and boots, and crawled beyond the bags of cast-off clothes, into the
far, darkest reaches, and discovered an old cardboard box filled with what
looked like magazines.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Now, in a normal house, this would
have been my dad’s porn stash, which would have solved the boredom problem until
my mom caught me. Instead, it was a treasure trove of old Classics Illustrated
Comics, which held my fascination for many years.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxSCactdHF53ie29qJCzr-i98xdi1mEOR6eWUGpM69Y3y2sNLCrsFY1xjiULMcbxALMySlXWN5rXLI8foJA1MWOPUQmxB_zu2LHKOg39U5OPDDOoUh4qtTJyVsWfACbK7kfk8Ug/s1600/Classics05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxSCactdHF53ie29qJCzr-i98xdi1mEOR6eWUGpM69Y3y2sNLCrsFY1xjiULMcbxALMySlXWN5rXLI8foJA1MWOPUQmxB_zu2LHKOg39U5OPDDOoUh4qtTJyVsWfACbK7kfk8Ug/s320/Classics05.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was one of my favorites!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There were dozens in the box, and
from them I gleaned a knowledge of literature I otherwise could never have
attained, even if my mom had had the original books. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
First of all, I wouldn’t have
voluntarily picked up a volume of <i>Great Expectations</i>, other than to use
it as a weight for pressing leaves. (Explain it to the youngsters.) Secondly,
the vividly colored panels, and the actions and dialog they conveyed, brought
the stories to life in a way the stilted prose of the past couldn’t hope to.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJm_bB5YOktSt8sSudNeqlrdq9nmePmgHzJX8gg2GNPksUHT8IE7fFb7kcLnTa2n9OYYSdFdU_sN6rXsyBdZboAqN-FLQseKPiiNoYVciRRUb2o3IyA8NdgzVW_Vg3meDV7RXgQ/s1600/Classics02a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJm_bB5YOktSt8sSudNeqlrdq9nmePmgHzJX8gg2GNPksUHT8IE7fFb7kcLnTa2n9OYYSdFdU_sN6rXsyBdZboAqN-FLQseKPiiNoYVciRRUb2o3IyA8NdgzVW_Vg3meDV7RXgQ/s320/Classics02a.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
What a story! And, even now, I'm not sure</div>
<div>
I could conquer the actual book</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They were old and dogeared when I
found them, and by the time I lost track of them—somewhere in my late teens—the
covers were falling off, the pages were cello-taped together and every volume
was worn from having been read time and time again. It is because of this
serendipitous find that I am able to hold my own in a conversation about <i>Moby
Dick</i> or <i>Lorna Doone</i> or <i>King Solomon’s Mines</i>. And even when I
am not trying to fool my fellow, ersatz literary snobs (they didn’t read the
books either; they just read the <i>Cliff Notes</i>) the knowledge they
conveyed remains.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FiD4VzsIzA9h07LE9526k-X7soBFBz4viuGG2RqycswFoGAysxDrsYsrNdfdlFXUQlw3tEb45B_-Yk_bn-PXwQrQD8AALf-G04I9uMlYA2WWMu0R6zZVRKjRMWg6L0OiTvwlVA/s1600/Classics01a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FiD4VzsIzA9h07LE9526k-X7soBFBz4viuGG2RqycswFoGAysxDrsYsrNdfdlFXUQlw3tEb45B_-Yk_bn-PXwQrQD8AALf-G04I9uMlYA2WWMu0R6zZVRKjRMWg6L0OiTvwlVA/s320/Classics01a.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another favorite!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In addition to classic novels,
there were also comics about science and nature. I recall one that purported to
show how atomic power was our friend but was, in retrospect, little more than
laughably ham-fisted propaganda. Others, however, contained things like
dinosaurs and information about space, the universe and everything.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQk8tfIMZHlLYa7K8lcUpPhlblyWGPIHiT-x48qq4g9b26IIJkzid-f0eKYhxpC7pTk3FrOPKw1QlOCc-vU66TFcAIyojwQNzE81MxXsGd_OwxAydIYY42KmqHUcw-dOxKWKeIA/s1600/Classics04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQk8tfIMZHlLYa7K8lcUpPhlblyWGPIHiT-x48qq4g9b26IIJkzid-f0eKYhxpC7pTk3FrOPKw1QlOCc-vU66TFcAIyojwQNzE81MxXsGd_OwxAydIYY42KmqHUcw-dOxKWKeIA/s320/Classics04.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I even read Gothe (pronounced Go' theee)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They also proved useful as I
progressed through school, enabling me to write reports on notable books I
hadn’t actually read. (This is not really an impressive feat; who among us
hasn’t turned in a book report based solely on the blurb printed on the dust
jacket?)</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
How and when I allowed these comics
to slip from my grasp I cannot say, all I can say is I have regretted not
keeping them, repairing them, and cherishing them. I supposed it was due to an
error in my thinking (which I still suffer from) that everything remains the
same. I just thought, if I wanted them again, I could find them somewhere.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_TevwRIaw7SP6Uc3z0c48B2vqHEZxkoj-AylVlLZzn9_P_xII-Lf8QSGJyzoP9rBTjFlgh4eYHJG_6y6wqSdgBKsgkkE6XDA6dA1tKhjJQS6MDMgAzqVzhUg77iwVSBLU5sQGg/s1600/Classics06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1022" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_TevwRIaw7SP6Uc3z0c48B2vqHEZxkoj-AylVlLZzn9_P_xII-Lf8QSGJyzoP9rBTjFlgh4eYHJG_6y6wqSdgBKsgkkE6XDA6dA1tKhjJQS6MDMgAzqVzhUg77iwVSBLU5sQGg/s320/Classics06.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing like a bit of Shakespeare when you're eight and a half.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Alas, one cannot. (Unless you are
prepared to source expensive collector's items, but that’s another issue.)</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Desiring to give my own children a
taste of this literary magic, I ordered a full set of Classics Illustrated
comics for them, but they were a shadow of their former selves. Gone were the
glossy covers and lively interior artwork. The ‘New’ Classics Illustrated were
booklets of uninspiring line drawings. My children gave them no more than a
passing glance, and I didn’t blame them. In researching this article, I found
that you cannot buy them at all anymore, not in any meaningful form. More’s the
pity.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVOkgJ4Kf80p5G9jhvSrIB26J7zerwzzeFdkiEovjTjr5Rvr8YQxlknH9N0GlvkZ3U7aNdb0NrWEhV1Fqyzb6DMNQDOeOGTqMLyq23jTMXTdI7zVVpRLt-u4S2w39lyvVFIA4Bg/s1600/Classics07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVOkgJ4Kf80p5G9jhvSrIB26J7zerwzzeFdkiEovjTjr5Rvr8YQxlknH9N0GlvkZ3U7aNdb0NrWEhV1Fqyzb6DMNQDOeOGTqMLyq23jTMXTdI7zVVpRLt-u4S2w39lyvVFIA4Bg/s320/Classics07.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what they looked like inside.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If I had the chance to turn back
time, I would visit my eleven-year-old self and tell him to treat the comics
with care. I would urge him to protect them, and to keep them in a more secure
container than my dad’s old cardboard box so that, in future years, his own
children might benefit, and that he also might retain some cherished memories
of his youth.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OSAnOm4ULnJ-v0MGanWnvxzD-0lyd0gOJKpxN1_t1Tt8qdKncW8u8M4wm9jVJe238unncesB6tU_lOgkHeWEPRqwNuElq0gmVsCUC0BKdMyBqrSoiBJ61xPJXmSsQN5_o8g7Qg/s1600/Classics03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OSAnOm4ULnJ-v0MGanWnvxzD-0lyd0gOJKpxN1_t1Tt8qdKncW8u8M4wm9jVJe238unncesB6tU_lOgkHeWEPRqwNuElq0gmVsCUC0BKdMyBqrSoiBJ61xPJXmSsQN5_o8g7Qg/s320/Classics03.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scary stuff!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then I’d tell him to not buy a
Betamax. (Explain it to the youngsters.) </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-35892320848664023362020-05-04T13:30:00.003+01:002020-05-04T13:42:31.384+01:00Quarantine Quandaries<div style="line-height: 150%;">
To start off, I have to say
that,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if someone put a gun to my head
and forced me to pick a period in my life where I had to suffer through a global
pandemic, this would be the perfect time to choose.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Neither my wife nor I have jobs, so
we don’t have to worry about losing them, yet we’re still young enough to
escape being put on the “Vulnerable” list. We don’t have anyone depending on
us, we’re not dependent on anyone else and we’re not stuck in a one-bedroom,
inner-city flat with three kids we need to home-school while worrying about how
we’re going to pay the rent. Quite the contrary; our days consist of a
refreshing walk around our lovely town park followed by a range of indoor
interests to keep us occupied (now, now, I’m talking about arts and crafts),
and very few worries.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
The sudden halt of social
interaction, retail activity and travel plans was a bit of a shock, but on the
upside, we’re saving a lot of money and, incredibly, losing weight. So, swings
and roundabouts, as they say here.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
(To explain the previous paragraph:
Pre-COVID, our walk in the park always ended at a café and generally included a
nose around the shops. Tea in the café wasn’t a problem, but, gee, those
triple-chocolate muffins look good and, bingo…there goes the diet. Likewise,
forays into shops—even when we didn’t go in to buy anything—rarely saw us
emerge empty-handed. I hasten to add that none of this was a problem: treating
oneself is what makes life worth living, and we were content knowing that we
were helping the UK economy chug along. Now, however, when we go for our daily
walk, I have to wonder about all the stuff we used to buy, and what we did with
it.) </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
In short, quarantine isn’t as much
of a hardship for us as it is for many, many others, and we are pretty much
okay with it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Pretty much.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Contented we may be, but we are now starting week
seven of our Lockdown (Your Lockdown May Vary), and things are beginning to
pinch around the edges. Consequently, an issue arose. The problem was our
hobbies or, more specifically, my wife’s hobbies.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Unlike me and my writing, my wife’s
hobbies take up room. Early on, she did a lot of knitting while seated on the
sofa watching telly. This worked until she ran out of wool, so she has recently
attempted to do some sewing, which has reminded her why the sewing machine she
got some years ago has since been collecting dust: there is no place to use it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Sewing requires space, and the
ability to leave a project as it is and come back to it later, which takes the
dining table out of the running. With nowhere else to put it, the sewing
machine continued to collect dust. Likewise, art, which, in addition to being
messy, requires a permanent and more spacious area than one end of the coffee
table.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
And this brought us back to the
unassailable fact that we live in a tiny flat.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Now, we have, <a href="http://www.pcfatp.com/2018/12/making-space.html" target="_blank">in the past</a>, been
able to “find” space using a variety of clever methods, but this was a big ask,
and we had already wrung as much hidden space out of this rabbit hutch as was
humanly possible. More, in fact. But, undaunted, we put our minds to it,
hoping, once again, for a triumph of will over physics.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
And we found some. Quite a lot, as
it turns out.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
The second bedroom, which is too
small to raise veal in, is where I have my office. We tried to shoehorn a
second desk in here when we moved in but abandoned the idea and, instead, I
built a storage unit, so my wife at least had a place for her stuff. Most of
it, anyway.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi282oWh01pSomvc7FLEb1gW-gRmqfNmJPy-qjWD8PQf3cbIxMQao40blueQXm010SQzcLJnnLoDfUadqGn8cvWUecrNaiGyjtB-9ZaIXiuUCb9q774SJlBtjMa44JNhQCBEks2vA/s1600/QQ04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi282oWh01pSomvc7FLEb1gW-gRmqfNmJPy-qjWD8PQf3cbIxMQao40blueQXm010SQzcLJnnLoDfUadqGn8cvWUecrNaiGyjtB-9ZaIXiuUCb9q774SJlBtjMa44JNhQCBEks2vA/s400/QQ04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wife's side of the Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBA0RBASAkxiGDWg7ChmA3LCVg7w02Fr0YYrWfvveLmRYSkgbBTDDZd3g6Aja-6ZXsK0190xMACQxKKf7KbZKXg2L7QUsebAfml9QbsL2Z5-EX_pSvp24SXYMR0QqGwXvurW4OTA/s1600/IMG_20200504_120202275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1199" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBA0RBASAkxiGDWg7ChmA3LCVg7w02Fr0YYrWfvveLmRYSkgbBTDDZd3g6Aja-6ZXsK0190xMACQxKKf7KbZKXg2L7QUsebAfml9QbsL2Z5-EX_pSvp24SXYMR0QqGwXvurW4OTA/s400/IMG_20200504_120202275.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Side</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But now she wanted a place to call
her own. Fortunately, when I built the storage unit, I made it modular, so we
were able to dismantle it and re-stack it, like a set of Tetris blocks, into a
storage unit that contained a two-foot by three and a half-foot, flat, and
pleasingly desk-like, area.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggIAM8XzXB7ZPwKHSfBLV7Uc6g9JK-we25Z2BuLe-SZutwMdOOAELTuvscvt4R5EEmMLE1d4VugXTwSiNDyLPT4CF8SVPciUXGcaSAgnGchjTUm3yqOwab1ljtICDY6bJLTpp7rA/s1600/QQ_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggIAM8XzXB7ZPwKHSfBLV7Uc6g9JK-we25Z2BuLe-SZutwMdOOAELTuvscvt4R5EEmMLE1d4VugXTwSiNDyLPT4CF8SVPciUXGcaSAgnGchjTUm3yqOwab1ljtICDY6bJLTpp7rA/s400/QQ_02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same amount of storage space, but with a desk.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It looks the perfect solution, and
makes me wonder what other bits of space I’ve overlooked. I’m in no hurry to
search for any, though. I just hope we get released before my wife decides she
needs a walk-in wardrobe.</div>
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-29219994600508142742020-04-20T13:17:00.000+01:002020-04-20T13:27:35.237+01:00Once More Into the Breach<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Early in 2013, while wrestling with the plot of my
hopefully-to-be-published second novel, I stepped back from the tangled mess I
was making and diverted myself by writing a quick story for my grandsons. It
involved them being transported back in time, and to England, where they faced
a dragon, evil knights and a band of ruthless outlaws. (Hey, it could happen.) </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In this dark-ages tale, they met an old Druid and encountered
a magic stone called the Talisman. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, and Arthur, they met King Arthur, too.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I spent some time trying to figure out a method of
transporting the boys, and eventually settled on a cloak. This was due to my
wife finding some blue, velvet curtains in a charity shop, which she made a
large cloak out of, to go along with the book.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The finished product was titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Magic Cloak.</i> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBCrhTntoq0tWVaYcgntQg0eimq5Xdy52KnvvlmI54vKN4fPmkU8BrmO5_q0Imtny0rDK-wt9qIIskFkcm_Yw3rPrR__UF48903au5CBE20-f96Pnj7zAflawyh6dQ0KDGcgdtQ/s1600/01_MagicCloak-e-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBCrhTntoq0tWVaYcgntQg0eimq5Xdy52KnvvlmI54vKN4fPmkU8BrmO5_q0Imtny0rDK-wt9qIIskFkcm_Yw3rPrR__UF48903au5CBE20-f96Pnj7zAflawyh6dQ0KDGcgdtQ/s200/01_MagicCloak-e-cover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I had two copies printed up, complete with illustrations. I
put them aside to give to the boys as Christmas gifts and went back to my
tangled plot.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But the little story wouldn’t let me go, and I found myself
thinking more about that book than the one I was trying to write. So, I put my ‘adult’
book aside and wrote another for my grandsons.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the second installment, they visited Roman Britain. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixH-h6NYRPqOHAolhj7I6Tg8Va-MjwWPKbz_YsldUgF5TTXsx93MiB9s5l27jYAPsQ1yw7sLMXWxr2NAygjA5DEDRGfvFMNy-pgpNQhj0L14Dny5R_qdaj3x8qpy7SXPY4BLqW1A/s1600/02_RomanVilla-e-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixH-h6NYRPqOHAolhj7I6Tg8Va-MjwWPKbz_YsldUgF5TTXsx93MiB9s5l27jYAPsQ1yw7sLMXWxr2NAygjA5DEDRGfvFMNy-pgpNQhj0L14Dny5R_qdaj3x8qpy7SXPY4BLqW1A/s200/02_RomanVilla-e-cover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There, they were served some drinks, carried in by a servant
girl. That was her role, to walk in, put a tray of drinks down and disappear.
She didn’t even have a name. But, like the story itself, this girl wouldn’t go
away. Eventually, I discovered that she wasn’t just a servant girl, she was the
central figure in the book, and the lynchpin of the overall series, which
continued to take shape in my mind.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The next year saw the G-Boys fighting in the Battle of
Hastings, and the year after that, conscripted—along with Shakespeare—into the
army that Liz the First gives her famous “I know I have the body of a weak and
feeble woman,” speech to.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFliL6e1Acn1fSPpw06rDev3dQLcxbIEDhmHu18rSMX-pTKcSKNR04O5HG98Bp1soIByfse9JnL2BGezH-s7_Y35200r8NWhO5w3yFjfwuVS1VQgJEvjjkO5KUW0lo7aw_POnAQ/s1600/03_SacredTor-e-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFliL6e1Acn1fSPpw06rDev3dQLcxbIEDhmHu18rSMX-pTKcSKNR04O5HG98Bp1soIByfse9JnL2BGezH-s7_Y35200r8NWhO5w3yFjfwuVS1VQgJEvjjkO5KUW0lo7aw_POnAQ/s200/03_SacredTor-e-cover.jpg" width="125" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbqE4yJ6bXCyVmUO0qwJTDoepXUKm83pHecFIC860XbjSMCgUinc4b_5tPayqGGltOb3RgulV5RhWyw_p2z-JANfhEMUhmOLUD1LdQlWAZ318rKRG8-qYlcj2-Hsfk8aJDMF9boQ/s1600/04_BardOfTilbury-e-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbqE4yJ6bXCyVmUO0qwJTDoepXUKm83pHecFIC860XbjSMCgUinc4b_5tPayqGGltOb3RgulV5RhWyw_p2z-JANfhEMUhmOLUD1LdQlWAZ318rKRG8-qYlcj2-Hsfk8aJDMF9boQ/s200/04_BardOfTilbury-e-cover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">From the vantage point I now occupy, I can’t say how the
story grew, or when decisions were reached but, as the years passed and I
continued to write the books, the epic eventually solidified. Naturally, I
thought I’d like to publish it, but knew from the start that I couldn’t think
about that until the series came to an end. This was because each book brought
new revelations, and often those revelations meant revisiting earlier books and
making adjustments to the story arc. But now, the entire series has solidified
and I can start thinking about going back to the beginning to rewrite and
revise and see if I can make it publishable.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Once I finish the final book.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The books, you see, aren’t written in the way a sane person
would write a novel, which involves a detailed plot outline. These are written
using a method we in the business call “pantsing” — i.e. Writing by the seat
of your pants. With only the slightest idea of where I am going. (For Book V,
the entire outline read: “the boys visit The Great Exhibition in 1851 London,
and have an adventure.”)</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0N5vGgjQLNteE8Mv3AreZU-9VEPbTevs0E6mUaJapVvnPWSd783MAVp4JzJLONXkNImZcaXBufsbkY20Qeuv8Rqdvhgx4JlRLp9R1r48CQS_FlVgLAfrDhSF069Tn-GxjJJBFbg/s1600/05_CrystalPalace-e-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0N5vGgjQLNteE8Mv3AreZU-9VEPbTevs0E6mUaJapVvnPWSd783MAVp4JzJLONXkNImZcaXBufsbkY20Qeuv8Rqdvhgx4JlRLp9R1r48CQS_FlVgLAfrDhSF069Tn-GxjJJBFbg/s200/05_CrystalPalace-e-cover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What I do is, I sit down at the beginning of every year and
start to type. It’s not how I want to write these books, but there doesn’t seem
to be anything I can do about it.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While I always have an idea of where the overall story is
heading, the path leading to that goal remains dark and mysterious. I can only discover it by walking along it, and occasionally falling off. Each book,
therefore, is born from a series of dead ends, long periods of doing nothing,
protracted bouts of agonizing over where I went wrong, and a few joyful
realizations that I have hit upon an unexpected, but obviously correct, direction
in which to move the plot.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The book where I have the boys flying a bi-plane in WWI—Book
VI—was, by far, the most torturous of writing experiences…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQ4a2QGnfPkchKy2DoA6HyYa1fisAdkOqlcBg2NfRvxETrWhfGheMNDXjxiZviBCPx9xlxEVb0JCm0LNUpNEcvXFlAN6l5I12uxVvVCH_pG4m4ByLvkpqWbp8-cXymrqeoI3KJA/s1600/06_WhiteFeather-e-cover02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQ4a2QGnfPkchKy2DoA6HyYa1fisAdkOqlcBg2NfRvxETrWhfGheMNDXjxiZviBCPx9xlxEVb0JCm0LNUpNEcvXFlAN6l5I12uxVvVCH_pG4m4ByLvkpqWbp8-cXymrqeoI3KJA/s200/06_WhiteFeather-e-cover02.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">…until I started the next one.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaR5ITJyLv6SBPExJSvmWJjjf53s2VOLhTmdaUfaAvyg5qJJE5YeLKpksTDthxk3KzJlX51C6Y1dQ34VJ1R0Rt9SNXfSlN1qGv-RU2bCF6wY8Rz4ezJwB-97n5yLaD1W30iiZ2Ig/s1600/07_TheIsleofAvalon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1021" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaR5ITJyLv6SBPExJSvmWJjjf53s2VOLhTmdaUfaAvyg5qJJE5YeLKpksTDthxk3KzJlX51C6Y1dQ34VJ1R0Rt9SNXfSlN1qGv-RU2bCF6wY8Rz4ezJwB-97n5yLaD1W30iiZ2Ig/s200/07_TheIsleofAvalon.jpg" width="127" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I have just finished that book—Book VII—which revisits
Arthur, completes the narrative circuit and sets the stage for Book VIII.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I am now several chapters into that one, and I am already
floundering.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After the sweat, blood and tears of the yearly novel, and
once it is neatly confined between the covers of a book, I always tell my wife
that the next one will be easier. It never is. It is so gut-wrenchingly <i>NOT</i>
easy that my annual assertion has become something of a joke. This year,
however, I have a new, and undeniably true, addendum: “The next book,” I told
her, “may not be easier, but it will be the last.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifg6JmTW8NuSVpMBBWQor8kANsSJxH9OY10JR-qpU-SjBm7nKpf6gtxbJ149SW1QsqHFIylO0gZtjE5243OqqdhTfu9N0Ti7FXMMwj-Dv2bV8UsUUmf_YBK6Qa3aCHHso-ZSjJGQ/s1600/08_TheTalisman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1021" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifg6JmTW8NuSVpMBBWQor8kANsSJxH9OY10JR-qpU-SjBm7nKpf6gtxbJ149SW1QsqHFIylO0gZtjE5243OqqdhTfu9N0Ti7FXMMwj-Dv2bV8UsUUmf_YBK6Qa3aCHHso-ZSjJGQ/s200/08_TheTalisman.jpg" width="127" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
[NOTE: I wrote the above shortly after I began the book, back in August of 2019.<br />
<br />
Since then, progress has been typical:<br />
<br />
I wrote 1,000 words in one week, then sat for two months brooding about where the book was going. Then I managed 5,000 words in a single week in November before going dormant until February, when I trashed what I had done and started over. Eventually, I got to 12,000 words, then lost momentum due to an unexpected trip to the US.<br />
<br />
I kicked the plot around for the next few weeks and now, for some reason I won't mention, suddenly find myself able to devote a lot of time to it.<br />
<br />
I am about halfway in, and writing a chapter a day now, so I hope to have it finished by the end of May.<br />
<br />
And then the fun begins.]<br />
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-83225631290369353042020-04-10T16:35:00.002+01:002021-05-23T11:59:45.919+01:00Going for a Swim<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Over the years, I’ve noted how the
swimming pool at the local leisure center comes up short when compared to my
memories of swimming in the creek, and how what adventurous locals refer to as
“Wild Swimming” is what I simply call swimming. I therefore thought it only
right that I should chronicle my recent introduction to al fresco swimming.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
It started with a notice in Next
Door—the local on-line community forum—when a guy named Ady asked if anyone was
up for a Cold-Water swim. Due to the aforementioned reasons, I thought I owed
it to myself to give it a go.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
And so, on a crisp October morning,
I drove the short distance to Southwater Park and met Ady at the lake shore.
Turns out I was the only one insane enough to take him up on the offer. Ady was
undaunted, however, and pleased to have at least one person to share his
passion with. Without fanfare, or preparation time (although what I might have
done to prepare myself, I cannot say) we walked into the still, silent water
where mist was rising in early light.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9yI1TD6qBVj4EIsW7poHSfdpHiaV1hptE0Et8W5-xuqaV1_VsO2zWF0LzP6A-dboVuRnrWj51bFCua3YPtcYPsT3ym4J0u7NL0WV1KBGZskctRviaCwgWyi1e4qTIv9Jzt1Xbw/s1600/Swimming01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9yI1TD6qBVj4EIsW7poHSfdpHiaV1hptE0Et8W5-xuqaV1_VsO2zWF0LzP6A-dboVuRnrWj51bFCua3YPtcYPsT3ym4J0u7NL0WV1KBGZskctRviaCwgWyi1e4qTIv9Jzt1Xbw/s1600/Swimming01.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the lake, smiling despite the numbness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was freezing. But I persevered,
submerged myself up to my shoulders and, after a few seconds of
hyperventilating, it began to feel normal. Invigorating, even.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
We swam back and forth across the
lake a few times while Ady extolled the virtues of Cold Water swimming and I luxuriated
in the sensation of, once again, swimming in open water. It really was quite
pleasant.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Then we got out.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
My feet and hands were so numb I
couldn’t feel them, and my fingers were so stiff I found it impossible to
button my shirt. It was even difficult to insert the key in the ignition and
driving home was a little dodgy. Fortunately, there were few cars on the road.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
I had promised to contact Ady when
I returned from my trip to America so we could do it again, but here it is,
nearly ten weeks later, and I haven’t yet made the call. Here’s why:</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
First and foremost, despite how
pleasant it was, it’s another thing, and I don’t have room in my life for
another thing. I know it would just be a one-morning-a-week outing, but I’m
already getting up extra early to swim at the leisure center on Tuesday, and on
Wednesday, there’s Choir, Thursday, it’s Tai Chi, Friday, we shop, and in
between is another choir, the AmDram group, a book club and various other
social obligations.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
And I know me. If I took up outdoor
swimming, I’d put 110% into it, and soon I’d be traveling to other sites,
taking up even more time. Then there’s the kit. I’d want a set of activewear
that would be easier to get on and off, and neoprene booties to make walking on
the beach and lake bottom easier, and neoprene gloves to keep my hands warm,
and maybe one of those fluffy, terrycloth robes to help stave off frostbite.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
In short, it would take over the
little bit of my life that I have left.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Secondly, there’s Ady’s intentions.
It was significant that he termed it “Cold Water Swimming.” Addy wasn’t
interest in open water, he was interested in cold water, the colder, the
better. He was, he informed me, a practitioner of the Wim Hof method, and that
calls for extreme cold-water challenges.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Mr. Hof is from the Netherlands and
is known for his ability to withstand freezing temperature, as well as for
holding the record for the barefoot half-marathon through snow and ice. (Did he
really have that many other people to compete with?”)</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Ady extolled the virtues of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wim_Hof" target="_blank">WimHof method</a>, and, while I don’t disagree with him (I have read that cold-water swimming
is good for your immune system and yadda, yadda, yadda) I’m in no hurry to
travel anywhere that is covered in snow and ice just so I can run half-naked
through it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
So, I’m sorry I didn’t call you
back, Ady, it’s just that I’m kinda busy and, although I had a great time at
the lake, I’m in no hurry to freeze my balls off. I just want to go swimming.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcBTNtOINrbLnQfEPJhTK_3pzPgJMYk9UmsCV0XSDrWXYuZcfqPuBa0ShdHXGo_CvoRWvKC2NuXUDIqlhhbRXFQbNKnluF2kiDuBVKdULWH7JDi-HmTRgrYfYtbbxNySNT3KObQ/s1600/Swimming02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcBTNtOINrbLnQfEPJhTK_3pzPgJMYk9UmsCV0XSDrWXYuZcfqPuBa0ShdHXGo_CvoRWvKC2NuXUDIqlhhbRXFQbNKnluF2kiDuBVKdULWH7JDi-HmTRgrYfYtbbxNySNT3KObQ/s1600/Swimming02.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swimming, for real. Finally.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-31018945489550491842020-03-29T15:59:00.002+01:002021-05-23T12:04:29.052+01:00Love in the Time of Coronavirus <div style="line-height: 150%;">
No CORVID-19 FREE ZONE this time,
I’m afraid. Instead, I’m going to take a light-hearted look at crises past and
the turmoil that has sort of bookended our marriage so far.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
I actually met my wife due to a
crisis: the foot and mouth epizootic (yes, it’s a real word, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2001_United_Kingdom_foot-and-mouth_outbreak" target="_blank">look it up</a>) of 2001, which saw the most
ultimate form of lock-down imposed on over 6 million cows and sheep. Because of
this, the planned hiking holiday in the West of Ireland that my future wife had
booked, was cancelled and rescheduled for late August. Meanwhile, blissfully
unaware of the horrific events across the ocean, I booked the same hiking
holiday. The rest is history. (If you want the details: <a href="https://michaelharling.com/the-postcards-trilogy/" target="_blank">read the book</a>.)</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
And so, we met in those halcyon
days of late summer in 2001 when the world made sense, and everything was
normal. On the 28th of August, I returned home. Two weeks later was 9/11 and
the world has not been the same since.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
My first visit to my wife-to-be was
on 10/11, and it was a surreal affair. Hardly anyone was flying, even though
flight schedules had returned to normal some time before, and London was nearly
deserted. We managed to ignore all that and married five months later.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjsRiyCiiHpLN82KopX9ifxXdGUePtopNjY-lLF3OikNrnLji03Z3JrAXew2icjiuTS1Oes_yv-TfuPDbFhZI9c76XI2MrzHx0KQl7cPitng2vdGaIIojkKxlW7pDDTzQwsG3Dg/s1600/Love_03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjsRiyCiiHpLN82KopX9ifxXdGUePtopNjY-lLF3OikNrnLji03Z3JrAXew2icjiuTS1Oes_yv-TfuPDbFhZI9c76XI2MrzHx0KQl7cPitng2vdGaIIojkKxlW7pDDTzQwsG3Dg/s1600/Love_03.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
It was my first trip to London, so I didn't realize how ridiculously</div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
and unbelievably empty of people this shot was.</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Then America dragged Britain into a
war. My son was caught up in it (not against his will, I might add) and I had
to endure anyone who noticed my American accent immediately asking me what Bush
(he used to be President) was going to do, as if I was on the War Cabinet and
spent my evenings Skyping with the President about military strategy.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
I did try to calm the fears of the
locals (and they were genuine fears, trust me) by assuring them that—despite
what Bush and Blair were saying—Iraq did not, in fact, have any WMDs. No one
believed me, until the war ended, and the two embarrassed leaders had to admit
that, not only were there no WMDs, but they had not even thought to bring a
“<a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Drop%20gun" target="_blank">drop piece</a>.” </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFo4etweLd1907C4Prcnt9pxaNBVOJ0UoLXVdgzTkyDTXR9U839bcVeLT2KcDD-DKVXai5NPnDskTMQjZZf5jl-LNO9yo6gx97_k_bmtvwvQkyYTxVqh7N3PCG0kZz4WanKNEkw/s1600/Love_06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFo4etweLd1907C4Prcnt9pxaNBVOJ0UoLXVdgzTkyDTXR9U839bcVeLT2KcDD-DKVXai5NPnDskTMQjZZf5jl-LNO9yo6gx97_k_bmtvwvQkyYTxVqh7N3PCG0kZz4WanKNEkw/s1600/Love_06.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
The Boy (RT) and his Marine buddies, fighting the Gulf War.</div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
"It was like Boy Scouts, with guns."</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Things calmed down after that, and
life was good, and got better. Then the 2008 Financial Crisis came along.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
This did not come as a surprise to
us. In the months prior, well-meaning friends had told us we were foolish to be
renting when we could easily buy a house. “You just go into any Estate Agent and
make up a salary. You can tell them anything you want, and they’ll accept it,
so you’ll get a mortgage.” All we could do was wonder how it was that they could
not see what was coming. We saw it, but it didn’t stop it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVe4exeA4ml0THFZRXcalm_WGkV01Vz04pQ-SvZ32EmVm7bJV-8aeBXVXsr6wL_kytTMIgrzAIMkBKXlXwKAzYri97dzZ2rKVDDd_B05ZnJNkjqryprNbddaxxwM1jiruCSHgyw/s1600/Love_07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVe4exeA4ml0THFZRXcalm_WGkV01Vz04pQ-SvZ32EmVm7bJV-8aeBXVXsr6wL_kytTMIgrzAIMkBKXlXwKAzYri97dzZ2rKVDDd_B05ZnJNkjqryprNbddaxxwM1jiruCSHgyw/s1600/Love_07.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, I stole this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nothing truly awful happened, at
first, but as 2008 became 2009, and 2009 turned to 2010, life got greyer and
greyer. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
I knew how bad things were by using
the best economic indicator around: Every year, on the 5th of November, I would
sit on my balcony as evening fell and listen. If the fireworks started going
off, and if there were a lot of them, I knew the economy was getting better. (Because
people, in the most literal sense, had money to burn.) If there were only a
few, or none, then things were bad, indeed.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
As for us, we crossed our fingers
and hoped things would turn around, and just when we thought it wasn’t going to
get any worse, the newly elected Conservative government introduced us to
Austerity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4Yc5nyoCmZc0ACerNMaJYATuBm5n-kgsRRZtba7MdUELxMBYxRGDygcvSWC0E8NL3HYE-pUXA5ZgRlOwf7xuZNshfmqNhyphenhyphen-JMa2EsIKH-zpvSsgIRicxm7d8sI6EXulrC8_CnA/s1600/Love_05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="196" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4Yc5nyoCmZc0ACerNMaJYATuBm5n-kgsRRZtba7MdUELxMBYxRGDygcvSWC0E8NL3HYE-pUXA5ZgRlOwf7xuZNshfmqNhyphenhyphen-JMa2EsIKH-zpvSsgIRicxm7d8sI6EXulrC8_CnA/s1600/Love_05.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">In case you're wondering Austerity didn't turn out to be very popular.</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The first thing they said was that
it wasn’t going to affect front line services. I had all I could do to stop
laughing. Naturally, front line services were immediately cut, budgets were
slashed, and slashed again, and again, and again, and again. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
As the little people do, and have done
since civilization began, all we could do was hunker down and hope to survive
the fallout from the ideological beliefs of those in charge. Eventually, however,
it took its toll.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
My company, who wrote and installed
computer systems for local authorities, found themselves with fewer and fewer
customers, and in need of fewer and fewer employees. I was invited to be one of
the “fewer” in 2012. My wife clung on to a service that struggled to survive
until it became too ludicrous to continue and, reluctantly, left in 2018. Both
of us victims of Austerity.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
In 2012/13 the Fifty Shades of Grey
crisis hit, and previously upscale (and even low scale) bookstores became awash
in sub-standard porn dressed up as sub-standard literature. As a friend of mine
noted: “It’s a book for people who don’t read.” </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazZNiZZxG7NXqZsHWzkc9tyQLKARMjl7zLcN4NgY0XlE27FAHVCTfQIkYWRTvYUkSk8Hj1rN2_27UmceBTXsIPEKR3ERBFj5-5uRLbyjLl_pGE2uoqLQ_Bu2ApBn1ptn1LRdK1A/s1600/Love_04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="450" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazZNiZZxG7NXqZsHWzkc9tyQLKARMjl7zLcN4NgY0XlE27FAHVCTfQIkYWRTvYUkSk8Hj1rN2_27UmceBTXsIPEKR3ERBFj5-5uRLbyjLl_pGE2uoqLQ_Bu2ApBn1ptn1LRdK1A/s400/Love_04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">No, no! None of that, thank you!</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Still, we did not remain untouched
by this epidemic. My wife’s curiosity overcame her, and she bought the initial
volume. Fortunately, she’s a discriminating reader and put it down halfway
through.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Over the years, literature
improved, and on the odd year, fireworks went off (this is NOT a euphemism) and
then, in 2016, we had a referendum on Brexit.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Once again, we hunkered down and
hoped for the best and took solace from the fact that 2017 would have to be
better.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
It wasn’t. The Brexit decision
became more and more heated, even though the decision had been made. Prime
ministers came and went. We had elections. And we looked forward to 2018 when
things would calm down.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyqqXdVyGnHgs0P7cP_xkGZxjBPjG5gywvVjCC7Qib9NpRamJlAe_fsd-vdtKbvNYmGeo3RT6JZfmL_qmz3m01_RzdiRkkk9YEI8BUdWFSh2T6XqkUp_dSnbaWQxCztEVQh-pBA/s1600/Love_02a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyqqXdVyGnHgs0P7cP_xkGZxjBPjG5gywvVjCC7Qib9NpRamJlAe_fsd-vdtKbvNYmGeo3RT6JZfmL_qmz3m01_RzdiRkkk9YEI8BUdWFSh2T6XqkUp_dSnbaWQxCztEVQh-pBA/s1600/Love_02a.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">The best thing about Brexit is how it united the British people</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They didn’t. More confusion and
mayhem ensued. Much to the delight of America, Britain took over as the world’s
laughingstock. We didn’t bother thinking that 2019 would be any better.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
It wasn’t. Another Prime Minister
resigned. A mini-Trump with even worse hair took over. We had an election and
watched as all hope swirled down the drain.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2rA4WFmh19aa_4jkJOh8_Hgpw5AdLaj6WlxCp-R5Ts5TC0pUGgnJ2IV9bopLRL7UqSbfG4OVHU_s9NNdBNpWj-0JZrS2uerXnG17aM3ujhqLusZ97qlF28UNdvdMZxM9HEgN2rA/s1600/Love_08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2rA4WFmh19aa_4jkJOh8_Hgpw5AdLaj6WlxCp-R5Ts5TC0pUGgnJ2IV9bopLRL7UqSbfG4OVHU_s9NNdBNpWj-0JZrS2uerXnG17aM3ujhqLusZ97qlF28UNdvdMZxM9HEgN2rA/s1600/Love_08.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome 2020!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But then we breathed a sigh of
relief on New Year’s Eve, 2019, and looked forward with hope to the New Decade.
Surely, 2020 would be better. It had to be; it couldn’t get any worse.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioq9IE_zdC3eJWeNJagMVBZ2Kx46HvQ6k7HpXpAzEZ0bgV5UdEaZ9citQhrDtCSBUnubnw49MwG6LpMW12gNAdTuKr72cN70XyxMMPsYfu12BsJ4ZnWDTP5RzIF2E7uiUlEWX7hA/s1600/Love_01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioq9IE_zdC3eJWeNJagMVBZ2Kx46HvQ6k7HpXpAzEZ0bgV5UdEaZ9citQhrDtCSBUnubnw49MwG6LpMW12gNAdTuKr72cN70XyxMMPsYfu12BsJ4ZnWDTP5RzIF2E7uiUlEWX7hA/s1600/Love_01.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Could it?</div>
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-60726068318331034802020-03-20T16:49:00.005+00:002020-03-26T11:05:30.027+00:00Shedding the Shed<div style="line-height: 150%;">
When I was a boy, my dad built a
shop in the back yard. It was about half the size of our house and he built the
whole thing himself. He needed it because he was an upholsterer and, over the
years, he re-upholstered chairs and couches and refinished cabinets and built
all manner of household furnishings. It was a wondrous place that only became
more and more wondrous.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
By the time I was able to operate
the machinery—button maker, band saw, table saw, vice, wood lathe, jig saw,
electric sander, et al—there were so many bits of wood and cast-offs stored in
there that you could make anything out of stuff you found lying around.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
My father was a craftsman and,
though he did teach me what I was capable of learning, I never came close to
how good he was with wood.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Hs_NYPlvZrF3ycHOEk7iZ5Y0-CZxs11YUypXcFc51Bnyi5DRClryZuUxSdg5tBRgUWBiMz2k6HSGnuc8Z3B5g2L5fV0bo8lIedO1KvHWAvgrjhl2idmDIOnAEV9OHN-iybrSuw/s1600/Shed03a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Hs_NYPlvZrF3ycHOEk7iZ5Y0-CZxs11YUypXcFc51Bnyi5DRClryZuUxSdg5tBRgUWBiMz2k6HSGnuc8Z3B5g2L5fV0bo8lIedO1KvHWAvgrjhl2idmDIOnAEV9OHN-iybrSuw/s320/Shed03a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad in his workshop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Still, I tried. After I was married
(the first time) we bought a house with a basement and I immediately set up a
workshop. While I lived there, I made a number of things—dining room table that
folded up into the wall so the kids had the dining room to play in, a toy box
for them, cubby holes for their coats and books and boots—but then that time
ended, and I spent years moving from rented flat to rented flat and never again
had the opportunity to work with wood. Until a few years ago.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
My new in-laws had a small shed in
their backyard and, after my father-in-law died and it fell to my wife and I to
take care of the property for my mother-in-law, I talked her into getting a
bigger one. (She likes me, so it was easy to convince her.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
I set the new shed up as a workshop
and immediately cast about for things to build.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBbVhl6DOMvo5sQg7HY-5XnF7aGKu39OFQtUfPPqbeLNhrkRzAQjHgfBp4BqXGrYy5N8LjwLAvSrKQTkHEOrp8k9bMh9Q9YNwavDInEdzENCpFedzmwpK3luVAq1Q6SMPlTW2G_w/s1600/Shed02a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="400" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBbVhl6DOMvo5sQg7HY-5XnF7aGKu39OFQtUfPPqbeLNhrkRzAQjHgfBp4BqXGrYy5N8LjwLAvSrKQTkHEOrp8k9bMh9Q9YNwavDInEdzENCpFedzmwpK3luVAq1Q6SMPlTW2G_w/s320/Shed02a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on my first bookcase</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In an era where everything is done
on-line, it is gratifying to feel wood taking shape under your rasp and sander.
I find the smell of sawdust soothing and evocative of my youth and I spent as
much time as I could out there. Over the years I built several bookcases, an
airing cupboard for our new flat, a tombola, storage units and a variety of
other, useful items.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNf4NzekLAjghvOyYS0cctFZTEhrzjuMHfD20u3XE3ft0F4Qkcmo1Imm-84F1tJUc9NEDQAsfYoKw8JVfbQvVTOqWMUzWaFIySYQU-RUnXNjAgMxn78LKJUQ-ZilADkeODemK5qw/s1600/Shed05a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="400" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNf4NzekLAjghvOyYS0cctFZTEhrzjuMHfD20u3XE3ft0F4Qkcmo1Imm-84F1tJUc9NEDQAsfYoKw8JVfbQvVTOqWMUzWaFIySYQU-RUnXNjAgMxn78LKJUQ-ZilADkeODemK5qw/s320/Shed05a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Set of blocks I made for my granddaughter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I loved being there, especially
when it was raining, and I could take a break with a cup of coffee amid the
sawdust and wood-shavings and assess whatever project I was working on. There
is nothing quite like having your own space to work in.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Except, it wasn’t mine. Last year,
my mother-in-law’s dementia got to the point where we could no longer support her,
and she was moved into a home. We still went to the house from time to time—to
mow and mulch in the back yard and make sure the house was in good order—but I
didn’t have the time to spend in my shed like I used to.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhz4MGRNoyVZc7mv7lLsHrR5G_HZgDbnY5SYvU4vORySNBCr8tGB2kh4Ksk2NOJOh1gdzMmKYyt-QO6BAVv_-aZse1bJir3m6379wA-LH8gUMVVxLUkmKSl6JbJPkB1atm5kMkg/s1600/Shed04a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhz4MGRNoyVZc7mv7lLsHrR5G_HZgDbnY5SYvU4vORySNBCr8tGB2kh4Ksk2NOJOh1gdzMmKYyt-QO6BAVv_-aZse1bJir3m6379wA-LH8gUMVVxLUkmKSl6JbJPkB1atm5kMkg/s320/Shed04a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tub Guard to replace the unsightly piece of Masonite that was there. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, we had to sell it. It went on
the market last autumn and we exchanged contracts today. We took our last trip to the property this morning, so we could take the final meter readings. We will
never go back.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
Now, in addition to my shed, this
house was the home of my wife from the time she was two until we married, so we
both took a moment to say good-bye, and I expect hers was more bittersweet. But
knowing I will never again have someplace to build something—anything—out of
wood does close a significant chapter in my life.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
So, good-bye to my workshop, and to
the first home I had in Britain. I hope the new owners love it as much as we
did, and find happiness there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ErwPE2Wxu8ypejeI2qxxyrMlxmOs5JgnGdO9G0Mx16qQKhaLDkPOJnghx0HvVNeEDlRhEBtJzzDXU1iA1LH5h_4u_84gzBv0J3dKiJXGb2Gzug3FtZ2Vr46YyJaUmJVXmgwajg/s1600/Shed01a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ErwPE2Wxu8ypejeI2qxxyrMlxmOs5JgnGdO9G0Mx16qQKhaLDkPOJnghx0HvVNeEDlRhEBtJzzDXU1iA1LH5h_4u_84gzBv0J3dKiJXGb2Gzug3FtZ2Vr46YyJaUmJVXmgwajg/s320/Shed01a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A final look</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671665.post-44653626621574028692020-03-15T17:11:00.002+00:002020-03-15T18:19:12.563+00:00Eulogy<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I started this blog, I promised myself three things:
that I wouldn’t talk about politics, religion or my family (grandkids
excepted). I have broken that promised a few times (Trump and Breixt were hard
to ignore) and I am about to again. So, I hope you will forgive me for posting
about my recently deceased brother, Marc.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Caveat: if
you are a friend or family member reading this and your impressions differ from
mine, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean my impressions are right, or wrong, it just
means they are mine.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To begin with, I was never very close to Marc. I was very,
very close to my sister, Melinda, however, because, for an eternity, it was
just the two of us. Too young for school, Melinda and I played in the yard, the
woods, the fields, the leaves, the snow and I couldn’t imagine life without her
always with me. Then, when I was four, eternity ended; Melinda started school,
and Marc was born.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyw1AshGqQsMol97ogmgwDcpUBlRm9t5Khaak44xo6MVroAyThwZUIw3PY9rELq8CCD4XoyeNTa8rtO2pN_YKKTfdSuix9UfYfGZlxWZx6l6AnXUPdy8Clh0v5kMWvnEyIbJ_cg/s1600/Marc01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="400" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyw1AshGqQsMol97ogmgwDcpUBlRm9t5Khaak44xo6MVroAyThwZUIw3PY9rELq8CCD4XoyeNTa8rtO2pN_YKKTfdSuix9UfYfGZlxWZx6l6AnXUPdy8Clh0v5kMWvnEyIbJ_cg/s200/Marc01.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marc<br />September 1959</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We greeted him with joy and much fawning, but he really wasn’t
very much fun. He just laid there and gurgled and, eventually, we pretty much
ignored him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The first real memory I have of playing with Marc was when I
shot him with the bow and arrow.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was about ten—so he must have been about six—when my
parents bought me a bow and arrow set. Not the cheap wood and suction-cup
arrows variety you find in toy shops, but a real, archery set, with sharpened,
metal-tipped arrows. (What were they thinking?) I spent lots of time shooting
at the target set up in the side yard but became frustrated that I couldn’t hit
the bullseye. So, I got a long tube from my father’s shop (he was an
upholsterer and had large spools of material on sturdy, cardboard tubes that
must have been 8 feet long) and had Marc hold it up to the target’s bullseye so
I could shoot the arrow into the other end.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As you have already guessed, I missed the hole and hit Marc
in the arm. It didn’t (thankfully) stick in, but it did leave a mark and it
made him scream like a banshee and I dropped the bow and ran to him saying the
only thing a child could say in a situation like that: “Don’t tell mom!”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He told mom.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Archery mishaps aside, we did play together more as he grew
older. He was a bubbly, happy child with a good sense of fun, quick to laugh
and always up for adventure, if it didn’t involve me shooting arrows at him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3WUbns_OcO6xM5DU_OZT9r41mRNPSczWTv41j6GIidE3wUoF8gmHde4lfo6uqA9rP2yj90h5P7XDjz_oHtoVypzTdObDnN9PLeDmuTcQ9MD1hIluFvrdyuQvFWam0Oc-fKaoJQ/s1600/Marc02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="400" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3WUbns_OcO6xM5DU_OZT9r41mRNPSczWTv41j6GIidE3wUoF8gmHde4lfo6uqA9rP2yj90h5P7XDjz_oHtoVypzTdObDnN9PLeDmuTcQ9MD1hIluFvrdyuQvFWam0Oc-fKaoJQ/s320/Marc02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Marc, Melinda and Michele, Matt<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Christmas 1964</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">The first photo (that I have) of us all together.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktjneI6wDXGiTU9ubVtBmW9d48R8iHsX3sTISSAV12tjT3FBdVsqRkOSMgtKb5lOWXvQ2J1i-ucimHPnB49ZAtV5xfabLh8yl9XjIMfb6u4SJu-oEzbPHvgrrbceLlxCL4mRaiA/s1600/Marc03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktjneI6wDXGiTU9ubVtBmW9d48R8iHsX3sTISSAV12tjT3FBdVsqRkOSMgtKb5lOWXvQ2J1i-ucimHPnB49ZAtV5xfabLh8yl9XjIMfb6u4SJu-oEzbPHvgrrbceLlxCL4mRaiA/s1600/Marc03.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last photo I have of us all together--with Dad, even<br />
Dad, Marc, Me, Melinda, Michele, Matt<br />
May 2006</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As the years progressed, his sense of adventure grew and,
eventually, he and my sister—who also had a wild streak—became tight. Left on
my own, I spent a lot of time contemplating nature and writing angst-ridden
poetry while Melinda and Marc drank and smoked with an increasingly rowdy
series of friends. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(Later, when I became a Jesus-freak, nobody wanted to
associate with me at all, and I can’t say as I blame them.)</span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I was finally thrown out of the cult (something to do
with the minister’s daughter) I returned to the fold, partying with my siblings
but never really fitting in (there was still that poetry thing).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUrL9RJtUPV9ATdIckjJuQTWqLz9SaSvOgsmPOFPWVBDuheC4lJ2_WLOQ6lnf5Jw1V3A3MH6iruCPen4jNLGamWd6oF0Ynp9Jv1ZvKWKyxllsooEUPmv3Gkr8TL_O2k63eWetlA/s1600/Marc04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="400" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUrL9RJtUPV9ATdIckjJuQTWqLz9SaSvOgsmPOFPWVBDuheC4lJ2_WLOQ6lnf5Jw1V3A3MH6iruCPen4jNLGamWd6oF0Ynp9Jv1ZvKWKyxllsooEUPmv3Gkr8TL_O2k63eWetlA/s320/Marc04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt, Michele and Marc<br />
September 1969<br />
The most surprising thing about this photo is that people<br />
actually went out dressed like that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As we grew older, Marc’s adventurous nature began costing my
father money. He had several run-ins with the law and one time, when he and his
buddies were partying, they got a wild hair up their collective butts and
decided to go to California. Fetching him back ratcheted up the debt my father
continued to keep track of.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My father maintained a belief that Marc was going to pay him
back, which was optimistic, but charmingly naïve. Then, as Marc approached his
twenties, my father made him an offer: he would forgive Marc’s debts if he
would join the army. He should have had a lawyer look the agreement over first;
a legal mind would have spotted the glaring loophole immediately.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marc joined the army, my father forgave his debts (by now
into the thousands) and, between the time he signed up and before he had to
leave for boot camp, he was involved in an horrific car crash that shattered
his leg, and the army pronounced him unfit for service and discharged him. (Additionally,
while waiting to go in, Marc had convinced a few of his friends to join up with
him. They had to go, but he didn’t.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marc spent weeks in traction and then was put into a body
cast. After a month or so in the body cast, he was put in a smaller cast that
allowed him some mobility. Subsequently, he went out with his buddies, got
drunk and chipped the cast off, necessitating a trip to the hospital to put a
new one on. This became a pattern until, some months later, he was finally out
of his cast for good. Until I broke his leg again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDNkZI3lsEw2GwLes5pJYMGDzWI1I_02X1fIkHGm5yCcUpd_VHqcVtNJHPjb7ei0MpLRDq7ggwqeZj6DHmQHpveL8ldzXAzbA8Jcx-tS2yBwdSHBQCg9ZQ7IHroAMvG7JPMLFyw/s1600/Marc05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="400" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDNkZI3lsEw2GwLes5pJYMGDzWI1I_02X1fIkHGm5yCcUpd_VHqcVtNJHPjb7ei0MpLRDq7ggwqeZj6DHmQHpveL8ldzXAzbA8Jcx-tS2yBwdSHBQCg9ZQ7IHroAMvG7JPMLFyw/s320/Marc05.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Marc, Matt<br />
March 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By now he was engaged to Wendy, and I became engaged to Wendy’s
best friend, Jayne. (In looking back now, I find it odd that our wives were
closer to each other than I was to my brother.) Marc and Wendy were in the boy’s
dorm and Jayne and I were in the kitchen (there were seven of us—my parents, my
two sisters and me and my two brothers—in a small house containing, as I termed
it, a master bedroom, the girl’s dorm and the boy’s dorm) and Marc was drunk
and getting bolshie. Somehow, we started annoying each other. Words were
exchanged and we ended up in a tense standoff, facing each other on either side
of the doorway to our bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRVnrXA4_gEjiJrH55i6sjFxVqob_b9Lhw4lKOaQk4JM-JpgooVOMKy4ZVtFYnU3sBlR5ETx2uIN9CSHEXP7f9pPQRYMF3YYjSiVWGCeocDY3pMi4x_8xBQJdk_cUMPteJOquSg/s1600/Marc07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRVnrXA4_gEjiJrH55i6sjFxVqob_b9Lhw4lKOaQk4JM-JpgooVOMKy4ZVtFYnU3sBlR5ETx2uIN9CSHEXP7f9pPQRYMF3YYjSiVWGCeocDY3pMi4x_8xBQJdk_cUMPteJOquSg/s320/Marc07.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marc and Wendy at their wedding<br />
September 1979</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I am, by nature, a peaceful individual. I always said I was
too small to fight fair, so I usually walked away from conflict, but I was
determined not to back down in front of my fiancée so I jumped up and kicked
him square in the chest. He went down and, to my horror, I realized that, if he
got back up, he would kill me. So, I dove on him and, with the girls screaming
and us shouting, we rolled around on the bedroom floor until we heard a snap
and his face went white and I looked and saw his foot had become stuck under a
dresser and had not rolled with his leg.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I jumped off him but, bellowing like a bull, he tried to get
up and come after me. My father rushed into the room and had to punch him in
the face to keep him from getting up and doing more damage to his leg. The
ambulance was called and arrived in short order, just about the time (as I
recall) that my sister came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around
her. Marc was still screaming that he was going to kill me, and the paramedics
were telling him that if he didn’t quiet down they were going to sedate him.
They strapped him onto the gurney and took him out and, as was often the case
when Marc left a gathering, everything went suddenly quiet.</span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The next morning—fearing he might make good on his promise to
kill me when he got back home—I rented an apartment and permanently moved out
of my parent’s house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As with the bow and arrow incident, the broken leg was soon
forgotten. I was at his wedding, and he was at mine, but even then, he was
living in Texas and I hardly ever saw him. </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As the years went by, even though I saw him at sporadic
intervals, we became virtual strangers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After I left for Britain, however, our family established an
agreeable tradition: every time my wife (New wife; want the story? <a href="http://www.lindenwald.com/michaelharling/PCFI.html" target="_blank">Buy the book</a>.) and I came for a visit, we would hold a
family reunion. In this way, I began seeing him, not often, but at least
regularly. By now he was divorced, but still quick to laugh and always ready
with a humorous anecdote, and almost always drunk. He was fun and funny and
quite a force, and no one, to my knowledge, ever said, “Marc was at that party
I was at last night? That’s funny, I didn’t notice him.”</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmoERQONvuu5nN2GZMcpgs_KTX6gfklu7HYwPrxeOX45MkZqs9VyfRfmU0LH2vgO9GXlXv9G3ZoFlU6B0VpmyK9GrQ8LCM8nQ5BoXwqQtA0B0O-3DIXhGSdBf6cLdRVolfqlAyg/s1600/Marc11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmoERQONvuu5nN2GZMcpgs_KTX6gfklu7HYwPrxeOX45MkZqs9VyfRfmU0LH2vgO9GXlXv9G3ZoFlU6B0VpmyK9GrQ8LCM8nQ5BoXwqQtA0B0O-3DIXhGSdBf6cLdRVolfqlAyg/s320/Marc11.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marc<br />
April 2002</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At one of these reunions, some 14 years or so ago, he told me
he had 5 years to live. I was never clear on what was wrong with him, but I
gather his drinking had something to do with it and he was strongly advised to
give it up. He didn’t, but in a way, I can respect him for remaining true to
himself. He lived his life the way he wanted and outlived the doctor’s
prediction by a long shot.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnm3eV8BbI6zZggHnRTC937RB9EMIbZ6Gh2Rjzhld7RTKs4Z4VeCWXWPv0WFwg0rNqHdg6N3MyacjOQFWG_zpShz5_Y2cj7V_wCw43EBPNl_7TlSahBzcZ5TKkhawcP0VxQGBmQg/s1600/Marc08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="400" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnm3eV8BbI6zZggHnRTC937RB9EMIbZ6Gh2Rjzhld7RTKs4Z4VeCWXWPv0WFwg0rNqHdg6N3MyacjOQFWG_zpShz5_Y2cj7V_wCw43EBPNl_7TlSahBzcZ5TKkhawcP0VxQGBmQg/s320/Marc08.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moriah (Marc's daughter), Marc, Melinda<br />
June 2008</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In his later years, he returned to NY and moved in,
coincidentally, with an old friend of mine, Tanya, and on each visit my wife
and I made certain to spend some time with them. For the most part, despite his
increasing debility, he was still his old self, but when we visited last
autumn, he remained quiet and withdrawn and we feared the worst.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I heard he was going downhill on the 15th of February. I flew
over on the 20th and arrived as he was taken home from the hospital. Tanya told
me to visit in the morning as he was tired from the trip. He died over night
however, and I never got to see him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All I can says is, he lived—and died—on his own terms, and
that’s not something a lot of people can claim.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zLTGp8J2UqrJDut2X5K2k6e12wBYPBNiT_0XjvHm3wUOXLQQ_Pui2Iq1HLW67-KMfxNjb6X_YwO2zDOFKF-FELHhTrB2PbghyphenhyphenwEVxWU9EbwWbHMFemuuUx8-3APuyDOGndKpVg/s1600/Marc10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="400" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zLTGp8J2UqrJDut2X5K2k6e12wBYPBNiT_0XjvHm3wUOXLQQ_Pui2Iq1HLW67-KMfxNjb6X_YwO2zDOFKF-FELHhTrB2PbghyphenhyphenwEVxWU9EbwWbHMFemuuUx8-3APuyDOGndKpVg/s320/Marc10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marc<br />
True to himself.</td></tr>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>MikeHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530099708429116393noreply@blogger.com0