I did it my way.

All through our lives we have comforted ourselves with the thought that tomorrow is another day and we can look forward to that special visit, that special purchase, that change we might wish for to enrich our lives. The opportunities we believed were in our compass and it only required a decision here or there to accomplish another dream. 
Slowly as we get older we have to relinquish our dreams and settle for reality. No bad thing in some ways since reality can be as enriching if we allow our imagination to scrutinise the common place to investigate what is around us and not always hanker for a places further afield, with an image sold by the marketing folk, air brushed to enhance what is there.
The elite places like the multi dollar hotels and their exclusive play zones. The countries which we have read about and always assumed we would find the time to visit. The experience of doing things that were part of ones tick box to do now begin to recede for ever. 
Of course this "for ever" is very personal, when we depart things continue as before without a tremor.
We submit ourselves daily, through the TV, to a lifestyle which seems so glamorous. The Monaco based drivers from the GP circuit, the commentators, the rich and the famous parade our screens and we wonder what it is like to eat and drink in the best eateries, to communicate in a world where glitz and wit is everywhere.
Back in our box we have to accept that we will be second best in most things and that we are running out of tomorrows to change things. Have we left anything on the table, have we squeezed out the last bit of what ever, before we depart. 

 No regrets, I did it my way !!!!          

To see ourselves.

Having watched a Shakespearean production with the actor/comedian Lenny Henry playing the lead role I was struck by the modern urge to accentuate the story with action.
The need to accentuate and concoct with a set of moves, like those in a Musical. Flamboyant, eye catching interactivity on the stage designed to create a wow factor in the mind of the audience. Andrew Lloyd Webber's, Cats or the Phantom of the Opera use the stage and movement about the stage (in Cats they skate into the audience) to create another dimension to the lovely music and the pathos of the story told. Shakespeare is different. I think Lloyd Webber's music would stand on its own, (it certainly does in the record shop), without the stage craft, Shakespeare doesn't need a prop of any sort, other than perhaps the clothing to set the scene in the time it was written and the characters who historically existed at that point in time. The beauty of Shakespeare is the dialogue, that construct of language and the minds of the men and women who are revealed by the dialogue. To read Shakespeare is to listen, in ones own head, to the craft, the guile, the play and counter play of desire, sharpened by the genius of a word-smith the world has never seen the like. The sound, when the words are spoken by a good actor are of a musical quality, the players like instruments in an orchestra, feeding off each other with rapacious vigour, setting the human condition under the spotlight and making us all see ourselves for what we are.           

Riding out the storm.

We are in a hole or should I describe it as a Well with steep perpendicular walls, smooth, very difficult to climb out, a blue sky at the top seems so inviting, yet so distant. There are people peering down at us. There's a Chinaman, and an Indian, a German, a Brazilian, someone who looks like they are from Malaysia and a the ubiquitous Texan simply staring at the once mighty, now fallen .
We have just had a budget review. The picture is grim, not in the way it is for a Somali or even someone living in Greece but grim enough as we say goodbye to growth and the opportunity we had taken for granted, that things will always get better. 
If we stop growing or we stagnate we will have to return to the mind set of the 40s / 50s, thankful for the simple life. We will have to exclude the lure of the credit card, the replacement therapy, putting off immediate gratification and learning to live within our means. 

Holidays will have to submit to a budget, one a year of no more than a fortnight and the flat screen will have to do without the full Sky package. We have become addicted to growth, growth of our pay packet, growth of the houses we live in, growth of the car we drive, growth in our persona through the improvement we have come to expect. It is difficult to sell the concept of living within ones means but in my youth the concept of having to save before the purchase was ingrained.  Debt was unacceptable, if you were in debt you kept it to yourself. How we have changed.  Of course the economists insist on growth to power the system, the markets are in thrall of growth, no growth, there is no confidence no confidence and they baulk at investing. The idea of taking the long  view is an anathema to the stock market and we have to realise that without growth in our main trading area, the EU, we have to batten down and ride out the storm !!              

Pathe News

I suppose its in the blood or at least in the psyche, this long run of bad weather doesn't get under my skin as much as it might, although like everyone else I would prefer clear blue sky's.
When I was growing up in Yorkshire, wet weather was the norm. Waiting for the bus, playing football for the school team, cycling, all seemed to have there fair share of rain. We accepted the grey wet days because we were growing up in a bubble. No television, no internet we only knew what our immediate surroundings were like, and we only knew the people in those surroundings, we thought that the wet weather was universal.
Can you imagine how isolated we were. The radio was the only link to the outside world other, than once a week, 

Pathe News shown at the cinema. There was a blessing in all this since ignorance is a form of bliss, one has what one has and one gets on with life. Today we have the world at our fingertips. I see the tensions, I understand the consequences and as the drama unfolds the graphic brutality fills the screen. 
Only a small proportion of the population has not been on a holiday to somewhere where the climate is hot and sunny and even these people have the Californian movie set in their mind when they think of America. So we yearn for the warmth of the sun, the bright street life, the blue ocean rolling in and we moan about our wet streets and the dismal sky.  Yet deep within the memory, our happiest times were spent not moaning but doing, its the doing that we cherish, the energy, of being young and happy. We remember being drowned out in a tent in the Lake District but the memory also has the wry humour of our friends in the situation. We repaired our lot by moving into a barn or under a bandstand in the park where the smell of cooking bacon drove out any black thoughts.
Adversity is a good thing, it defines the individuals boundaries and builds character  -  but it would be nice to see the sun !!!
      

Gouging on the carcass.

I am beginning to wonder whether the Banking crisis wasn't contrived by the elite and powerful to dismantle some of the main planks of the democratic process. Democracy was supposed to allow the poor and the less powerful a say in how the institutions that effect their lives are run.    "The crisis" has allowed the systematic destruction of these cherished institutions, ranging from access to the legal system for all but the wealthy, to access to good healthcare and general welfare for all but the wealthy, to name but two.
The Bankers got off scot free with the taxpayer footing the bill for the gross mismanagement of monies entrusted to them to invest, whilst subsequently, netting the same earnings and bonus, on revenues from a much lower investment base. In other words they make the same income as in the heated times of the unfettered casino.  

Now is the moment that all Conservatives, worth their salt have dreamt about since the Socialists, under Attlee created the Welfare State.

As you probably know the National Health Service (along with many other National Institutions), is being broken up and privatised.
The ethos is,  private companies are more efficient than public companies. This assertion relies on the need for the private company to compete, (on a monetary basis), since this competition will, streamline the activity and it is assumed, make for a more efficient system.
Of course another way of looking at this is, to achieve cost saving,  simply cuts the service to the proverbial bone.
 
One picks up so much information from listening to Parliamentary Committees. How sad you may think, to spend time listening to these investigatory sessions, even if they are dealing with such fundamental elements of our society

The committees, are made up of back bench MPs and therefore, sometimes critical of the Government (even if they belong to the same party since heaven forbid, they might be of independent thought) and get very hot under the collar as they question the Chief Executives. Today's session focused on the NHS.  They have, over time, questioned the CEs of the big Banks, the Generals of the Defence Force and the teachers and teacher-training sectors of the Education establishment.
The general public, more inclined to read the headlines in the Sun or the Mail, get a very potted version of the information relevant to these bodies and are often uninformed. The argument then follows, "we can't do anything about anything anyway so why bother to try to follow the relevant arguments".

So today when I learn that, irrespective of the good work to make the NHS more transparent and to encourage whistle blowers to inform on bad practice, without fear of reprisal, it seems this is all about to go down the tube.
SERCO who now run the health service in Cornwall have already fired employees for whistle blowing and since they are a private company the options for parliament to win back the good practice won in the NHS  is at the stroke of a pen nullified.

With the privatisation of all the public services, the same names continue to crop up. SERCO, CAPITA, G4S, all outsourcing companies,  each seeming to offer an amazingly wide and varied set of skills to run the whole infrastructure of this country.     
Offering and securing the contract these companies are everywhere. With the right management speak they have seen an opportunity to milk money from the public purse.


Having  captured the health contract for Cornwall (this is only the start, since they also control the telephone line for medical assistance which has been shown to employ poorly trained operators to advise patients of what to do when they fall ill). Doctors who doubled their salaries as public servants don't take calls after 5.30.

The "fat cats" are gouging on the carcass of public expenditure and we are helpless to do anything, if we are ignorant of the facts. With the facts maybe we will also have our Spring uprising ?
 

Mangamuka

Up at the end of the track the land rises to a conical shaped hill, not steep but gently sloping, ideal to build. We are only 5 miles out of Mangamuka, 150 miles due north of Auckland. The climate is perfect, warm summers and mild winters with predictable rainfall in September and October. The land, five and a half acres has a stream fed from the hills to the North East and gives a good flow throughout the seasons.
Land is cheap in this neck of the woods and lends its self to the individual who favours peace above all else. Neighbours,  we passed ours 20 minutes ago down the track, are few and far between but can be counted on since there is a bond between people who seek their own security, their own self-sufficiency and never the less acknowledge others with like thinking.
We've chosen a site looking West to catch the early morning sun and the ground has been levelled for the footings to go in. A house built of wood sends out the signal that we are still frontiers people using the natural materials that nature provides, adding only that special ingredient, man's ingenuity and imagination to construct.
The timbers for the uprights have been cut to size and should be here in just over a week when the real build can begin. The sound of hammering the nails and sawing the lengths of  timber will fill the valley but for now there is silence other than the distant sound of the stream falling over rocks on its way to the sea. New Zealand, at least this part of it, is in a time warp having preserved its natural integrity.   No mobile phone mast means, no internet, means real closure on the madness that is going on.
Electricity is produced by having ones own generator but I think the stream might be fast enough to drive a generator for the batteries. We get a reasonable charge from the solar panels and are considering a small wind turbine to catch the breeze that blows from East to West in the morning on most days.
This would be a grand place to bring up kids, plenty of space, working with the livestock, cows, goats and sheep, a pony to explore on, far from the supermarket and the package existence we all used to cherrish. I wonder why we left it so long why we didn't break the chains of conformity the dead hand of insecurity. Human beings have evolved from self contained family units to the package holiday where everything is taken care of and nothing accomplished. See you in MANGAMUKA     

Not really cricket old chap.

It's not really cricket is it, this wafting the bat at each ball hoping for a boundary when a shot on the back foot through the covers for a two here and a three there.
The Indian sub continent is awash with proponents of this new game, the management and the funding of cricket at large is in their hands. It has become the equivalent of a soap opera where the story line has to change day by day and someone has to take a bashing. The skills are totally different. Hitting out, irrespective, would have been an anathma to Len Hutton as he carefully crafted his innings, runs coming according to the bowling. The bowlers could afford to tease out the shot, the slips ready to gobble the edged stroke.
Now-a-days the bowler has to admit that his skill is a lottery. He has  to keep the run rate down by inhibiting the stroke, hoping to force the batsman to step away from the wicket, relying on bat and ball contact, otherwise your stumped. The fielders are restricted by the rules, the captain has to leave himself open to large spaces which attract the lofted shot and ignore the bowlers craft to lure a shot which can be covered by the well placed fielder.

England managed to swot South Africa away the other day by crabbing the batsman with pace and swing. Out, Out, Out.
Only the heroic effort of the tail-end lads left South Africa with anything to bowl at but it was not enough.

Without the chance to repair an innings with another to come, the whole affair was over before it had started, but with a short term attention span, society doesn't have the imagination to become embroiled in a three day event so we are where we are.
Enter the marketing men, to feed us with hype, colour and noise all designed to submerge the game in an outdoor event that isn't cricket !!          

Sad times.

What sad times we live in.
As a statement it lacks the perspective of history. 70 years ago we were in such a mess and our citizens knew it first hand. Rationing, being bombed, the insecurity of being in a world war, all this was far more traumatic than anything we experience today. And yet today we are in a deeper hole having lost confidence in our politicians as we question many decisions made on our behalf.
It all hinges on the information we now receive about much that in the past was hidden. Our "Betters" knew better and we sort of, accepted it.
Today the conflicts unfold all around us, we have instant replay of the best sort, the sort that can not be denied, as thousands of mobile phone cameras provides a front row picture of what is actually happening. How inconvenient that the public can make up their own minds and not have to rely on the prism of a diplomatic despatch. How absolutely inconvenient that whistle blowers have the impertinence to reveal what underhand business our leaders are up to, how our trust in them is misplaced and they have embarked on a massive surveillance of every one of us.
The implicit integrity of the link between the people and their democratically elected "management", people who have been placed to run the country, has been irreparably damaged.
The sight of an authoritative American Government pursuing the whistle blower across the globe, in pursuance of a vindictive crack down on someone who had the audacity to reveal the dirty mechanism of government.

Its not as we would wish, or have been led to believe, a government, of the people, for the people, by the people but rather, it is, as it always was, a government by the elite for the elite, full stop. The image that because of the need for "security" they can do anything, they can rewrite the rule book, if necessary throw it away since they know what is best for us. 
How we need to inform these masters of the universe, that we are the masters and they the servants.                      

Fish and chips in yesterdays news

Flying at 20.000 ft, the Tasman Sea looks choppy but distant. I have left Sydney behind to concentrate on new pastures. Its not been easy to leave such a spectacular place. the Harbour, the emerging Opera House the iconic Bridge the ferry's and yachts the beaches the girlfriends all left behind on the messianic drive to move on. 
Christchurch is the destination on the ticket, that's about it.  A map of the South Island, no visa required, have tent for a home and limited funds to get me through the first week of two.
As the Douglas DC 3, drones on, our faith in the two propellers churning away through the thin air is unquestioned and yet we all know how an engine works, so our faith has a touch of the almighty in it. 
My dress sets me apart somewhat. I look like an early Alpinist with three quarter length corduroy trousers, long white socks and large tough mountain boots stuck uncomfortably under the forward seat. The rucksack, ice axe and coiled rope are safely in the hold but collectively they looked out of keeping as I boarded in Sydney. Hopefully they will more acceptable when I get off in Christchurch.



Standing a little forlorn in the centre of town I wonder where the camp ground is and how to get there. This is 1960s New Zealand and everything is closed, even the bus time table resembles the service out of Ambleside, one an hour and nothing after 7pm. Around the corner bundles an old car, all cars in New Zealand are old. Henry Ford would have thought he was in Detroit at the turn of the century with T Fords converted into the ubiquitous utilities (the back end opened up to provide a place for sack and the dog). 
This car, full of youngsters off to a party slows and stops, care to join us, off course, squeeze in mind the ice axe !!       So started my introduction to New Zealand, beer in hand telling my story they telling theirs, we danced the night away and eventually as the sun came up we turned into the dirt road that led to the farm and a delightful few days living the life of a farmers son. The boys didn't live with the"oldies" in the house, they had bunks in an adjoining building like the bunk house in the Westerns. They ate with their parents but were already introduced to the adult responsibilities of running the farm of which the coming and going at all hours made their sleeping arrangements much more sensible. Before first light they would be up high on the pastures with their dogs mustering the sheep, bringing them down for a dip or, in this case corralling them in preparation for winter 
As the sun came up one looked across the valley, the people still sleeping, to the majestic sight of the Southern Alps rising out of the meadows up to their peak, clothed in snow, gleaming in the early morning sun. The sense of natures proportionality in which we were a tiny part was brought home in the peace and scale of it all.
There was work to be done, those stupid sheep ever flunking the simple route you had planned were rescued, time and again by the dogs who must have quietly shaken their heads with disbelief at our nativity, they understand how stupid sheep can be !! Breakfast after all the  early exercise was magnificent. Huge, succulent lamb chops, eggs as many as you could eat, fit for a King. 
Soon I was off again heading for Queens town as winter drew in, my plan to camp through the season up until Christmas and then move off to Wellington. Funny how circumstances change but the ability to change with them is one of the delights of being on the open road. 

Having frozen my butt off on the frozen ground of the camp site in Queensland, with news papers acting as an insulator from the cold, I resembled fish and chips in yesterdays news. No camp bed, no sown in ground sheet, a canvas tent that leaked like a sieve on the first shower and to crown it all the constant fight with the Possums for my food, drove me to seek shelter in the Hermitage Youth Hostel at the base of Mount Sefton And Mount Cook. It was there that fate took a hand, sitting at the bar was the loveliest of girls who surprisingly responded to my chat line and began a conversation. I must be honest, we were the only people staying at the hostel so maybe it was through boredom on her part but once started we soon became starry eyed and Wellington hove into view, much sooner than anticipated !!!          
,

A cold Castle

Its a lovely clear morning as I walk out onto the balcony (stoop) to look across the roofs opposite. Across the city my eyes resting on the large passenger ship slowly coming in through the harbour entrance. It must be Tuesday, 8am, the Mail Ship on time, like a watch, carrying its precious cargo, letters from home.
The cloud, forming on the mountain behind heralds the Cape Doctor and the skipper, manoeuvring his lovely ship is well aware of the difficulty if he doesn't get alongside soon. Fussily the little tugs nip in and out, a quick push here and there to assist in the docking. The tall cranes (made in Barrow, seen on the quays of any port in the world) already hovering, one with the gangway, others dropping their hooks right into the ships hold to unload passenger baggage. The officials climb on board, the pilot disembarks and the swarthy ranks of dock workers wait patiently for the first discharge of cargo.  Officious little men in white uniform, epaulets gleaming with the importance of the rank, customs officer, regulation comb tucked into the top of the regulation calf length socks, strut the scene, in their position of "top dog".
The passengers begin to disembark, some to sight-see this beautiful city others to head for the Customs Shed to reclaim their baggage from the piles of luggage spread across the floor of the shed. Open your bag sir !! 
The sun is climbing higher and with it the temperature. The wide eyed visitors marvel at the spacious well trimmed avenue leading up to the city streets, as they saunter off into the elite shops such as Stutterford, amazed that in Darkest Africa such a civilised place can exist. The piccanin and the chirpy sound of with the penny whistle, add a delightful contrast but then the visitor has not had time to absorb the deeper conflict within this apparently, "have it all society". 

With the mail arriving its time to walk into town, down from the lower slopes of the mountain through the patchwork quilt of dwellings that adorn this part of town, through the impressive gardens, sprinkled with statues set amongst tall gracious trees and   flanking the equally impressive buildings of Parliament. After the peace of the Garden the noise of the city streets opens out but not without a final lingering smell of freshly watered flowers sold by flower vendors.
Down through the bustle of the city to another oasis, the Post Office a mausoleum to the past with scenes from South Africa's history writ large on the walls. It is a tranquil escape from the noise outside and in those days a reminder of the difference in this society from the one I had left. The queues stretched to the marble counter in lines that were drawn rigorously on racial lines. Whites only, Blacks only and heaven help you if you tried to buck the system.
Poste Restante was the service to collect your mail, a series of pidgin holes to hold the precious letters and as you backed away with your pile (if you were lucky),  you re-entered the bright bustling scene impatient to open your mail. 
Where better than the balcony of the Grand Hotel on Adderly Street,

A cold Castle, a toasted ham sandwich and news from home,

 life was great !!!

     

Perhaps the Lords is as good as it gets ?

Structure is the basis for running most things but structure often relies on a continuance of what has gone on before and therefore is an impediment to new practice.  Structures usually rely on self interest and effect people who have become entrenched  in a practice that might need changing.  

The House of Lords is an anachronism to some, to others a fundamental part of the English (unwritten) constitution. Our history is bound up by monarchy and the land owning class that surrounds them.
They were, in those days, (along with the clergy), one of the most important sectors  regarding education and experience of the structure which held the state together.

Parliament was born and the so called commoner was brought into the equation. Eventually the Commons became the representative of the people and the Lords a debating chamber without the power to pass bills into law.
The importance of "debate" when  power lays  with the executive of a particular party is questionable given the ideological straight jacket that party politics brings. Time is spent talking and talking but the end result and the power sits, not with the debaters but with the Ministers and the Prime Minister.
So does the House of Lords have relevance in our time and is the intellectual and the business experience  that their Lordships bring to any reading of a bill relevant ?
In a Dictatorship or a Kleptocracy the "governed" are excluded from sharing their views but in a democracy the airing of opinion, possibly much in line with ones own is as close to the Greek ideal as we will get.   Switzerland has a system of regular referendum which allows the population to have more control over their politicians but they are pretty unique and by and large the politicians are not likely to relinquish power in the foreseeable future.   So perhaps the Lords is as good as it gets?            

Who knows what tomorrow brings.

We are well into June and summer has yet to arrive. As I look out this morning the sky is Gray with cloud, not the beautiful and distinctive Cumulus Nimbus heralding a storm, or the early morning high, wispy, Cirrus, set in the blue background of high altitude space, the sun rising to inform the day and us, that all is well. 
No, the cloud is low and featureless, covering the land (our bit anyway) in a dismal blanket which, for the claustrophobic can be oppressive. Just think,  above is what we all crave, warm sunshine, the uplift of emotion that light brings.
Its this quality of light that we so miss, light which informs our spirit and encourages us to do things.  

I was Goggling Jo'burg yesterday, reminiscing  the suburbs where I spent so much time.
South African roadside architecture, the houses the gardens the pavements, the general aspect, is quite a hotch potch compared to the suburban sameness over here. Each home owner has done his own thing in one way and another. The upkeep, the missing coat of paint, the wall built to the boundary is a statement very different to say the American, open lawn to the front door. The use of the slatted concrete sections, secured by concrete pillars tells you where you are, its South Africa, my china !! 

The vivid bougainvillea, the idiosyncratic jacaranda all set against a cloudless blue sky, somehow sharpening the colour and heightening the contrast. 
Gray is not an attractive colour and when people absorb too much, its psychological residue, effects their character and dampens the spirit. The sunny streets encouraged the wish to go for a walk, the bright contrasty colours lent the suburbs a depth of focus which the mind enjoys and finds great resonance.

I remember once, with Andrew returning from visiting Angela in school in Cape Town. Those were the days when I would think nothing of a drive to CT over a long weekend. We were passing through the flat open OFS, bowling along at 80mph. Suddenly the temperature dropped the clouds rolled in from nowhere and it got very dark. The sky was black ahead the cloud appearing to reach down to earth. There was a gap to one side, would we make it or were we destined for a hells cauldron, it was so dramatic. I upped the speed and went for the gap. Lightening was striking all around, tremendous bursts of electrical force, the crackle and smell of electricity, the hail, bouncing off the bonnet it all added to this Dantesk scene as we sped, on foot down, a little wild eyed with the occasion. 

There are two schools of thought. One, would deplore the exposure to risk and crave the tranquillity of a settled environment. Each day much the mirror image of the last, sure that tomorrow will be much as today. Confident in the assumption that any change will be safe and controlled, that that is their entitlement !!
 
The second would revel in the conundrum, we know not what tomorrow brings and it is better so !!  

Goodnight Mum

I was watching a film telling the story of Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey the two pre-war dance band leaders. Who the heck are are they some of you will ask, never heard of them !
To a generation before my lot they were famous and epitomised the era of the ultra smooth dance music that had both a high musicality as well as a vocal, lyrical essence to enhance the mood.  Mood was what it was all about.
The Quickstep, the foxtrot, the waltz were the substance, the jive, the bebop, perhaps even the Charleston for those with the energy and the confidence to show off.
Confidence on the dance floor was a substitute for the unattractive grind of the workplace, where young people could dress and perform in the context of the dance, as well if not better, than their superiors. The swing music of the Dorsey brothers was like a touch paper to a firework. The sound of the haunting refrain of Tommies trombone lit the spirit, exciting the hormones  fuelling what is in all of us, an escape from the conformity of our upbringing, to rise above our lack of self belief and make us king for an hour or two.

The clash of egos between the two very talented brothers led to their split, each forming his own band with a distinctive style. The music was real music, complicated musical scores and arrangements often topped by a lyric which embellished the rhythm and mood of the music. The crooners of those days were the heady superstars of today's rock band but they were an integral part of the band and its music.  We the punters were also part of the experience we didn't just listen, we danced. We became part of the performance with skill we danced and provided an exhibition on the dance floor just as important to us as the band on the stage. Our ability to perform the steps and give the steps, life and verve was mirrored by our partner. She was the clincher, she added the weight  the dexterity the gyro which kept the couple in perfect synchronism as we swirled around the floor. But most important, she provided the extra something, the sex appeal, the hormonal drive that makes the world go around. She was a girl you knew from the neighbourhood a couple of streets away, or she was a stranger you had seen across the dance floor and had plucked up courage to ask for the dance. It didn't matter, she was the girl of the moment and you were both caught up in the magic of dance. If that magic now blossomed into something else then the angling for the "last waltz" was all that mattered since it usually meant you "walked" her home after the dance. If you knew her and she lived close to your home all well and good if she was a stranger and a good looker, you would accompany her on her bus to walk the last hundred yards or so to her front door. The kiss the urges flowing both ways was always cooled by the glimpse of the bedroom light, her parents timing the pause between arrival and the sound of the key in the lock. Mary is that you ?
Goodnight and off you went retracing your steps, except now the buses had stopped running and your only option was to walk. You hadn't noticed the drizzling rain when you were with her but now as it began to rain in earnest, the walk was going to be a long one. Eventually turning into you own road,thoroughly drenched but still light hearted, the light in your parents bedroom window hove into view. Is that you John, yes Mum. Did you have a nice night Yes Mum. Goodnight Mum. Goodnight son !!   Happy days !!!!!               

Teaching the Americans a thing or two.

One of the amazing things that we take for granted is that the world as we know it was not always so and the nation states that are now powerful and project an image of their own superiority, were very much late starters in terms of statehood, never mind the ability to organise and run a state. 

The North European influence which quietly smirks at the untidy relationship between a state and its people, such as Greece and to a slightly lesser extent Italy, should read their history. 

The Romans in their conquering journey across Europe met only primitive tribal people in today's France, Germany and Britain.
The Romans Legions came from a society who had developed and prospered in Italy which, in itself, had lent from an even more magnificent society, Greece.
These nation states of Northern Europe were still in a pre-historical period, without the wit to write. They were to the Romans like the primitive tribes found in Papua New Guinea are to us.
The special gift the Roman had was that they grafted their laws and commerce onto the existing tribal constitution and worked with what they found rather than trying to change it. There was therefore a lot of corroboration which allowed the native to  homogenise with the Roman State, to their mutual benefit.

Those Italians could teach the Americans a thing or two about statehood.      

A mindset is a powerful thing.

A "mindset" is a powerful thing.
Our thoughts and our background contribute to the way we think about so many things.

The importance of finding ways to educate our children so that we can tease out the most from a child irrespective of their talent has to be of prime importance.
In the 50 / 60s, the 11 plus exam segregated those who passed and those who failed into Grammar Schools and Secondary Modern Schools. In this way the clever pupil was ensured of a good testing education, developing and preparing the child for University. It worked and our bright kids were the equal of any and our Universities recognised throughout the world. The problem was, what sort of education and what sort of prospects were on offer to the child who passed through there gates of the Secondary Modern School.

In Apartheid South Africa it was openly admitted that Black children were not to be given the opportunity to progress through education because it was Governments ideology to develop a two tier society.

It has to be considered that whilst there is no evidence that there was an ideological mindset to forgo the need to educate the less able child, the actual content of the Secondary Modern School syllabus was far lower than the Grammar School and there was no route out for late developers. If a view had been taken that more resources should have been directed to leaver up the under performing child we would have massively improved the mindset of millions of kids who grew to lack, self esteem and eventually swell the ranks of the unemployable which led many youth into the short cut of crime.
Good teachers and substantial investment in the methods of teaching, would have produced an opportunity to compete with the likes of Germany and the US but our "class orientated mindset" was not far short of that of the Afrikaner.   

An enigma

America is an enigma.
Our common language and a historical connection makes us think we have so much in common, that we our cousins in a family of nations.
If you meet an American on their home soil one is usually captivated by their self confidence and surety of purpose. They don't project the muddled conflict that we seem to have on virtually everything. The self belief and no nonsense approach comes from their catholic belief in being at the head of the table and that their destiny has led them from the isolation of pre second world war to a no holds barred position as world policeman and arbiter of all that is good and just. 
The period of negotiation that went on between Churchill and Roosevelt to convince America to join in was based, in some part on the Americans distrust of the British with their claims to Empire and a history of redrawing the political map. Isolationist, the American need look no further than his front door to see the success of  self contained Federalism working to the common good, based on a written constitution and economically healthy. The European ideal without nationalism.
From the almost messianic faith of Roosevelt, "in the rights of men" to today's unhealthy corruption of those rights when it is deemed in the national interest. The Whistle blowers, Bradley Manning, Edward Snowden, and the nearly forgotten, Julian Assange to the dreadful miss-justice of Guantanamo Bay is a portrait of the corruption that unfettered power brings.

The heavy handed military intervening in parts of the world where fundamentally they have no business other than self interest. The extremes of capitalistic avarice is seen in the boardrooms and, even more fearful, in the Republican Party with its self serving right wing agenda denying a whole swath of the American population descent opportunity. 

England, pre-war, loathed by Roosevelt has become the America of today !!!     

Avoid tokenism

Watching the qualifying for the Canadian Grand Prix one is struck by the invasion of women in all the reporting of sporting events. Football is riddled with female commentators who fill our screens with "crafted" insights on the general event. You will understand the term crafted to mean that they are learnt not from having taken part but from the info that the players and past players bring to the party.   The women who handle the microphone are there for some other reason.
Glamour has to play a part in what the media controllers feed us as part of a healthy diet but when we need to know the technical reasons, or the experience of the game, a man has to be called to give his opinion.
There are no women, (other than the drop dead, gorgeous drivers girl-friend), taking part in the business of driving a GP racing car. The designers the mechanics, the drivers and management are all men. They are an interesting and communicative lot so why do we have women in the mix at all ?
I watched the female Cup Final the other day. It was school-boy stuff and showed the gulf between the men's game and the female equivalent and yet at a media level the girls are to the fore with their pretty faces and long legs speaking a different language.   
Feminism speaks for equality but it should always avoid tokenism.    

No static, no mystery !!

Russia has always been an enigma. 

Through their history and their literature they always seem so extreme compared to other European countries. Of course their European connection represents only part of their landmass and the stark nature of the Slavic character is influenced by the equally extreme nature of the climate, the enormous size and sparse terrain. 
The tundra represents, in our mind, an inhospitable environment into which the gulag expressed, in its worst form, the terrible mindset of the communists when dealing with dissidents. 

I was listening to old recordings describing the launch of the first women astronaut, Valentina Tereshkova in 1963. 
With marshal music, and dogged no nonsense delivery, the accented voice, the crackly static background, all which emphasised our distance from Russia  far from our relatively cosy island existence. 

In some ways we are cheated, these days from feeling this "foreign" effect. 

All the broadcasts are carried over the internet and could be broadcast next door !!
If you watch the broadcasts from RT, the Russian overseas service or Aljazeera the Middle Eastern service, they are indistinguishable (apart from the ideological content) from CNN, SKY or the BBC. 

Youthful presenters and studio sets resemble each other, one could be anywhere and sadly no a static to create the mystery !!                

Anita O'Day

One of the pleasures, (apart from the weather), of living over here is the rich archive of programs that BBC 4 supply.
Yesterday I watched a piece on Anita O'Day the legendary jazz singer.
She rates right at the top with Ella Fitzgerald and Billy Holiday with a supreme control of rhythmic counter-play to the other instruments in the band. She pitched her voice, trippling up and down the scales, glissading like a slalom skier going to the edge and then at the last moment, changing direction to regain the backing group. When she sang with Oscar Peterson, who plays at a phenomenally fast tempo, O'Day matched the speed and virtuosity with her voice, they were like ice skaters duelling in perfect harmony (if that's not an oxymoron) and then returning to the musical theme.  
Black musicians like Ella have always prided themselves with a special insight into the songs they sing with that extra feeling, the pathos which, it is suggested the white musicians don't instinctively have. Anita O'Day, who is white, is right up there with them. Her voice, often projected from the back of her throat, as she throws the sound around in her vocal joust with the other musicians.
She sang for years with Stan Kenton, Duke Ellington and Gene Krupa, a period of magnificent big band jazz that, in my youth I was lucky to hear and see as the UK took advantage of the music unions lifting the ban on American musicians coming to England. We sat and marvelled at these greats performing in concert halls up and down the country. The Modern Jazz Quartet, Oscar Peterson and Ella, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk and so many more. We were mesmerised by the sound, the infectious spontaneity and creativity.The BBC 4 program brought it all back as they interlinked with each other tossing the shuttle back and forward between the vocalist the sax the trumpet, piano and drums.
Listen to O'Day, by using the superb catalogue of music that companies like Spotify provide, it makes the need for your own CD pretty superfluous.    

Etiquette.

Etiquette is the name of the game. 

The definition, "a code of behaviour that delineates expectations for social behaviour according to contemporary, conventional norms within a society or social class".
Years ago the English were at the top of the game. Noel Coward epitomised the sense of manners, the dance between correctness versus bawdry behaviour.
The Victorians/Edwardians set the bar, which transferred across the world, through Empire and the "drawing rooms" where one was judged by the way you held your knife and fork. We seem to have drifted far from those norms, with the democratised world we now live in, the modern Brit leads in a very different way these days.

His/her antics, in, or out of the pub every weekend and particularly on holiday is a sight to be missed and I'm sure, causes great embarrassment to most of us.
This laddish display is seen in the actions of people like Bradley Wiggins (cycling),  Carl Crutchlow (motor bike racing) and a whole range of footballers who throughout the season can be seen to ignore all but the basest behaviour.
I suppose when Prince Harry strips off in party mode what can we expect.

Our continental cousins from Europe, the politically correct Americans, the impassive Asians all seem to display "self control", at least when projected in front of camera.

Is it a case of people over here, having been pummelled with an individualistic, win at all costs and to hell with my neighbour approach, have lost sight of good manners, which perhaps a deference to a strong family bond can bring, especially the respect of a nations  tradition.

I suppose we haven't yet taken to biting like South American, Luis Suarez !!!

Chill !!

I'm an optimist. Today I took the covers off the caravan as a prelude to camping. We have just had, or are having the worst summer in 50 years and the overcast sky seems to provide no let up in sight. The weather certainly dampens the spirits and whilst I would philosophise that not having to go out to work means that I stay dry and warm, the four walls become claustrophobic after a while.
Once you have made up your mind to hitch the caravan onto the trailer and to hell with the weather half the job is done. Where to go, and for how long can be a stumbling block but try spinning the route finder (the sat nav') and let it take responsibility for where to go. At the next turning turn right !!

You never know where you will end up but as you connect up to the electrics and put the kettle on on the first night you sleep the sleep of angels, the sounds of the countryside, the fresh air and the tranquillity lead to a deep refreshing rest.
The morning smell of bacon and eggs and a mug of sweet tea is enough to fuel the anticipation that new surroundings brings.
Keep it simple Where is the nearest pub so the evening can be enhanced with local banter. Take the camera and see what tickles your fancy but don't plan too much let it all unfurl, open yourself to opportunity and the chance encounter. Pop into the butcher and buy a nice piece of steak for a barbecue and a half jack of rum to go with the coke. Turn the portable to your favourite music program and chill.