Hipsters and trolleys

When I was a kid, my mum had a 'shopper on wheels' - a fabric-covered bag with wire support that was mounted on a hand-wheeled trolley. I was surprised to see they're back again - a 'must-have' accessory for the hipster market. On leaving King's Cross the other day, I turned right up Euston Road only to find my way blocked by a herd of hipsters, already slow moving due to the overly tight trousers - a quick spurt of speed risks emasculation - but now further encumbered by the latest cool piece of impedimenta, a re-invented shopper on wheels for the 21st century! Hipsters fascinate me. It seems their sense of credulity increases with the length of facial hair. Out goes commons sense (and a sense of humour: remember the Channel 4 cereal cafe interview? And in comes, well, anything... I think I'll try an experiment next time I'm in London. Stick on the largest theatrical WC Grace lookalike beard I can find, wear the tightest strides I can manage and galumph around on the Euston Road in a pair of clown shoes. What's the betting I'd soon be joined by a herd of hipsters strapping oversized shoes on to their feet in the rush to join the latest trend?

Diane and Diana – the hunt for permanence

Diana the Huntress scatters stars around her feet. Her career’s on the up now she’s taken on moon-related matters from Luna, who’s out on the street. Diane in the phone shop has stars on her feet. Seven blue-outlined planets run a linear course down the top of her right foot. Being a goddess adds permanence to memory; but being in the shop is only transitory. Ink beneath the dermis is all the permanence there is to the lives of we mortals, as we know when we pass the tattooists imposing portals. Diana, on entering the shop with a view to improving communications, notices the name-badge and the stars. At a computer that she makes spare with a wave of her arm, she outlines her needs to Diane. Four gig’s enough for her purposes. A deities commands are short, and she sees no need to talk to mortals when she’s on the chase – though Skype might be useful if she wants to apparate in virtual reality, just to bring a point home, so to speak. Diane is impressed by her near-namesake’s grasp of technology. But the credit check proves a problem. ‘Who’s Artemis?’ she asks, when the fog clears on the screen. ‘Dunno’ replies Diana: ‘it’s all Greek to me’ ‘But she seems to be you’, Diane replies, ‘nice temple, though – but there’s some sort of mammarial profusion going on with the graven imagery’. ‘Don’t worry about that’ the goddess replies: ‘the mortals get carried away with statuary. For us, it’s about power and glory, just give me the handset and port my number; I’m away to an orgy in Bessarabia tonight, and I want to make sure the band don’t get lost, or they’ll be hell to pay with the satyrs’ ‘Take me with you’ pleads Diane, ‘I’ve had it with credit checks and commission, the endless updates and new releases. Dealing with needy nerds and smartphone junkies is doing my head in. You must need a handmade or someone to brush your hounds? I want to bath in moonlight and cavort with nymphs. Please say you will!’ ‘Alright, but the job specification can be a bit confusing, with hunting, moon management and animal welfare, I suppose you could say it's a "circle of life" kind of thing - I hear you've got a song about it down here'. 'We have' Diane replied, 'but I couldn't afford the ticket to see the show'. 'Don't worry' said the deity, 'there's no charge to see my performance, it's written across the starry firmament. But remember, about the other staff, the nymphs can get uppity, and the satyrs throw tantrums at the slightest thing. You’ll need to watch your Ps and Qs, but as long as you’re OK with the incense and not too prudish about the stuff in the arena, I think you’ll fit in just fine. Hold on to my robe, and we’ll be away in a starry cloud of glory’. And with a rushing of wind and a temporary dimming of the earthly light, Diane and Diana swept from the store, leaving Russ – the manager – wondering how he was going to report this to head office. The seven stars on Diane’s feet peeled away to join the rest of Diana’s celestial train as it sped across the heavens. She had no need for inked permanence now that she’s joined the goddess’s personal retinue.

Oh, what a Chief Executive!

Fans of Americanisation (no zee, please note) look away now. A couple of years ago, business bosses started adding 'officer' to titles, sometimes accompanied by 'chief' to keep it company. For example, a Chief Executive became a Chief Executive Officer, or merely a 'CEO'. The boring number-cruncher became a 'Chief Financial Officer', as opposed to the more traditional Accountant or Financial Director. And we've not reached a point where even academies have CEO's (some of whom 'earn more than the Prime Minister' - the new all-purpose measure of wealth, rather like 'the size of Wales' is used for geographic area). As with Oreos (which are, after all, merely expensive proof that Americans have finally learned how to dunk biscuits), Disney Land, Coca Cola (and Pepsi), mucky Donalds (I'm seriously not loving it), the Munroe doctrine and pre-emptive self-defence (no 's'), what starts out as an anodyne impulse on the other side of the Atlantic becomes an insidious creeping 'must have' that the rest of the world accepts blindly without thinking of the consequences (unnaturally bright dental work, obesity and devastating military interventions). The US, being the largest Superpower, but a relatively young nation still at heart, likes to see itself as the originator of new descriptions for things the rest of the world has taken for granted for years (a kind of over-bearing master of the bleeding obvious, with a sickly sweet grin and pom-poms). Then, as with the crowd who fell for the Emperor's New Clothes routine, previously sane and rational people rush to ape the new as it spreads like a wind-borne spore from its American heartland. But Americans are not immune to the dangers of this; there is a growing tendency, as evidenced by a growing rejection of 'pushing the envelope', 'thinking outside the box' in CVs to turn against their last best idea (remember 'have a nice day y'all'?). However, this can often come with a sense of incredulity at the strength of the backlash, a time slip in cognitive dissonance, whereby the previous common place is violently overthrown, sometimes accompanied by a public recanting of surprising vehemence, like a teenager throwing out last month's superband poster. Here's hoping they learn to ditch the utterly superfluous 'officer' soon. I can take the public recanting of the otiose or facile - if we must have Chief Execs (though I haven't a clue what they do, aside from pocketing salaries many times removed from the amounts doled out to those who actually do the work) let's keep their titles within the realms of the strictly necessary: British understatement takes back the boardroom and the annual report and accounting statements.

Ted Heath failed grandma's marmalade test

Historical allegations of wrongdoing aside, Ted Heath always struck me as rather an oddity when I was growing up. For a start, he was a Tory. Second, he did that weird heaving shoulders thing when he laughed. Third, he wouldn't let us have any money for a new school - our's had outside boys' toilets. Fourth, he was a Tory (already done that, but they weren't popular round our way, so it goes down twice. Fifth, and most serious, he annoyed by grandma. Having fallen foul of the decimalisation deadline for half-crowns, which meant that she was left with a bag of very heavy metal cribbage counters, she was naturally cautious about the change to decimal currency. As it turned out, her fears were well-founded. Every Friday, she carried out a weekly shop at the local mini-supermarket Buywise. For reasons known only to her, the main focus of concern was the price of marmalade. Pre-decimalisation, the price had been 9d a jar. The conversion table we were supplied with, courtesy of Mr Heath's Government, which foisted the change on a largely unwilling population, showed that this would be 3.75 new pence, rounded up to 4 new pence. But the shop added a gravity defying 1 pence to the price in the weeks immediately following the change, taking the price of a jar to the equivalent of a shilling - 5 new pence. And this, we were told, ran completely contrary to Mr Heath's promise that consumers would not be out of pocket by the change. Marmalade, unlike the Prime Minister, didn't like. And if anymore proof was required, we only had to think back to his election slogan, in which he solemnly promised to 'cut prices at a stroke' if elected. He was, and they weren't, carrying on instead an inexorable rise that led to a failed prices and incomes policy, strikes, power blackouts and a three-day week. Sadly, Heath wasn't the first, or last, politician to make unsustainable promises that we were expected to believe just because they spoke with a plummy voice. Music and yachting might have lifted Heath above the run-of-the-mill hectoring politician, but his string of broken promises, as evidenced by the incontrovertible evidence of the marmalade test, were enough to damn him in our eyes before he lost the '74 election and the eventual leadership of his party to the over-wheening ambition of his former Education Secretary, Margaret Hilda Thatcher. And she couldn't have cared less about how much we were expected to pay for preserves.

Hammond - another grotesque in a cabinet of nasties

Last week we had 'floods' and 'swarms', now Hammond opts for marauding. When will the Tories stop pandering to the ravings of Murdoch, Desmond, Dacre  et al and show real political leadership? And that means cease the scapegoating and threats of inhumane  treatment, rather acknowledge that the West caused much of the unrest that has led to the refugee crisis and start to alleviate the suffering. http://gu.com/p/4bdx5?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Blogger

Simon Armitage Walking Away from a hernia

I really enjoy Simon Armitage's prose works - especially All Points North, Gig and Walking Home. In this latter work, he tackles the Pennine Way, but walks from north to south, so that he will arrive at his home in Marsden, West Yorkshire. The route is a dream achievement to many walkers; most, like me, probably won't even attempt more than a few sections, so Armitage's valiant walk, accompanied by his wandering troubadour act of nightly performances, is a saga of suitably epic proportions. Now, he's back, but this time in Walking Away, as serialised, and ready by the man himself on Radio 4's book of the week, he walks the northern part of the South West Coast Path and then leaves the mainland to carry out as wandering troubadour in the Scillies. Unlike the Pennine Way, I have walked several sections of the SWCP, most recently just over a week ago in south Devon's glorious South Hams, and can well picture the route as it winds is way up and down steep combes, where maximum effort is expended for often just a few short miles as the gull flies. But there's one thing that jarred with me, and that is where Simon mentions that strength of effort was enough to give him a hiatus hernia. Sorry, Simon, but I think you've confused with with a common-or-garden rupture (beloved of music hall acts, who could then go on to cause hilarity by using the word 'truss'). Strenuous effort won't give you a hiatus hernia, but your parents probably could. This is generally regarded as an hereditary condition (I got mine from my dad's side: thanks folks!) and the leakage of stomach acid through a tear in the oesophageal lining has given me years of acid reflux, now managed by a proton pump inhibitor (a drug, not something you fit on your bike), which reduces the amount of acid produced by the stomach, thereby reducing the painful symptoms - but it's still best to avoid pastry (for a northerner this means not eating pies...). My granddad had both (how lucky can one guy get?): a hernia due to a fall down some steep cellar steps while carrying a shop window shutter as a 14-year-old barber's apprentice, and a hiatus courtesy of his genes.

Hernia confusion aside, I really enjoyed Walking Away - a great description of a wonderful walk and the adventures of a northern troubadour amongst those rolling - if sometimes vertiginous southern hills.

Ofsted ignore my outstanding features

Just been informed that my application to carry out freelance work for Ofsted didn't come up to snuff. Apparently, they received a lot of applicants, which they ranked according to their published criteria.
All guff, so far, as per usual. The application process struck me as rather superficial at the time, based as it was on a short Survey Monkey questionnaire. The questions were not those you'd generally use to assess editorial competency or experience. For example, while they wanted to know how many days per week I was available, no-where was I asked for a list of recent titles or names of my referees. And the curt series of questions didn't allow me to establish that I have over 35 years' experience.
Still, 'rational thought' and 'Ofsted' aren't often seen together in the same sentence. Being awarded the bum's rush on this occasion does not, according to my informant, preclude me from applying again in future. But if Ofsted persists in using something as shallow as Survey Monkey, which is designed more for cheap and cheerful, self-generated opinion polls (the folks in my wife's office use it to decide where to go for lunch), I might just save time and effort and preclude myself.

A short discourse on the passing of time

Spent Saturday evening at a surprise party. Usually, I view these things with a mix of disdain and trepidation; after all, shouting 'surprise' at someone on or near to a birthday or other life event can be a shock to the system that could elicit a true, or perhaps less than guarded response that neither the recipient or those doing the surprising bargained for. But Saturday was different. Different because I hadn't seen the recipient (can't think of a better description - victim doesn't seem right, and birthday girl wouldn't ring true at our age). We'd been at school together and also been members, later leaders, in a youth organisation, but I hadn't seen her for over 30 years. My decision to attend was based on an open invitation from the recipient's daughter, who explained that her mum was suffering from a long-term illness and had experienced a bad time over the past year, culminating in a move to sheltered accommodation and mobility problems that had robbed her of her independence. I admit to some concern that she might not remember me, or fail to appreciate the 'surprise', also that I might not know too many of the fellow guests, but my resolve to go was strengthened by the sight of a number of Facebook messages, announcing that people were on holiday or otherwise unavailable on the night. So it was that I shouted 'surprise' on cue, and followed up with a communal rendition of Happy Birthday (remembering all the while that I'd also been present at her 15th birthday party). Then we got to talk, and I discovered something of the course her life had taken, from work to motherhood, caring for parents and her working life. There were also family and former work colleagues who spoke highly of their valued friendships - and concern for her future, with admiration for the way she had coped, or dealt, with her illness. This is life-threatening and also makes her prone to lose balance and has affected her speech, but her acceptance of all these indignities and the eventual outcome had an almost serene quality, which meant she could talk very much without rancour at the way her life had turned out. The party-organising daughter and MC for the evening was, by turns, nervous then elated at the way the evening had gone, while I mused on the nature of my connection to the recipient, and my own sense of shame at the length of time that had elapsed since I last saw her. During the earlier part of the evening, I fell into conversation with the party-organiser's partner's father. He explained that he and his wife had been put in charge of the catering, but that this had been complicated because they lived so far away. It turned out they lived in Sedbergh, which he was pleasantly surprised to discover I knew the location of, and we discussed the town's past fame for producing grandfather clocks and bicycles. The sound of time being measured in such measured and solid tones down all the years stood as a mental accompaniment to the evening's conversations and reminiscences.
On the following day, my friend's daughter emailed to say that her mum was still completely bowled over that people had remembered her after so many years, which set me to thinking that her contribution to the lives of so many people, and the obvious affection in which she was held, that recognition was long overdue.
Friendship is precious, and grows in importance with passing years, but losing touch can make the eventual reunion seem rather bitter sweet. There is great strength in tried and trusted friendship, as Shakespeare put it in Hamlet:

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.

Taunton Deane 3; Totnes 0 - Totnes wins

Costa outlets, that is. While the Devon town famously rejected moves to open a Costa, just up the road, Taunton Deane services has all three permutations - full-blown cafe, outdoor kiosk and WH Smith instore 'express' concession (same beans, same milk...) And the keyword there is 'same', because Costa (and other coffee chains are available, eg Starbucks, Cafe Republic, Caffe Nero - ad nauseum, ad infinitum) specialises in the 'same' coffee/biscuit/cake/pannini etc being sold in all its outlets. Sameness also extends to the faux 'comforting' decor - the mismatched chairs and tables and well-work sofas are anything but thrown together - all is planned to the nth degree. This is a coffee experience designed by beancounters, not bean roasters or grinders, to deliver optimum price per unit sales to a pre-determined and oh-so-well managed profit margin. And then there's Totnes. I called in last Friday after a long journey down to the South Hams. It was a wet and windy day and Totnes provided welcome relief from the M6/M5/A38 trek south. The four of us stumbled into the welcome, if slightly steamy, warmth of the Old Bakery, where everything is anything but samey homogenous pap. Did I want clotted cream on my freshly baked strudel (emphatically 'no'); did I want hot milk with my no-frills filter coffee (absolutely). Menu options changed in the blink of an eye and delivered with Devon charm. In Sunset Grill, Don Henley sings about his favourite, long-time family-run restaurant on LA's Sunset Boulevard and its continued survival amongst corporate-owned America - the message being that corporate-chain consumerism creates victims ('basket people' and 'working girls') but the Totneses of this world somehow still survive and thrive by rejecting 'sameness' and by being places where care is real and lovingly provided, not doled out to some pre-calculated, turnover-enhancing, eye-always-on-the-bottom-line measure. They sell secondhand books and the work of local artists at the Old Bakery. Bet they'd even play Sunset Grill for me if you asked them.

Rather a coincidence, Mr Dimbleby

We walked over the hill from our rented holiday cottage in Hallsands to Beesands and decided that tea and chips would be the best refreshment to be had from the Britannia @ the Beach. Talked turned to favourite dogs, as it sometimes does, and I said I'd recently seen a repeat of David Dimbleby's sailing. documentary, in which he introduced his skipper's wired-haired fox terrier, Stanley. Jane said that was a great name for a terrier before our attention turned to a red-sailed yacht passing close to the shore. I took out my binoculars and Jane focused them on the boat, only to exclaim that is was Dimbleby aboard his beloved yacht Rocket - and that Stanley was there in the boat with him! We raised a salutory chip to the great orator, his crew. but most of all to the venerable sea dog.

Devon country lanes

The drive from Totnes to our self-catering cottage on a farm at Hallsands in Friday's downpour was interesting, to say the least. The satnav took us down ever narrowing lanes, with ever-increasing amounts of standing water one the road surface. Looming hedges took out much of the light already depleted by the grey storm clouds that lowered from the narrow slit of observable sky.
My wife, who hasn't been to the - usually glorious - South Hams before, admitted to feelings of claustrophobia before we swung down hill to the farm and the dry  welcome of home for the next week.
Woke today to clear blue skies and a light breeze. Now I can show them the beauty of south Devon combes and clear sandy beaches that I've loved since my late teens.

Controlling Conservatives

The present crop of Tory leaders seem to have turned their collective back on their party's traditional reliance on the idea of individual liberty. This is particularly the case with their apparent growing willingness to tell the media, and country at large, what language they don't want to be used. First off, we had IDS and his acolytes bashing the Beeb over the bedroom tax, on the spurious grounds that he and Cameron preferred 'spare room subsidy'. Post Tory general election win, the rot has spread, with Gove telling his Ministry of Justice civil servants how to write (as a former journalist himself, he should know better...). Then we had Cameron lecturing the media about his dislike of the IS tag, on the grounds that the group is neither 'Islamic' nor a 'state'. As with the bedroom tax name debacle, the BBC (Charter renewal in the offing) cravenly capitulated to this bollocks. And now, suitably emboldened, IDS is back with his stated intention of changing the definition of 'child poverty' because he doesn't like the way it is covered in news reports and social media. This thought/news controlling tendency, which you'd have thought Tories would have run a mile from, due to its Soviet-style origins (and Orwellian overtones) also manifests itself in the ridiculous way some Tory politicians try to dispose of an argument by stating blithely that they 'don't recognise' some fact or set of statistics contrary to their own world-view (good examples of this dark art of thought-spin tend to fall most readily from the lips of Theresa May, when asked to comment on an opposing view). The supposed party of liberty has turned into a modern-manifestation of the stupid party, but mainstream media is dangerously accepting, when it should be ridiculing from the rooftops - it's the only way to drag Cameron and his cabinet of blinkered fantasist neo-cons back to anything that remotely resembles reality.

D-Day, 71 years on. A school party's tribute

Youngest son returned home from six-day school trip to Normandy in the wee small hours. He'd been very impressed with the solemnity of the British, American and - perhaps most movingly of all - by the German cemeteries they'd visited. In the British cemetery, his group had discovered a section set aside for the dead of other allied nations, and of one Polish soldier's grave in particular. It's good to know that, having given his life for the freedom of Europe, Pte Ernest Minge, found a special place in the affections of a group of 13-year olds...

Teenage confusion: when 'in' means 'on'

A commonplace, but nonetheless annoying phenomenon, concerns my two teenaged sons and the dishwasher. When the amount of used crockery left lying around in their bedrooms starts to exceed the stock of clean dishes and plates in the kitchen cupboards, we issue a parental order for the mucky stuff to be taken downstairs and placed 'in' the dishwasher. But this apparently simple instruction is nearly always mistranslated in their computer game and streamed music addled brains, so that 'in' becomes 'on top'.
A small problem to the passing reader, perhaps, but one that is seriously starting to affect my already feeble grasp on sanity.

That's entertainment?

Come in from the garden to find youngest son riveted to youtube video of three potty-mouthed adolescents playing Grand Theft Auto and giggling over their expletive-ridden in game commentary. And he thinks I'm boring.

Give blood

Just back from failed first attempt at blood donation. Medical problem needs checking with GP before the red stuff can flow free. Was asked if I'd ever had unprotected oral or anal sex with another male. Question came as a bit of a surprise, because I thought they only offered tea and biscuits afterwards...

A fiver to park - a great day out

Burnsall in Wharfedale is one of the Yorkshire Dale's most picturesque villages, and home to a tradition much-beloved of Yorkshire folk - especially those from West and South Yorkshire who like to explore the rural beauty of the Dales as a way of recharging urban care-worn batteries. There's a field by the river at the side of the historic bridge where generations of families have parked their cars before getting down to the serious business of cricket, football, picnicking, barbequing or mucking about in the river. We had a glorious day there yesterday and stayed much later than everyone else - so late, in fact, that even the ducks were returning home as we left. Best fiver I've spent in ages.

A voluntary invitation, but it'll cost you...

Youngest son has had a very good year at school. Or rather, he's been so good at school that he's been invited to spend the day trampolining. In fact, quite a lot of his year have been good enough to qualify for the bouncing extravaganza. It turns out that all but the most serial of recidivists (ie those who have accrued more than three after school detentions) have been invited to momentarily defy gravity. Parents and carers have also received an invitation - but in our case, it's to make a 'voluntary' contribution to the cost of the revels. You see, while the school isn't making a formal charge, the event simply can't go ahead if enough of us - preferably all of us really - don't cough up a voluntary tenner; but who could refuse - when our offspring have been so good? The letter home also mentions that we should also give them some money for food if we're not sending sandwiches, along with a small additional sum to allow for the purchase of friperies or mementoes of the day. Of course, even the most curmudgeonly parent would be hard pressed to begrudge the invitation to make the 'voluntary' payment, even though, on close reading of the letter, that word has been given the clear imputation that it actually means completely the opposite to that found in everyday usage: no money, no bouncing. Can't help but wonder what's planned for those left behind in the naughty corner: oakum picking or mail bag stitching, perhaps? Not that I'm advocating a return to Victorian punishment in our schools; that can safely be left to Nicky Morgan, our perpetually surprised Secretary of State for Education - although she could possibly consider an encyclical to all heads pointing out the real meaning of 'voluntary' and 'compulsory' in communications to parents and carers, if she can tear herself away from making a complete dogs breakfast of the exam system, that is.

Diabetes and Doughnuts

Called into our local Tesco this morning (Saturday and Supermarkets - what's not to like?). In the foyer a small group of volunteer or press-ganged employees were clustered round a stall raising money for Tesco's charity of the year: Diabetes UK. On turning into the store, what struck me was the stall was directly facing the Krispy Kreme doughnut stand - which from its highly visible logo display and dominating position must be a paid-for concession. The incongruity of this struck me straight away - how can Tesco 'adopt' a Diabetes charity when they take Krispy Kreme's cash to ensure prime position? And how come Diabetes UK don't kick off about this (or vice versa), given the health risks so clearly associated with the consumption of excess sugar and saturated fats? On raising this via Twitter with Tesco, I was told that my concern had been noted, then that the store's deputy manager had replied that the charity stall had to be in the foyer, and finally that to 'log my concern' they wanted me to DM my name and address. I refused, after all, if Tesco customer services can't work out the health risks for themselves, how would the addition of my name and address to their database of troublesome customers allow them to take the matter any further? Finally, another Tweet revealed that Tesco are now following me on Twitter...

Naming the Pollock

When they named the Pollock
Did they have a strange wish
To perhaps malign the poor fish
Or maybe just drop a bollock?

An app to record war crimes

Need to declare a tiny bit of an interest here, as I do some work for one of the following, but it's in tax, family and weights and measures law, so I've no direct link to a little bit of tech wizardry that might just bring war criminals to justice. LexisNexis and the International Bar Association have joined forces to fund and develop EyeWitness, a smartphone app that allows witnesses to record atrocities. The recordings are masked from the prying eyes of state agents of nasties with guns who might see the phone user filming them, and stamped with authentication meta data that should allow for the recording to be adduced as evidence in court. It's not every Monday morning that the world of legal publishing feels this good to work in...

Raymond and the Roman cavemen

In a move that was probably seen as really progressive at the time, my 1960s county primary school (we didn't have much truck with academies back then), boasted a Partially Sighted Unit, commonly referred to as 'PS' - where a small group of partially sighted children, aged between 5 and 11, were educated in glorious isolation from the rest of us. There were, however, a few exceptions to this rather patronising situation, and one came to join our Year 1 class of 7 year-olds, in the form of Raymond, who was permitted to join us for History lessons with Mrs Wonce a fortnight. A rather shy boy, Raymond had the look of a rather startled owl when we looked at him because of the thickness of the lenses in his glasses. Mrs W, who bore a more than passing resemblance to Frankie Howerd in drag, made Raymond sit at the table I shared with three or four others, and we did our best not to stare and generally to make as welcome as a group of 7 year-olds could (which in general terms wasn't very much and probably didn't do much to make him feel anything other than a strange addition, plucked from his comfort zone to join a mainstream class). We quickly learned that Raymond (never Ray...) was very keen on history as a subject, but that his fortnightly appearances could be very unsettling. Back in the early 70s, the history curriculum was highly selective and started with the Stone, Bronze and Iron Ages before taking in the Romans, Saxons and Normans - but if you only came to every other lesson, your appreciation of the majestic sweep of history could soon become disjointed. Raymond was doing fine until we got to the Stone Age and joined in with the depictions of cave dwellers and their animal drawings we were expected to produce in picture form and then label, but then for reasons I can't quite remember, he missed the next two lessons and rejoined us for the thrilling account of the arrival of the Romans. This caused a change in Raymond that was as startling as near miraculous. He wanted to know how we'd got from troglodytes to Legionnaires and from cave painting to Caesar hunting down Boadicea's Iceni. We hadn't much of a clue either, but under his earnest questioning and magnified gaze the only possible option was to make it up. Mrs W wasn't that much help - probably away with another table trying to titter ye not at their artistic interpretations, and - this in the age when talking wasn't allowed in class (as opposed to today, where discussion isn't so much encouraged as compulsory), so that our gap filling commentary was also conducted in whispers, with a few pointed references to pages in the text book. Chronology isn't a strong point at that age, and I can dimly remember Paul B introducing a dinosaur or two into the equation. I don't know how much Raymond managed to assimilate, and I've often wondered since how he ever managed to fill in the gaps between the making of flint tools and straight Roman roads and funny names for places, such as Olicana for Ilkley or Eboracum for York (which seemed to be about the only things the Romans ever did for us that we could glean from Mrs W and our Schofield and Sims junior history textooks). I just hope that we didn't bring to a very premature end the promising career of one of Britain's premier partially-sighted historians.

Hebden Bridge Handmade Parade 2015

Standing on the corner of St George's St, watching the parade go by. That was just so Hebden Bridge!

A passionate new job opportunity

Noticed a promising new job advertised online, a transport company wanted a training consultant. But decided not to bother when I read the HR spiel. Apparently, they want someone who's 'passionate' about putting stuff in lorries to teach others how to do it 'passionately' too. Where do HR/recruitment wonks learn to spout such utter bollocks?

Flamborough lighthouse in a sea of yellow rape

Walked along clifftop path from Flamborough Head under a near cloudless sky. Took this photograph on the return leg.

Tomorrow you die, Andrew Coogan's autobiography

Have to declare an oblique interest in this title because it was written by a friend's grandfather.
Coogan's account details his childhood in Glasgow's Gorbals in the 20s and 30s, through to his athletic success with the Maryhill Harriers, to his call up for service in World War II in the Lanarkshire Yeomanry. This territorial cavalry unit was in the process of being subsumed into the artillery, and Coogan's battery - woefully I'll equipped - were shipped out to Singapore to face the full fury of the Japanese onslaught as it tore through Malaysia and Thailand to take the supposedly impregnable British fortress at the foot of the Malay peninsula.
From facing the horror of a banzai attack and a forced retreat to Singapore, to the brutality of imprisonment in the infamous Changi Jail Coogan presents an unflinching account of the sadism of his Japanese captors. The title is taken from a threat made to Coogan by a Japanese officer in response to a refusal to obey an instruction to stop digging a deep grave for a dead fellow POW (Coogan wanted to dig deeper than the permitted 18 inches to protect his friend's remains from scavenging animals). From Changi, Coogan and a small band of surviving comrades from the Lanarkshire Yeomanry, augmented by a changing group of British, Australian and Dutch POWs, are taken first to work as slave labour in a Formosan copper mine, then to a coal mine near Nagasaki. Enduring starvation, sea and rail transport in appalling conditions, and the casual violence of guards indoctrinated to believe that surrender made their charges completely worthless, Coogan never loses his belief in the innate goodness of humanity. While he encounters brutal treatment from some of his captors (two of whom he went on to present testimony against to the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal) he is eventually befriended by a guard who shares his love of running and, along with a Roman Catholic chaplain, manages to ensure the survival of a number of his comrades by stealing food from a variety of ingenious, and occasionally stomach-churning sources.
The book also highlights the futility and banality of war. He is scathing of the failures of those in authority, from Churchill's refusal to make proper provision for the defence of Singapore, to the senior officers and wealthy expatriate community who singularly failed to appreciate the danger posed by the advancing Japanese. A final indignity is recalled by the derisory £75 Coogan received as back pay on his return to Scotland. The payment, he recounts, was itself subject to a deduction for food and accommodation, giving rise to his observation that he was docked pay for the pleasure of being starved!
This searingly honest narrative pulls no punches but ends by bearing no hatred. In some ways it complements the Railway Man with its account of Eric Lomax's search for release from the brutalisation of such horrifying captivity in that this is an account of survival against the odds, but one that is suffused with a love for humanity. It deserves to be read by a wide audience. I hope also that it comes to stand as a testament to a passing generation that lived through World War II and stands as a counterbalance to the often cloying sentiment and sensationalised accounts served up on film and TV.

An evening of poetry with Mike Harding

Went to see Mike Harding yesterday evening at the Square Chapel in Halifax. I've been to several of his shows over the years, in fact, he was the first comedian I ever saw live. As a 15 year-old, I blagged a ticket from my mate, John Hodgson, who was too scared to ask a girl from the year above to go with him to Leeds Town Hall to see the Rochdale Cowboy tour in 19776. All week he'd been trying to pluck up courage, but his nerve still failed him by Friday, and with two tickets to that evening's performance, he asked me it I wanted to go. John had been busily supplanting Harding as the teenage mimic's monologue of choice instead of the then ubiquitous Monty Python for a while beforehand. It was a tall order, but 'hulla, hulla, hulla' and 'dip your bread in' had made some inroads into the all powerful 'shut your festing gob, you tit' and 'shut the bleeding door, mother' so I was mentally prepared for the big night out. Harding had an uphill task that night - the acoustics in the Victoria Hall were not on his side. A strong wind whistled round the domed ceiling - prompting plenty of impromptu wind breaking jokes from the lad from Crumpsall, and I was hooked on live comedy from then on. Last night was different; Harding's poetry is of the blank verse-type (I had hoped we weren't in for a night of forced rhyme) and it's largely based on the people he's known in his life. So we reconnected with his mate Worfie - and learned how Miss Worswick used to relax at the weekend (a subtle and moving piece, in which he showed a tender respect for his self-confessed early years' educational bette noir. The poems were interspersed with readings from Harding's forthcoming autobiography and the readings ended on a well-received political philosophy note, with works that castigated bankers, fraudsters, shysters and general arseholes - much to the evident approval of his audience. Like myself, many there had followed Mrs 'Arding's Lad for years: the cast of characters were largely well-known by most, and he gently introduced us to new ones - from his Irish, atheist and Socialist granddad, to Ireland's best digger driver with a light and assured touch. The tragic death of his RAF navigator father, a month before Harding was born in October 1943, was also deftly handled. Fans will remember this from his 1980s Bombers Moon tour, but in his poem Photographic Father, Harding shows how his memories have changed over the years - even down to mentioning the account of the man responsible for shooting down his father's aircraft: a sombre and reflective moment. But the evening was about the warmth of humanity - as best reflected in his poems about life in Connemara and the joy he has had in seeing his grandsons grow up. It was a pleasure to meet up again, Mike. Thanks for the laughs over the years. And from the recounted tales I overheard walking back to the car afterwards, my mate John is part of a long-lived oral tradition of Hardingophilia that is still alive and kicking.

Jeeves and the Wedding Bells - Sebastian Faulks' homage to Wodehouse

I'm rather sceptical of literary 'homage' as a genre. The idea of entrusting well-known (and in this case extremely well-loved) characters to the sometimes less than safe keeping of an established contemporary author can produce the very stuff of nightmares for devotees of the original. True, there have been some notable successes - Anthony Horowitz's House of Silk being a delightful case in point. In Wedding Bells, Faulks has assembled the usual suspects and teamed them with a cast of Wodehousesque supporting characters - Sir and Lady Hackwood are a good case in point - and given use a Wooster outing that packs a fair few laughs. However, there are a couple of jarring notes: Wodehouse's Wooster and friends inhabited a parallel universe, where the realities of life in the 20s and 30s were mercifully absent. This was an England devoid of the loss and horror of World War One. But Faulks allows the brutal world to intrude - a key character has lost both parents in the Lusitania sinking, Jeeves refers to a distant relative dying on the Somme. I enjoyed the tale, but my Wooster is a balm to the senses and a lovable upper-class fop who can mix with the rude mechanicals at the bar in the village hall as well as with his elders but no-betters at the Hall, albeit with the need for a 'sharpener' before the ordeal starts. A good diverting read, but I could have done without the all-too-real world intrusions.

Short and Curlies

Short and Curlies https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B008IDL70I/ref=aw_ss_kndl_dp/

Gnosis

Gnosis https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B00EYI05GI/ref=aw_ss_kndl_dp/

A Sense of Place

A Sense of Place https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B00M6ZW3PC/ref=aw_ss_kndl_dp/

Voting to harm, with fingers crossed

At the time he sacked himself over Europe, John Major famously said he could trust the Parliamentary Conservative Party to re-elect him (notwithstanding that he'd labelled a number of the 'bastards', of course) because they were perhaps 'the most sophisticated electorate in the world' For those not around in 1994, he got back in, but the effects were so catastrophic that his party were turfed out of office in 1997 and it took them until last Thursday to win another election in their own name - even then, they only ended up with three more MPs than Major's final majority of nine when he lost office. If - and the evidence is slight - Tory MPs of 1994 vintage were sophisticated, a sizeable chunk of the 24% who voted them back into office last week are anything but. For example, who would vote for a party that told the electorate they were going to make swingeing cuts, but then refused - either in the manifesto or in debate - to reveal how much or where the reductions would be made: that's not a leap of faith, it's blind stupidity, placing trust in an arrogant group of politicians whose social class and family backgrounds are far removed from many who voted for them, or the people who will suffer most from the cuts. On justice, we now face a similar issue. For the second time, Cameron has appointed a non-lawyer to hold the Ministry of Justice/Lord Chancellor portfolio. But this time, the former-journo, Michael Gove, has been charged with fast-tracking the abolition of the Human Rights Act. In 100 days, we are told, the Daily Mail/Sun/Express-led charge against the European Convention on Human Rights (drafted by a Tory Home Secretary at the behest of Churchill no less), will be replaced by a British Bill of Rights, that will - in a reconditioned phrase stolen from 'new' Labour without a sense of irony 'bring rights home'. Except it won't. Before the 1998 Act, we had common law civil liberties, which were enforceable largely at the whim/pleasure of the judiciary, without a stable basis on statutory law. Voting for Cameron on Thursday looks to me, on the basis of these two examples, to be the most dangerous act of self-loathing by an ill-informed or highly partisan electorate that believes it won't ever suffer the misfortune of ill-health or job loss, that its pensions are large and secure, and that its rights can be entrusted to a Murdoch-beholden journalist turned right-wing neo-con politician. And they've inflicted this on the rest of us. Lemmings show more sense.

The Levelling Sea - Philip Marsden

This remarkable book traces the development of Britain's maritime power through the history and growth of Falmouth. From the duplicitious Killigrews - near hereditary constables of mighty Pendennis, who mixed piracy (sorry, privateering sounds so much better), with political brinksmanship, to the Quaker Fox dynasty of consuls, chandlers and traders, Marsden traces the attractions of the burgeoning port to non-conformists, chancers, traders and those drawn to the sea and its ways, his formidable research and wonderous prose paint an enduring picture of a town that owes its existence to the power of wind and wave, that attracted great wealth and prestige to the far west and held a nation in thrall to its control of news and information by its renowned Packet service and deep water harbour. A book to read and savour - particularly if you want to know what a futtock is...

A Conservative canvasser calls...

Yesterday evening, resplendent with solicitous half-smile (think relief at passing wind) and blue rosette, 'pumped-up', as Cameron might put it. This was the day that the Tory candidate for Calder Valley, Craig Whittaker decided to retweet Richard Littlejohn's appallingly bad taste headline referring to Jimmy Savile as a babysitter in preference to a Labour government. Whittaker's poor judgement was even more astounding, given that in the last Parliament he had not only chaired the all-party group on looked-after children, but also founded a charity that has the aim of improving their educational achievement. The candidate, perhaps wisely, decided to go to ground, leaving his hapless bunch of canvassers to try and stem the UKIP tide - Whittaker's defending a 6,000 majority. As to loyalty, Whittaker can't be faulted - he's supported all government initiatives to the hilt, with a ringing endorsement of the benefit cap and bedroom tax. Indeed, his only rebellion was over same-sex marriage (which he defended on the rather strange ground that it could lead to polygamy!) The canvasser left my doorstep in no doubts that my household will not be supporting his candidate.

A little co-operation from Co-operative Energy wouldn't go amiss

Back in February, our energy provider - Co-operative Energy - informed us that we could save £40-odd per month by switching to another tariff. Not surprisingly, I jumped at the chance, and after an exchange of emails, was told that the change had been requested on Feb 18. So you can imagine I was annoyed to find that the old, higher payment was taken by direct debit in March and April. Calls to Co-operative Energy were met with a long wait, mindless muzak, and a recorded male voice telling me that answers to many common questions were available online. But mine wasn't, and the phone queue grew inexorably. At the start of April, however, I chanced upon the name of a Customer Services manager, Andy Springall, and emailed him direct. Unfortunately, Mr Springall was on holiday, but took time out from his jollies to assure me that he would look into the matter on his return. While he promised to get back to me last Monday, this didn't happen - but I did receive an up-to-date bill, which, to add insult to injury, told me I could save money by... signing up for the very same tariff change I'd requested in February! I decided to give the phone one last try. This time, the call to the Co-op was answered after only a few minutes. Confusingly, I was then told that we had already been transferred to the cheaper tariff, but that the direct debit needed amending (which explained the higher figure payment, apparently). But this meant I would have to be transferred to Customer Services and provide both meter readings, and the call waiting time was a minimum of 19 minutes. Further questioning elicited the unhelpful response that the only way to change the direct debit was by phone - email or snail mail would be forced to wait considerably longer before the change could be actioned by Customer Services: 'it all has to be entered manually' was the reply - apparently they don't run to computers down there in Warwick. By now, my patience was wearing thin. After all, the delay/cock-up/sheer sodding ineptitude was down to the Co-op, so why should I have to hold the line until they could be arsed to arrange a refund of 3 months' overpayments? Then I remembered - Mr Springall. For anyone else caught up in a Co-op cock-up/ineptitude delay, here's the email for their go-to-guy Andrew.Springall@cooperativeenergy.coop Get yourself hot-foot down there Andy - can't wait for the refund!

The Tory candidate, the sign and the land sale

Good to see that Craig Whittaker's team hasn't let the controversy over the sale of the former Lawson Road council offices deter them from putting his election posters on the site. However, it's to be hoped that the sale to Younger Homes has gone through - and that they've agreed to the signs being placed there, because if the sale has not yet completed, it would not be permitted for an election candidate to use council-owned land as the location for election material.

No need for inverted commas

The BBC's response to the Armenian commemoration was interesting. In spite of growing acceptance of the word genocide to describe the mass killings, the headlines throughout April 24 placed the word in inverted commas, as if the broadcaster was trying to distance its editorial stance from that taken by the leaders of France and Germany, to name but two of the many who insist the evidence of ordered destruction - particularly evidence from then Ottoman Constantinople and Alleppo - that there was a degree of official sanction for the removal and killing that followed. Modern-day Turkish leaders would doubtless approve. President Erdogan even went so far as to move his country's Gallipoli commemoration forward by 24-hours in an attempt to detract from the events taking place in Yerevan; thereby politicising what should have been a solemn occasion, and one that was foreshadowed as such by the treatment it received from Mustafa Kemal - the leader of the Ottoman defence of the peninsular, and later, the founder and president of the secular Turkish republic. Ataturk wanted the memorial at Cape Heles to be for all who died, regardless of nationality. Erdogan's actions cast a shadow over that noble aspiration. There are those in Turkey who take a herioc stand against this officially-sanctioned state of denial. Turkey's leading author, Orhan Pamuk, said on the publication of his novel Snow that

'a million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in this country and I'm the only one who dares to talk about it'.

A remark that forced him into hiding and for which he was prosecuted. This state of denial sits oddly with the view of Mehmed VI, the last Ottoman sultan, who expressed his heartfelt sorrow at the mass killings and instituted an inquiry with the intention of prosecuting those responsible; his initiative foundered when he was forced to abdicate in the wake of Ottoman defeat. Erdogan's intrigues saw Princes Charles and Harry in their military finery commemorating Gallipoli a mere 99years and 364 days after the original, ill-fated landings

Major Mayhem

Woke this morning to see the Tories have drafted in John Major to assist their Labour/SNP panic-stoking project. Strange choice: while Major warns this could cause 'mayhem', older voters will well remember the rather sordid deals he cut with the Ulster Unionists to keep his own minority administration on the rails from 1992 until his landslide defeat in '97. Still, there is one sage piece of advice Cameron could take from this Conservative colossus: 'when you back's against the wall, you turn around and fight' quite... History best remembers Major-Balls (actual family name) for such bold initiatives as the cones' hotline and freeing up planning regs to allow for more motorway services (best not to mention rail privatisation - that happened on his watch, too.

Buying up Brighouse

Now the truth is out about the sale of the former Laws on Road council offices to Younger Homes, perhaps we should celebrate the triumph of 'commercial confidentiality'  - and cherry tree removal - over local democracy.
This could easily be achieved by changing the Welcome to Brighouse signage. In addition to 'twinned with Ludenscheid'  we can now proclaim the town to be the proud location of Younger Homes' landbank and planning blight capital of Calderdale.

Plunged into Internet darkness

Just after 4.00 this afternoon, the router cut out. A quick call to the ISP revealed that the fault was 'external', ie between the exchange and my house.
A few minutes later, youngest son came home and said that a car had hit the green cabinet that houses the cables for the whole estate.
When I went out later, I saw a neighbour, rather sheepishly looking on as a breakdown crew retrieve his car from atop the remains of the metal cabinet.
As well he might, what are we going to do? 300-odd souls denied access to social media, Internet shopping, YouTube and porn; teenagers might end up having to talk to their families. It's the end of the world, save yourselves Bailiff Bridge...

Pizza Express - min wage and zero hours in Cornwall

Visited Pizza Express in Falmouth on last night of our holiday and noticed an advert for summer staff. Offering 'up to £6.50 per hour', students at the new University wanting to stay on over the Summer, or who live in the town, have the exciting opportunity of being called in when the permanent staff are too busy to cope with the expected summer-time crowds. Being under 21, of course, Pizza Express will be able to get away with paying less than the minimum wage and claim the 'flexibility' of zero hours. A great example of an employer being able to have their pizza and eat it. Think on the terms of this 'exciting opportunity' when planning to dine out in Falmouth or Newquay this summer...

Rising Ground: a search for the spirit of place - Philip Marsden

I first discovered Philip Marsden when reading The Crossing Place: Journey Among the Armenians and was caught up in his infectious enthusiasm for research and discovery, which adds depth and dimension to his travel writing. In Rising Ground he brings his by now trademark depth of learning much closer to home, travelling from his native Somerset to his adopted Cornwall, he examines the topography and history of places, ranging from Glastonbury to the Fal valley, the clay country round St Austell, to the far west of Penwith and out to the Scillies. My reading coincided with a hastily planned family holiday in Falmouth, so it was an added pleasure to read Marsden's take on Porthleven after an afternoon's visit to the first place I even stayed in Cornwall with my then 6 month-old son. Now a hulking great 16 year-old, he too was entranced by the place in a way that Marsden would doubtless approve. This book is for those who enjoy the feel and history and tradition of 'place' - things that reach above the material nature of landscape and mere 'real estate' but touch the essence and spirituality of the land and connect us with those who have gone before.

A great day for good light in Cornwall

Light through Marazion cafe window

St Michael's Mount

Energetically getting Energetic ready for sea in Porthleven - the female gig crew's final preparations.

Noggin the viking, apparently

Awoke to the sound of helicopters and a military bank. Fearing that Cameron had dispensed with the last pretence of democracy and imposed martial law to subvert the need for an election on May 7, I dashed to the seaview window to learn that it was the official welcome home for RFA Argus. Spent the rest of the day at the National Maritime Museum (NMM). I like boats and all things nautical and had wanted to visit for some time. However, this is a museum that takes inclusiveness and the whole 'mission to explain' malarkey very seriously. As a result, there are a lot of lowest common denominator displays and interactive doodahs; all seemingly intended to enthuse and captivate a bus load of over-active five-year-olds. This was particularly the case with the Viking Voyagers exhibition: while the popular myths surrounding horned helmets and burning boat burials were comprehensively debunked (although a plastic horned helmet is available from the gift shop, should feel the need), the displays had a rather artificial feel - as exemplified by the addition of Noggin the Nog to a glass case that was adjacent to one illustrating the fact that the Normans were descendants of the vikings, which must make for some interesting family discussions on the return home, along with endless repeated warnings not to a) take the horned helmet thing seriously or b) take your sibling's eye out with the accompanying plastic sword. Welcome home Argus - hope there's a great run ashore going on tonight down there in old Falmouth town.

A kebab for the Turkish Navy

Falmouth's playing host to a 10-strong minesweeper flotilla, made up of ships from a number of NATO countries, including the TCG Anamur of the Turkish Navy. Walking through town earlier today, I came across some of the crews who were enjoying the warm weather and Cornish hospitality. Down on Church St, I passed a kebab shop and couldn't help but wonder how the conversation might pan out if some of the Anamur's crew feel like a taste of home after a run ashore in Falmouth. The name's the only thing that stays the same. Hope the guys understand that the Brits just don't give Turkish food the respect it deserves. There's no backlava here, and Turcse Cava has yet to achieve the status it deserves here in the South West

Emasculated Cornish hipster

Falmouth seems to be hipster central; they're everywhere. Encountered one 'folically' challenged individual. With compulsory square-cut facial fuzz, he looked like his head was on upside down. The tight, and way too short trousers, completed the intriguing oh so hip ensemble. Cough and he'd find to small spherical objects in his turnups.

A qualified, unqualified teacher

Righry, pat attention at the back. Yes, you -lazy scribblers. Now, I have a PGCE, which entitles me to teach Law to post-16 year-olds. However, this only applies if I work in an FE college or independent sixth form college. The minute I walk into  school-based sixth form, I'm classed as 'unqualified' (I can upgrade to Qualified Teacher Learning and Skills -QTLS - status if I join the Education and Training Foundation quango and pay them £480.00 to submit a portfolio for validation).
All this is in direct contradiction to Gove's promise that it would be easier for FE staff to work in schools. Teachers warn of unqualified staff - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-32174423 article on BBC website doesn't cover this anomaly, perhaps it could be raised during the Easter teaching union conference season?

A camp in the woods

Dropped eldest son at scout camp this afternoon. The Explorer section, aged 15-28, were trying to work out where to pitch the tents and how they were going to manage to cook as no-one had organised the camping gas needed for the cookers. Be prepared, as someone once said. Happy camping. There's much to be said for the comforts of home. Collecting him on Saturday lunchtime, hope he'll have had some hot food by then.

Marketing Heaven

Called into a cafe in Ripon for lunch and noticed a sign in the window advertising a job vacancy. Half through my food, a young woman came in to inquire about the work. They explained to her that she wouldn't be working in the cafe itself, but that the job involved walking around with a board and handing out fliers. Marketing of a sort, but I don't think the putative applicant was that impressed by the terms and conditions...

Homage to Finkle Street

The trip to Ripon Library culminated in the discovery of my great grandfather's obituary, as well as that of his son, my great uncle, who died in WWI. Also discovered that three great aunts all 'succumbed to pneumonia on attaining womanhood' (1937 speak for died aged 19, 23 and 25, so heartbreakingly young). Now hope to learn more about their brother who emigrated to Australia three years after the end of WWI. At 80, my great granddad was 'Ripon's oldest hairdresser' when he died - says so in the title to his obituary, left me feeling rather proud of the old boy. He worked in his own shop, at 7 Finkle Street, top of the Market Square - must have done a roaring trade on market day, with various of his sons, for just over 44 years. That's a lot of snipping.  Bet he also did a nice line in 'something for the weekend, sir?' sales.

Mental health reporting - a perfect storm brewing?

As we struggle to come to terms with the loss of the Germanwings flight, news media focused on the mental health of the co-pilot, the Association of Teachers and Lecturers (ATL) warns of a worrying rise in depression and anxiety among school pupils. Worryingly, however, tabloids are reverting to their previous practice of stigmatising mental health issues. Given the increase in depression and other mental health conditions among the general population, this risks trivialising - or even victimising - a large number of people and raises the danger that some will fail to seek help for fear of losing jobs or endangering personal relationships, causing untold misery for themselves, their families, friends and loved ones.

A one-to-one ramble with the Ramblers

After a gap of several years, I decided to utilise the £44.00 a year I pay for joint membership of the Ramblers and go on a guided walk in the south Pennine hills. The walk had an inauspicious start, mainly because I was the only punter, so the guided walk consisted of myself and the leader. We set off at a quick pace and were soon climbing briskly across open moorland, but the guide was rather apologetic because part of the route might not be navigable, which would add nearly a mile to the advertised distance. I told him I had no problem with that, whereupon he informed me that changes to the advertised route or distance to be covered could be difficult: 'there's usually someone with a GPS, and there have been complaints'. This rather took me aback; leaders don't get paid for the difficult task of taking groups, or even single walkers out. In my case, being somewhat directionally-challenged, being able to walk in open country, with navigation left to someone who knows the way is the main attraction of Ramblers' membership. Surely, if you have GP you could navigate your own route, rather than use it to keep a constant check on the volunteer leader. We covered the route in quick time and the weather remained dry and sunny throughout. The only thing that spoiled the walk was a suggestion that I might consider leading walks - 'everyone has a walk in them, you should think about it' counselled my personal guide; leaving me to contemplate the utter chaos that would ensue if I should ever be put in charge of a ramble, with or without GPS.

Sanctions and church roof repairs

Jeremy Hardy joked that Osborne's Budget announcement of a £40 million Church Roof Repair Fund would at least mean that you'd be dry while queuing for the food bank. Given the Tory party's antipathy towards the current Anglican Church leadership's comments on poverty and social injustice, the fund smacks more of a desire to hold-on to a golden age that probably only existed in the era of the 'Tory Party at Prayer' gibe. Certainly, Osborne should find any attempt to buy favour receives short-shrift from those Church stalwarts who either volunteer at food banks or make regular cash or food donations to allow the vital work to continue. Getting a food parcel ready for someone who's turned up after being sanctioned by the DWP is enough to put anyone off voting Tory for life. And its good to see the Methodists aligning themselves very publicly with those who have been treated in this way by the present Coalition Government.

The problem with bagels

Thirteen-year-old youngest son decided that a toasted bagel spread with strawberry jam was his choice of pre-bed snack for a Friday night. After cutting and toasting, he then placed the bagel on the kitchen worktop (sans plate) before spreading with margarine and jam, he then announced that the one thing he didn't like about bagels was the hole. Having spent what seems like an age cleaning up hardened globules of jam, neither do I.

Farage - an uneasy lesson from history

Interesting to hear Nigel Farage saying he wants to live in a country that is 'at ease with itself'. Leaving aside how this can occur while he and his minions rush around telling tales of fearsome foreigners, the words reminded me of another nationalist politician who was desperate to keep on the right side of the electorate. In his 1943 St Patrick's Day speech, Irish Taoiseach Eamon De Valera used the phrase to describe the Ireland he wanted to see. The speech, which celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Gaelic League, is also famous for his wanting to see 'comely maidens' taking part in spontaneous open-air dancing displays and no-one 'worth more than fifty pounds a year'. Within a few months of re-election, however, De Valera's Fianna Fail party had banned all unlicensed acts of public entertainment, although he never did quite manage to legislate against people earning too much money. At ease with ourselves, Mr Farage? Not with the likes of you around. Now, who fancies a quick dance down at the crossroads? Some Romanian folk dance perhaps, or maybe a touch of the Gay Gordons? I'm sure the UKIPpers will join in eventually.

Leeds and its squares

Leeds, my home town, likes squares. There's City Square, the proud home of the Black Prince's statue (though what connection he had with the place is anyone's guess), and his surrounding bevy of semi-clad nymphs. In 2000, the city created Millenium Square in front of the Portland Stone edifice of the Civic Hall. It was here that Nelson Mandela spoke when he visited the city to thank it for supporting him over the years and every Christmas features a German market, where dodgy tasting gluwein can be enjoyed/endured while looking for overpriced wooden toys and other nicknacks from the land of lager and lederhosen. Further back in the 1970s, the city fathers decided to honour the twin city of Dortmund with a square. Rather more downmarket this time, with a socialist-realism-ish statute of an overweight brewer. Now, it's just been announced that there's to be another square, Tower Square, just off Wellington Street this time, on the site of a former rail marshalling yard and subsequent home to a failed retail park. But Leeds hasn't got any squares named after its famous sons or daughters - be they Leeds-born or adopted, and I think the city planners should look to them before naming any new squares. Two candidates come to mind, Jane Tomlinson, the indefatigable charity endurance athlete who raised so much money for cancer research before her untimely death. OK, so she's got a race named after her already, but a square is a more permanent reminder. Or why not Moshe Osinsky (Sir Montague Burton), who founded his clothing empire in the city after arriving in England from Lithuania. In addition to his business success, he also went on to endow professorial chairs in industrial relations and international law at several leading British universities. His factory at Hudson Road, once the city's largest employer, is long gone, and apparently the only memorial to him in his adopted home is an out-of-town university hall of residence. Burton Square would do nicely.

An exciting employment opportunity, or an over-excited employee?

It's high time the burgeoning employment agency sector was subject to regulation and statutory control, especially in the education sector. I was contacted, cold-called to be precise, the other day by an agency that said it had seen my CV, presumably on another recruitment agency website, as I hadn't even heard of them previously, and wondered if I could send them an up-to-date version. Where, I asked, was the job; not an unreasonable question. While, however, my CV was enthusiastically received - 'excellent' was the feedback from the 'consultant', my request was politely deflected - she 'was not at liberty' to discuss the actual school. Neither, as it turned out, was she able to be more enlightening on the number of hours or rate of pay - pretty much the most basic information you would expect - particularly in view of the long list of personal details they wanted from me. A second request for further information was met with the response that my previously 'excellent' CV was now sadly missing essential details that the anonymous school deemed to be essential. I demurred at this point, only to receive a rather embarrassing email from my current line manager, just letting me know he'd received a reference request. Now, I work part-time, and he has provided references previously - but only after I've given my permission for him to be approached. Here, we had a bunch of incompetents and shysters, who couldn't or wouldn't provide me with even the most basic details of the job, taking the decision to approach at least one of my referees to ask for a reference. After complaining to the agency, I was then told the fault was that of an 'over-exuberant' employee. Bad workmen and tools came to mind when I read it. I think the fault is rather over-caffeined, commission-driven cowboys let loose in a sector of which they have little real knowledge or understanding.

A pork pie, but not as we know it...

When my mate Keith left school he got a job putting the glaze on pork pies for a now defunct bakery in Leeds. The job was only a stopgap - he was waiting to join the Royal Artillery, which was probably just as well, because the supply of pork pies would have presented a serious threat to health, had he not answered the call of Queen and country. Fast forward more years than I care to remember, and yesterday I was tempted by a growler in Morrison's. The only thing this dessicated article had in common with those of rose-tinted commestible memory was pork and pastry: gone was the glorious glaze and the glutinous jelly. All that remained was a dried hulk of pastry and unnaturally pink-dyed pork. Morrison's should hold their corporate head in shame. Keith's erstwhile employer might have gone the way of all flesh (hastened, it must be said, by a particularly nasty salmonella outbreak), but their product is not forgotten - certainly not after yesterday's sorry episode.

Spent a couple of days in the Lake District

Spent being the operative word, particularly when it comes to parking. The national park authority has been busy since my last visit, installing number plate recognition gizmos at its pay and display car parks Waterhead Car Park, Ambleside Charges have also increased, with £2.00 being the minimum stay and £8.00 for a full day stay. Payment can be made by cash or card, but no change is given for cash, so the authority turns a nice little profit either way. Just what happens if you turn into a full car park and then leave after only a few moments is not spelled out on the signage. Could this be met with a £2.00 min charge and £60.00 fine for non-payment within 48 hours? Constantly upping the charges levied on visitors, in the supposed name of improving the national park - and this includes 20p to visit the loo - risks alienating the very people the authority relies on for its income. A sense of proportion is needed, but seems to be sadly lacking at the present time.

Year of the sheep at the Magic Wok

An evening in Windermere after a day walking in the Grizedale Forest and dinner at the Magic Wok. Decor a bit dated, but food and service were great. Walk from Ambleside tomorrow. More Lakeland magic on the way.

Bigging up those 'traditional values' - selling fee-paying schools

The local fee-paying grammar must be feeling the pinch - they've taken to sending out leaflets, advertising the 'benefits' of sending children to a school first established in 1648 that 'upholds traditional values'. What the marketing hype doesn't say is that for most of the last century the school was LEA controlled - only reverting to independent, fee-paying status after reorganisation in 1974 (a craftily worded clause in the charter allowed to leave the LEA free of charge). Exploiting loopholes - traditional enough, I suppose. As is putting fear into middle class and aspiring middle class families that their child will do better in smaller classes, where, as the blurb has it 'pupils flourish academically in a happy and stimulating environment'. Also equips them with the sharp elbows the middle class need to stay ahead - mean, lean and ready to fight for whatever the Daily Mail tells them is important...

Better times for Little Germany

Bradford seems to have a talent for turning itself into a wasteland. The inner-most part of the city centre has been a building site for nearly a decade - due to the long-delayed completion of the Broadway development, which was intended to break the 60s ring of concrete and deliver a vibrant retail complex, but instead became mired in delay due to the recession. But the city's older buildings are also in need of care and attention. In the late 80s and early 90s much was made of the prospects for Little Germany, an area of mill buildings and commercial premises developed by German immigrants, including the family of the composer Frederick Delius, who came to the city eager to build links between the Yorkshire and German textile industries. Unfortunately, the thriving businesses, bars and cafes that moved into the area have now almost all gone - leaving behind near empty converted apartment complexes and flyblown alleyways. I spent a while in the Guzelian cafe and gallery, itself a bold attempt to create a vibrant watering hole opposite the cathedral where the works of the Guzelian photojournalism agency are displayed on the walls. It opened in December last year, but now faces the prospect of the road outside - one of the main routes into Little Germany - being turned into building site that will see cars largely banished from the area. The streets that once held so much promise now run past silent buildings with boarded up or broken windows. The Tuetonic entrepreneurs have long gone; and I was left wondering, along with the cafe-gallery manager, whether Bradford will manage to turn things around again, after so long in the economic doldrums. Hope that Guzelian will be around to capture the renaissance when it comes.

Yorkshire Sculpture Park - scenes from a walk: a triangular boat, an octopus and Ai Weiwei's tree

On a journey - the road to nowhere...

Eldest son's high school is in special measures after spectacularly failing an Ofsted in May last year. This damning situation was reinforced recently by a follow-up visit from HMI, which found little improvement. This is inspite of a number of - rather frantic - messages from the senior leadership team (SLT) to the effect that they have 'embarked on an exciting improvement journey'. Language like that chills my blood; it means absolutely nothing - and all the while reputation and lack of real progress ebbs away at morale (staff and student) - no-one wants to learn or teach in that sort of environment. Now, however, there is progress - a new name and blazers are on the way! Quite how this fits into the journey, or will lead to any concrete improvement in leadership or quality of education is hard to say, but we're all just so excited by it, not. I'm tempted to suggest a Latin motto for the new badge, something along the lines of Stercus non potest poliri.

A miffed-off former MIfL

The Institute for Learning (IfL) is no more. The unwanted 'professional body' for FE teachers, foisted on them by the last Labour government was finally laid to rest at the end of October 2014. In reality, most of the one-time captive membership had largely drifted away when Gove ended compulsory registration in 2010. Round about the same time, the DfE - following recommendations in the Wolf report into 14-19 vocational education - also accepted that the anomalous situation whereby FE teachers couldn't teach in schools, but school teachers could teach in FE should end. However, this was dependent on FE staff obtaining Qualified Teaching and Learning Skills Status (QTLS) - something that Post 16 teacher training qualifications didn't automatically confer. As with much Goveite thinking, details were sketchy as to how this would work out in practice and pronouncements from on high seldom reflected either conditions on the ground or the substance of subsequent regulations put out by the DfE. Yesterday, I found out how... As a post-16 FE qualified teacher I recently started working in a local secondary school sixth form on maternity leave cover. In spite of showing both my degree and PGCE paperwork to the HR people, I was bemused to learn that I was classed as an unqualified teacher: some mistake, surely, I thought - after all, I'm teaching 16-18 year-olds studying AS and A2 courses. Ah, came the reply, you haven't got QTLS status, and pending confirmation of this from something called the Education and Training Foundation (ETF) you're 'unqualified' in our eyes. A few emails later and the awful truth dawned. The IfL might have gone, but a new quango has risen in its place, literally in fact - ETF has the same address as the IfL, and is in the business of charging £485.00 for those FE qualified teachers who want to work in school on parity of pay with school teachers. But the thing that sticks in my craw - alongside the threat of being paid less if I don't undertake the supposedly 'voluntary' process - is that I'm teaching the same courses to students of the same age: the only difference is that they are sitting in a school's sixth form classroom, as opposed to one in an FE college. Gove and the IfL might have gone, but their influence lives on, unfortunately.

Immigration Enforcement Agency convoy heading west

Just scene a convoy of three Immigration Enforcement Agency driving through Hipperholme. Shame they weren't greeted by a dishonourable guard of tutting UKIPpers and Daily Mail readers: plenty of both in this neck of the woods.