Typesetting - a dying art?

When I started work in the printing industry in 1977, type was still set using the 'hot metal' process, and the job of compositor was key to the way words appeared on the page - in much the same way as they had for the previous 400-years. Within a few years, however, type was set onto film or photographic paper (called 'photo-setting'). This proved to be short-lived, due to the arrival of computers and typesetting software, which allowed text to be made ready for printing in a fraction of the time taken by even the most skilled compositor. Domination of the art by computer-based typesetting also met a swift decline with the advent of SGML, XML and HTML mark-up languages. The advantage here being that text 'captured' within the tags used for each of these processes can be used in print or online without having to be re-typed. But, and it's a big 'but', there is still a role for the hard-pressed typesetting compositor of yore. XML capture requires words in bulk, but some texts are destined for print that do not warrant the creation or in-depth application of XML etc tagging. There is, thankfully, work for the typesetter yet. Wonder how many apprentices are being trained in this essential work?

A private walk through public school grounds

Those dog-days of August can weigh heavy some years. So it was, with a new academic year soon to start, I decided to play pre-term truant for a day this week and go for a walk around the Cumbrian town of Sedbergh. I'd vaguely heard of a public school of the same name, but didn't know - until I arrived there - that the school pretty much is the town.

It has been there since its foundation in 1525, so I suppose it has earned the right to flex its muscles a bit. After all, if the locals can't afford to send their own kids there (and at £10,500 a year for boarders - after paying the £750.00 registration fee, buying the uniform and sundry other expenses - such as Combined Cadet Force annual camp fee - of which more later), a fair few earn their living from the place. The school is so intertwined with the town that the signposts mingle as well: one minute you're looking at a sign for the Tourist Information Centre and the parish church, the next you're being directed to the Bursary and Headteacher's Office. There is also a fair degree of latitude when it comes to public footpaths, and I wandered along the edge of playing fields as the current crop of ruby-playing Sedberghians were learning how to beat next term's opponents into a bloody pulp, and along the banks of the rivers Dee and Rawthey that mark the furthest extent of the school grounds. The ethos of the place proved to fascinating. Founded before the Reformation by Roger Lupton, a local man who became Provost of Eton and endowed the school with scholarships to St John's College, Cambridge University, the school boasts strong links to the Church of England, with a chapel that is larger than many English parish churches. The prospectus throws up a few anomalies here, however. While all pupils have to attend chapel, and are encouraged to both sing hymns in a way that's 'strong and heartfelt' and allow themselves to be prepared for confirmation into the Anglican Church, they are also expected to sign up wholesale to either the Navy, Army or Air Force sections of the Combined Cadet Force as soon as they start Year 9 (13-14). In addition, those who play percussion or wind instruments are automatically enrolled into the school's Corps of Drums. Exception from this Eton Rifles form of junior conscription is at the Head's discretion and must be sought in writing by parents. All have to attend annual military camp - the bill being added to the last invoice sent to parents/guardians for the current school year. All in all, this struck me as a rather 1950s anachronistic playing out of the old cries of 'Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition' or 'We come in peace, shoot to kill'. A more peaceful alternative so such 'robust' (or even rather confused Christian theology) can be found nearby:

the hamlet of Briggflats is home to England's third oldest Quaker Meeting House, where peace is very firmly on the agenda, and lusty hymn singing most certainly not - the silence reigns supreme.

Four Yorkshiremen? One's enough if you're Three Peaking

Called into the Coop garage and store in Ingleton this morning for some diesel on my way to Sedbergh for a day's walking. The man behind the counter was giving a masterclass in pure Yorkshire tyke upmanship, regaling a young couple with tales of his Three Peaks exploits.
Not only had he climbed Whernside, Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent just last weekend, breaking off to bring a friend back who'd come down with sunstroke, but he was planning to do the route back-to-back, a double three peaker, towards the end of September.
The couple left, expressing their amazement at his prowess, while I was left pondering how - if the other three had turned up - they'd have told how they completed the whole thing half an hour before they'd set off...

A cardiac non-event, thankfully

Quiet weekend? Mine was, until about 3.15 on Saturday afternoon when the chest pain started. Nothing to worry about, I thought at first. Then it spread to my back and up towards the right side of my jaw. That's when we phoned 111. And after a very short conversation with the call handler, he said the words 'the ambulance is on its way'. Enter the freelance paramedics The arrival of male and female, green-clad, machine-bearing wonderbeings made me start to feel better (Brexiters look away now: one was Irish, the other had an indeterminate Spanish/Italian accent - both were utterly incredible). Getting rigged up to the ECG machine took minutes, and the print-out was clear, so I was assured. This first bit of good news was followed by blood pressure check and a once over with a stethoscope. I was then presented with a choice; go to hospital for a blood check to search out an enzyme that usually lives in the heart but tends to leach out if you've had a heart attack (cardiac event, in medical-speak - which I was rapidly becoming fluent in) or stay at home and avoid the late afternoon queue in A&E. No brainer, I thought; then I was put on to the paramedics' controller, who very efficiently scared the 'bejeezus' out of me, according to the Irish paramedic (not being stereotypical: that's really what she said!). In the ambulance, I learned that my paramedics were self-employed contractors working for Falck, a rather strange concept and one that - although grateful for at the time - does make me wonder, yet again, about the extent of privatisation in the NHS. A&E bound So, were away to A&E with my wife following on behind. At A&E, the service was so swift I'd had blood taken and been chest x-rayed before my wife had parked the car and found the cubicle. The chest x-ray was delivered to the supervising medics virtually instantaneously, but the blood test result took a little over two hours. But an all-clear, accompanied by the instruction to see my GP as soon as possible after the holiday weekend was worth the wait.

Playing doctors at the chemist

'Could I have some of those one-a-night sleep tablets, please?' 'You mean the sleep aid?' replied the assistant in the Tesco Pharmacy. I agreed that was the product I wanted, only to be then asked when I'd last taken them. Having said it was a few months ago - the annoying fact of insomnia strikes from time-to-time. The assistant scanned the pack and then finished by reminding me 'not to take them before driving'. 'No', I replied: 'I tend not to do that when I'm getting into bed' - like it says on the front of the pack.

Return to the stone age

The new neighbours are having some work done. Not sure what the end result is intended to be, but it seems to involve a lot of stone cutting. They've engaged a firm of stonemasons, who seem to favour full throttle petrol-driven cutters and shouted instructions/banter. It was never like this with Fred and Barney. Yabba, dabbo, don't...

UK Passports - a beta work in progress

Remember Farage getting rather over-excited about the return of the dark blue UK passport during the referendum campaign? Strange to relate, but the UK government's application site is now a beta test version, which could suggest that Nige's dream could be about to be turned into internet reality. It that's so, it's to be hoped the pointy heads sort out the print function, as it just made my printer churn out 30-odd pages of unprinted, still pristine white paper, as opposed to the promised declaration form. All in all, the experience left me feeling that, once again, Brexit is going to be a lot harder to deliver in reality (whatever form that might eventually take) than the over-hyped, truth-free version promised to use by the Leavers during the campaign.

I'm a nursing algorithm

Strange things can happen when you register with online work/employment agencies, particularly those whose web presence is driven by poorly constructed algorithms. For example, having registered for editorial work with CareerBuilder.co.uk I've been sent a rash of NHS/nursing vacancies (and unsubscribing doesn't seem to stop them). Now, while I can very quickly and painlessly remove an unneccessary apostrophe you probably wouldn't want me to try the same trick with your ingrowing toenail or bunion. Not that the algorithm seems to mind...

Marsh Barton

First drove through Exeter 30-odd years ago and got lost at Marsh Barton due to poor road signing. Today, in pouring rain, got stuck at MB again. Exeter has park and ride now, but nearest location to where we're staying turned out to be the dreaded Marsh Barton and it was full when we arrived. Extricating the car from there took nearly half an hour of bumper to bumper queuing.
Great city - shame about the roads.

Stand at deliver(y)

An old workmate of mine used to complain that 'accountants make bad printers'. He was a very good printer, but became disillusioned when middle managers and beancounters began to infect the trade back in the 1980s. After all, that was a time when the trade was highly unionised, well-paid and very labour-intensive. Looking back, it probably reached its peak in the mid-80s, for after that time, the managers took over in earnest - and cutting costs was the mantra they followed with increasing ideological zeal. I remembered the phrase recently when I had to reject a print run. A series of monochrome graphics had not reproduced well; there were streaks running down the full page illustrations in every one of the books. The job had been printed digitally, not litho - the process I'd worked in. In litho, such marking would have been put down to gear wear on the press, but digital is the new kid on the block to me, so I just complained and asked for a reprint. But, while the process may well be totally different to working with viscous ink and printing plates - and the need to manage the ink/water balance during the run, the practice of taking a sheet at random from the delivery stack to check colour strength, image position and overall quality during the run would have meant that this problem never left the pressroom, much less made it through the bindery and out to the end customer. Then again, with staff numbers paired right back, the beancounters in charge now probably feel that the risk of such things happening, once the job is 'passed' by the customer, is something that can be written off. After all, if the statistical probability is small, why not run the risk of not checking? An occasional reprint is still cheaper than paying the wages of printers to stand around on the off chance that one of the sheets they pluck from the delivery might show something's amiss. Cost effective? Probably. Even if it runs counter to another old saw - when the fault is so obvious that it would've been 'spotted by a blind man on a galloping horse'. Are those hooves I hear?

Smile for the phlebotomist

Intrigued by a sign in the cubicle where I was having my blood test this morning which stated anyone photographing or recording their blood test would be asked to leave. I asked the phlebotomist (an inelegant job title if ever there was one) if this ever occurred when she was working only to be told that it did: in fact, young couples were the worst offenders - particularly if a female was upset by the needle and the male had his phone at the ready. I left supposing that this was a case of there being two pricks in the room...

An invitation, and a pending birthday.

During the late 70s and into the 80s, I was a member of the Navy reserve. It was a good time, I met some great people and travelled, though only on the UK, unfortunately.
This morning, I noticed a reserve recruiting stall in Halifax- and also saw one of the matelotes on duty was someone I remembered from those far off days. We talked of mutual friends, and he introduced me to his companions, before asking if I'd consider rejoining. I was rather taken aback - and said that as I will be 55 next Wednesday, surely I was well and truly over the hill.
Apparently not, my former shipmate averred - before going on to reveal that he's 62 soon and into his 40th year in a blue suit.
Good on him. But I swallowed my particular anchor a long time ago, and, sad to relate some of our shipmates we reminisced about have sadly sailed for that other shore.
I salute their memory, and his long and enviable service.

As British as a horse and cart?

An interesting piece of commentary wafted o'er the air while I was watching a heavy horse display at the Great Yorkshire Show yesterday. While we watched the two horse dray teams being put through their paces in the main show arena, the commentator waxing lyrical about tact and drivers' tactics, he suddenly changed tack and proclaimed - not just once - that the scene was just so 'British'. Indeed the repetition became something of an embarrassing verbal tic that he couldn't seem to let go. Now, I don't think there really is any historical evidence to suggest that it was an ancient Briton who first had the idea of getting a horse to pull a cart, so quite where the British pride came into it in the first place is perhaps something only the commentator could explain. But was really surprised me was the cognitive dissonance involved. This was because only a few minutes earlier, the self-same commentator was telling us how the introduction of the French Percheron and Belgian heavy horse, the Brabant, after World War I had brought competition to the two main British breeds, the Shire and the Clydesdale, before going on to rave about a new team of Canadian Belgians that were an exciting addition to the year's display. Exciting (and certainly very large) the Canadian Belgians might have been, but they ended up coming last in the show, which just goes to show that however loud someone shouts, if it's bollocks, time will usually tell. The whole British pride in heavy horse theme put me in mind of certain blow-hard Tory politicians who fall over themselves to announce their love of country and other patriotic credentials, but whose policies then lead to a reduction in standards and a general diminution in the eyes of the rest of the world. Bellowing 'British' through a loud-hailer doesn't make something true or better - that is down to proof and the test of time. There is also a parallel with Boris Johnson's empty wiff waff invention boast - nonsense dressed up with a union flag wrapping, rather like bellowing 'British' at irregular intervals, doesn't make for either a sound argument or an edifying spectacle - even if the declaimer has a post accent.

Hoping for another great, Great Yorkshire Show

Great Yorkshire Showtime comes round again: three days of horse, sheep, cattle showing; men in appallingly coloured trousers and dodgy merchandise. Three days in which farmers and townies are coralled together in a showground on the edge of the Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate, with the prospect of quagmire or just muddy clothing adding to the mix. I attended my first GYS on a school trip in 1976. Aged 14, and sporting my best grey-flared trousers, complete with non-school approved turn-ups, along with my blazer and tie (and all this in the middle of the hottest Summer I'd then known), I saw animals judged by arcane and indecipherable standards - at least they looked that way to my town-grown self - and wandered round stalls selling everything a Tyke would need, from sheep dip to improbable-looking vegetable chopping implements. The highlight of the day then was the discovery of black cherry yogurt; the result of a free pot, handed out by someone on one of the dairy stalls - still my favourite, and the taste even now can transport me back to that warm, sunny afternoon where the air carried the unmistakable tang of the farmyard. And we're off again tomorrow to look askance at the clothing styles of the landed and not-so landed, the agricultural and the businesses and banks that service them. Sure there'll be improbable kitchen implements on show, but will there be free yogurt?

When the Florist's out to lunch...

It was all rather reminiscent of Monty Python's Cheese Shop sketch. An anniversary looming, I needed a bouquet so went into the local florists, only to be met by an assistant who told me no such thing could be procured until 'after one' because the florist was having lunch! A shop stacked with flowers and bouquets awaiting collection (a fair few ordered, no doubt, by spouses better organised than I), but nothing resembling a wodge of oasis could be fitted with blooms until the florist returned. I used to work in the printing industry, where demarcation disputes were an entertaining way to pass many a happy hour, but I never thought that demarcation of labour would still persist in floristry. Perhaps the sisterhood have managed to keep this quiet - but it seems that a florists shop is a closed shop. Unfortunately, I was pushed for time, so I headed to Tesco - doubtless their Finest won't come up to the quality of the lunching florist's finest, but needs must when you need flowers to go.

The frightened, small-minded people have spoken...

Should've known the news would be bad when I saw that Nicky Morgan had called it for Remain in a BBC report just before I went to bed. But the then touted result of 52 remain, 48 leave turned out to be reversed, and we're on our way out. Cameron is toast, but not until October. I would've thought it would be better if he cleared off now, but a long drawn-out and hopefully humiliating exit could prove to be a fitting punishment for a failed leader. The demographics seem to suggest a lot of older voters went for leave, thereby doing over the futures of their children and grandchildren. Smart move; the coffin-dodgers put two fingers up to those who fight for the jobs that pay the tax which funds their pensions. That's interdependence for you - and that's what Gove et al are fully paid up and in thrall to, because globalisation and privatisation will continue apace. The deluded outers (particularly those who fell for the UKIP line, or the £350 million extra per week for the NHS) are in for a hell of a shock: you're going to see a lot of foreigners, but they won't be coming to work, no - they're coming to buy, buy, buy - your NHS, your workplace/pension provider - all at bargain basement prices, and without any of those troubling EU regulations. Some people are going to learn the very hard way that not all 'red tape' works against them.

Law teaching - a 'new direction'?

At only £18-£20 per hour the direction is down and out, presumably.

Intolerant of lactose intolerance

After a long day in the office when I'm in London, I like nothing more than a beer and a bite to eat before heading to King's Cross for my train home. Last night was no exception - a bottle of Sam Smiths Pale and a plate of stifado (stop smirking at the 'stif' bit - it's Greek beef stew, and very tasty it was too). The problem with dining alone at just after 6.00 is that you get the full-on Billy-no-mates treatment, with waiters tucking you away in a corner at a table for two, but I'm used to it by now and rather like the solitude. Except for my fellow lone diner. He arrived just after me and ordered bolognese - in a Greek restaurant?? Anyhow, he then told two waiters that no cheese should be offered or indeed sprinkled as he was 'lactose intolerant'. No problem, I thought, taking a few draughts of Tadcaster's finest. But he then went on to proclaim his intolerance every time a waiter drew close or asked him if he would like anything else. Offered a coffee by the head waiter, he then went on to describe exactly how ill he would be if perchance he did ingest dairy products. Way too much information, nearly baulked on my stifado (I've told you before, it's a well-known dish, oh grow up...).

A glorious day in the Dales

Photographic evidence of last Friday's truanting. Marvellous. The road to Hawes, White Scar CavesLooking back to Ingleborough on the way to Catrigg ForceCatrigg Force, the falls and the cave behind them.

And or, that is the question

Walking through Wakefield this morning, I came across this sign which made me wonder what they were trying to achieve: a healthier option or double frying to give that genuine myocardial infarction feeling with every meal. If the former, then it has to be Or not +; if the latter, why not go the whole cow and bung in the lard as well?