I have written much about Time - the evil force that rules our lives, regulating its speed of passage to suit its own ends and defeat yours. It's been at it again but this time it's playing one of its cruellest tricks. The cumulative passing of those interminable seconds and super-fast hours have delivered me to yet another birthday; this one ending in a zero, but with a disconcertingly higher number in front of it!
When I wake up tomorow I will be 60!
There, I've said it so I suppose it must be true. But how did it happen? Only five minutes ago I was thirty. Where did forty and fifty go?
Meanwhile there is a conflict going on between my brain and my body on the subject of age. In my head I'm thirty eight. Why my cerebral processes have stalled on that particular age I'm not sure. No matter; my brain refuses to acknowledge the advance of time beyond 1989.
On the other hand, not to mention legs, back, ankles and hips, my body is fully aware of how old I actually am and even adds a few more years from time to time for good measure.
So the brain says "Hey, how about entering the London marathon next year?" At which my body, useless with wear and tear and helpless with laughter at the mere suggestion resorts to humour.
"Run a marathon! You pull a muscle running a bath." ( I didn't say it was good or even new humour).
And then, just to prove a point, it puts my back out while I'm pulling on my socks.
And then there's the evidence of my outer appearance. As I was approaching fifty, people used to say when my birthday came round that they would have put me at least five years younger than my actual age. Now no-one bats an eyelid when I say I'm nearly sixty! I fully expect from now on the most likely comment will be "Is that all? I thought you were a lot older!"
Oh well, Time has triumphed again.
I'm going to risk life and limb now and run a bath and see if I can beat my previous record.
Monday, 16 May 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
My Kingdom for a Tadpole!
It is inherent in human existence that we can never know the answers to all of life's mysteries. The very fact of our presence here on Earth is the greatest conundrum of them all.
And so the question that has been taxing my brain these past few months and which has remained unsolved, must now be aired in public. It is this;
What has happened to all the frog spawn?
Admittedly, the breeding cycle of amphibians is not normally uppermost in my mind (except, obviously, on Thursdays) and to be fair I don't suppose that frogs are overly concerned with human procreational habits either (not even on Thursdays).
However, having installed a small pond in my garden a year or so ago, which is now established with a second season of healthy-looking plants, I wanted to introduce some wildlife to supplement the one beetle, one pond skater and ten dead and bloated worms that had found their own way into what is obviously a less than attractive natural habitat.
The Expedition started in early March in a casual manner; whenever I happened to be near a body of still water larger than a puddle, I had a quick look for the telltale mass of speckled jelly.
Later I started to make special trips to local and not so local ponds, clutching a suitable container for the transport of the precious cargo, while at the same time trying not to look like a nine year old schoolboy. (Actually that bit is quite easy!) But every location was characterised by a distinct absence of amphibious activity. Nothing but beetles and dead worms, and I had an adequate supply of both of those.
If you believe the wild life programmes on television, the forests and moorlands flourish with all manner of animals and insects, while the ponds and lochs are home to tsunami-inducing quantities of life actively reproducing at prodigious rates.
To which I reply with the only phrase in the English language in which two positives make a negative.
"Yeah, right!"
I must now await a Biblical plague of frogs to descend on my garden.
And so the question that has been taxing my brain these past few months and which has remained unsolved, must now be aired in public. It is this;
What has happened to all the frog spawn?
Admittedly, the breeding cycle of amphibians is not normally uppermost in my mind (except, obviously, on Thursdays) and to be fair I don't suppose that frogs are overly concerned with human procreational habits either (not even on Thursdays).
However, having installed a small pond in my garden a year or so ago, which is now established with a second season of healthy-looking plants, I wanted to introduce some wildlife to supplement the one beetle, one pond skater and ten dead and bloated worms that had found their own way into what is obviously a less than attractive natural habitat.
The Expedition started in early March in a casual manner; whenever I happened to be near a body of still water larger than a puddle, I had a quick look for the telltale mass of speckled jelly.
Later I started to make special trips to local and not so local ponds, clutching a suitable container for the transport of the precious cargo, while at the same time trying not to look like a nine year old schoolboy. (Actually that bit is quite easy!) But every location was characterised by a distinct absence of amphibious activity. Nothing but beetles and dead worms, and I had an adequate supply of both of those.
If you believe the wild life programmes on television, the forests and moorlands flourish with all manner of animals and insects, while the ponds and lochs are home to tsunami-inducing quantities of life actively reproducing at prodigious rates.
To which I reply with the only phrase in the English language in which two positives make a negative.
"Yeah, right!"
I must now await a Biblical plague of frogs to descend on my garden.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Time is Money
I've spent the past week sitting at a desk! My accustomed routine of getting up late, having a leisurely breakfast, going for a walk or spending time in the garden (officially known as pottering), has been swept away at a stroke.
I've got a job, albeit a temporary one, but they have promised to pay me so I suppose there are advantages to getting up early and driving 40 miles every day.
The only thing that hasn't changed about my lifestyle is the speed at which I operate and the passage of Time. I wrote previously about how Time is evil and slows down to extend idle moments. I expected the reverse to be true when I started working - pressure, deadlines and all that.
But, despite being seemingly desperate for me to start this job, nobody appears to have been prepared for my arrival.
I'm sitting at someone else's desk with a small cleared space big enough for a writing pad and a couple of files. I can't use the computer because no-one thought about setting me up on the system.
My colleagues are usually rushing off to meetings or conducting long conversations on the 'phone and the few tasks they have entrusted me with have so far taken no Time at all. When I ask what else they need there is much shuffling of papers and sideways glances.
Ok, I'm getting paid to be bored but Time and its evil hand is weighing heavily on my shoulders. It's made ten times worse when everyone around me is claiming that 'there are not enough hours in the day'.
Hours are a commodity that I have a surplus of. So, I could sell them some of mine to supplement my income amd spend more time at home!
How much is an hour worth?
What am I bid for the next sixty minutes? Each one is brand new; never before used; guaranteed to contain sixty perfect seconds and yours to do whatever you want in. I'll even throw in an bonus five minutes to the highest bidder.
It's the ideal gift for that special person in your life, or a harrassed parent or busy executive.
After all, as the saying nearly goes - "There's no present like the Time" .
I've got a job, albeit a temporary one, but they have promised to pay me so I suppose there are advantages to getting up early and driving 40 miles every day.
The only thing that hasn't changed about my lifestyle is the speed at which I operate and the passage of Time. I wrote previously about how Time is evil and slows down to extend idle moments. I expected the reverse to be true when I started working - pressure, deadlines and all that.
But, despite being seemingly desperate for me to start this job, nobody appears to have been prepared for my arrival.
I'm sitting at someone else's desk with a small cleared space big enough for a writing pad and a couple of files. I can't use the computer because no-one thought about setting me up on the system.
My colleagues are usually rushing off to meetings or conducting long conversations on the 'phone and the few tasks they have entrusted me with have so far taken no Time at all. When I ask what else they need there is much shuffling of papers and sideways glances.
Ok, I'm getting paid to be bored but Time and its evil hand is weighing heavily on my shoulders. It's made ten times worse when everyone around me is claiming that 'there are not enough hours in the day'.
Hours are a commodity that I have a surplus of. So, I could sell them some of mine to supplement my income amd spend more time at home!
How much is an hour worth?
What am I bid for the next sixty minutes? Each one is brand new; never before used; guaranteed to contain sixty perfect seconds and yours to do whatever you want in. I'll even throw in an bonus five minutes to the highest bidder.
It's the ideal gift for that special person in your life, or a harrassed parent or busy executive.
After all, as the saying nearly goes - "There's no present like the Time" .
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Scrounger? - If Only
Hardly a week goes by without a story in the newspapers about benefit 'scroungers'; individuals or families who exist in what appears to be relative luxury purely on state handouts. The inference is always that they have 'screwed the system', secured their income by nefarious means and somehow fooled the overworked/gullible benefits staff with bogus hard luck stories. And no doubt some of them have.
I suppose the tales of 25 year old single mothers with three houses and thirteen disabled children might stretch credibility a bit, but I am sure that some spurious claims do succeed simply because, by the devious Law of Averages (see earlier blog) a few are bound to sneak through.
Whatever I might have thought of the benefit culture before, it looks different from the inside and I must admit that my overwhelming emotion when faced with a 'scrounger' story is sheer admiration at the perpetrator's tenacity.
Trying to find out about what benefits exist - never mind which ones you might be entitled to - is like hacking your way through dense jungle with a bicycle pump and no compass.
Having stumbled across one that looks a likely candidate you then have to fill in a form which requires an amount of research to rival the writing of a definitive history of the Jewish diaspora, because claiming the benefit appears to be the only way to find out if you can get it. (or not)
And then you find out that the information you gave on the form disqualifies you for the benefit you are already getting! (Do I sound bitter?)
I received a letter which stated
"Your allowance has been stopped. If you want to know why telephone the following number"
If I want to know why?!!
I spent the rest of the day, and an amount of money that I was no longer entitled to, either on the phone or waiting for someone to call me back. Each time I called I spoke to someone different and had to explain all over again. The most intriguing call, once I had negotiated the various options and menus, was when someone at the Department of Work and Pensions answered by urgently whispering "Ice Ice Baby" twice before hanging up. I know they record these calls for training purposes, so maybe they were looking for a record deal - or perhaps it was their last day.
Anyway it turned out that, in my claim form, I had declared savings that exceeded the limit for the benefit I was already getting.
"Why," I was asked by someone obviously trained to deal with claimants whose first language is used by only thirty six people in a remote Himalayan cave-kingdom, "why didn't you tell us about this before?"
The correct answer to this seemed obvious and had the advantage of actually being true, but it didn't satisfy Ice Baby. " Because no-one asked me".
I now have to present myself at the local office with sheafs of proof regarding my wordly goods and explain why I had the temerity to expect money just because I was out of work.
It's possible I may be put against the wall and shot.
I suppose the tales of 25 year old single mothers with three houses and thirteen disabled children might stretch credibility a bit, but I am sure that some spurious claims do succeed simply because, by the devious Law of Averages (see earlier blog) a few are bound to sneak through.
Whatever I might have thought of the benefit culture before, it looks different from the inside and I must admit that my overwhelming emotion when faced with a 'scrounger' story is sheer admiration at the perpetrator's tenacity.
Trying to find out about what benefits exist - never mind which ones you might be entitled to - is like hacking your way through dense jungle with a bicycle pump and no compass.
Having stumbled across one that looks a likely candidate you then have to fill in a form which requires an amount of research to rival the writing of a definitive history of the Jewish diaspora, because claiming the benefit appears to be the only way to find out if you can get it. (or not)
And then you find out that the information you gave on the form disqualifies you for the benefit you are already getting! (Do I sound bitter?)
I received a letter which stated
"Your allowance has been stopped. If you want to know why telephone the following number"
If I want to know why?!!
I spent the rest of the day, and an amount of money that I was no longer entitled to, either on the phone or waiting for someone to call me back. Each time I called I spoke to someone different and had to explain all over again. The most intriguing call, once I had negotiated the various options and menus, was when someone at the Department of Work and Pensions answered by urgently whispering "Ice Ice Baby" twice before hanging up. I know they record these calls for training purposes, so maybe they were looking for a record deal - or perhaps it was their last day.
Anyway it turned out that, in my claim form, I had declared savings that exceeded the limit for the benefit I was already getting.
"Why," I was asked by someone obviously trained to deal with claimants whose first language is used by only thirty six people in a remote Himalayan cave-kingdom, "why didn't you tell us about this before?"
The correct answer to this seemed obvious and had the advantage of actually being true, but it didn't satisfy Ice Baby. " Because no-one asked me".
I now have to present myself at the local office with sheafs of proof regarding my wordly goods and explain why I had the temerity to expect money just because I was out of work.
It's possible I may be put against the wall and shot.
Friday, 11 March 2011
social.history
Social historians are very fond of labels to differentiate between the various eras of civilisation. We as a species have progressed through the Stone Age, Iron Age, Bronze Age and so on and more recently we have had the Jet Age and the Space Age.
I got to wondering what the historians of the future (if that's not a contradiction in terms) will label the early years of the 21st century. I have a suggestion for them.
I believe we are living in the Dot Age. (as opposed to the dotage which is still to come)
Punctuation has become particularly significant in the era of the personal computer. Whereas in poetry or prose you can get away with poor punctuation and still be understood, try sending an e mail or logging on to a website without a Dot or a forward slash in exactly the right place and see how far you get!
There are many symbols on the keyboard that are essential to the proper use of cyberspace but the Dot is the symbol of the age.
So let's hear it for the Dot!
Also known as a period or full stop the Dot first achieved fame on the communications stage as one half of the double act that brought the world the Morse Code. Since then the Dot has gone from strength to strength and has outgrown its erstwhile code partner in a glorious solo career.
There are for instances many dotcom millionaires, but few, if any, hyphen or slash millionaires - if you don't include the guitarist from Guns'n'Roses.
The Dot epitomises modernity especially when coupled with whole sentences in lower case letters. Many companies have realised that in order to appear to be in tune with the computer age all they have to do is convert their logo to have no capital letters, no spaces and a few seemingly random Dots. No matter that said logo makes no sense or has nothing to do with the product it's trying to sell. The capital letter is dead; long.livethe.dot.
Welcome to the Dot Age.
thank.youandgood.bye;=)
I got to wondering what the historians of the future (if that's not a contradiction in terms) will label the early years of the 21st century. I have a suggestion for them.
I believe we are living in the Dot Age. (as opposed to the dotage which is still to come)
Punctuation has become particularly significant in the era of the personal computer. Whereas in poetry or prose you can get away with poor punctuation and still be understood, try sending an e mail or logging on to a website without a Dot or a forward slash in exactly the right place and see how far you get!
There are many symbols on the keyboard that are essential to the proper use of cyberspace but the Dot is the symbol of the age.
So let's hear it for the Dot!
Also known as a period or full stop the Dot first achieved fame on the communications stage as one half of the double act that brought the world the Morse Code. Since then the Dot has gone from strength to strength and has outgrown its erstwhile code partner in a glorious solo career.
There are for instances many dotcom millionaires, but few, if any, hyphen or slash millionaires - if you don't include the guitarist from Guns'n'Roses.
The Dot epitomises modernity especially when coupled with whole sentences in lower case letters. Many companies have realised that in order to appear to be in tune with the computer age all they have to do is convert their logo to have no capital letters, no spaces and a few seemingly random Dots. No matter that said logo makes no sense or has nothing to do with the product it's trying to sell. The capital letter is dead; long.livethe.dot.
Welcome to the Dot Age.
thank.youandgood.bye;=)
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
A Lot of Rubbish
I've been doing a lot more walking lately - not through choice but by necessity. No job - no car. And it's a lot more inconvenient than I thought it was going to be. Not that I mind walking. It can be quite pleasant provided you're not in a hurry and the weather is not throwing cold water down the back of your neck or whipping up a tornado. You can't do things on impulse though - you have to plan ahead.
So I have had a different view - a close up of our surroundings at a leisurely pace. There is time to see things that you wouldn't notice from a speeding car or bus.
One of the things that I have noticed (and wish I hadn't) is the amount of litter lying everywhere. There are incredible amounts of it spoiling almost every green space, along the sides of every road, hanging from hedges, bushes and fences.
There's no escape from it even in the countryside. The Scottish landscape is famous for its beauty and spectacular views. That's the big picture; the stuff they use in the scenic calendars and post cards. Up close the reality is ditches and roadside verges full of drinks cans, bottles and food wrappers. I'm not just talking about fly-tipping; the odd washing machine or mattress left in a layby. Even then, it must use as much effort to take the offending item to the remote location to dump it as it would to go to the nearest recycling centre. It's free so why not do the right thing?
The problem seems to be that no-one is brought up to dispose of litter properly. When out for a drive and you have finished your snack why wait until you find a bin; why take your litter home and dispose of it in a receptacle that will be collected for you by the council? It's so much easier and makes sense doesn't it to open the car window and throw the lot out? Someone else will pick it up.
Those of us who were brought up never to drop litter (there is probably a cut off age for this) would not think about letting an empty packet or can fall to the ground. We are the litterati and we appear to be in the minority.
I once had an idea for a book wherein a green party won their country's election and instituted a Litter Police Force. Serial droppers were rounded up and exiled to a remote island where they could throw litter to their hearts' content and would only be spoiling their own surroundings. I never wrote the book but I might vote for the party!
So I have had a different view - a close up of our surroundings at a leisurely pace. There is time to see things that you wouldn't notice from a speeding car or bus.
One of the things that I have noticed (and wish I hadn't) is the amount of litter lying everywhere. There are incredible amounts of it spoiling almost every green space, along the sides of every road, hanging from hedges, bushes and fences.
There's no escape from it even in the countryside. The Scottish landscape is famous for its beauty and spectacular views. That's the big picture; the stuff they use in the scenic calendars and post cards. Up close the reality is ditches and roadside verges full of drinks cans, bottles and food wrappers. I'm not just talking about fly-tipping; the odd washing machine or mattress left in a layby. Even then, it must use as much effort to take the offending item to the remote location to dump it as it would to go to the nearest recycling centre. It's free so why not do the right thing?
The problem seems to be that no-one is brought up to dispose of litter properly. When out for a drive and you have finished your snack why wait until you find a bin; why take your litter home and dispose of it in a receptacle that will be collected for you by the council? It's so much easier and makes sense doesn't it to open the car window and throw the lot out? Someone else will pick it up.
Those of us who were brought up never to drop litter (there is probably a cut off age for this) would not think about letting an empty packet or can fall to the ground. We are the litterati and we appear to be in the minority.
I once had an idea for a book wherein a green party won their country's election and instituted a Litter Police Force. Serial droppers were rounded up and exiled to a remote island where they could throw litter to their hearts' content and would only be spoiling their own surroundings. I never wrote the book but I might vote for the party!
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Careering
I have no idea why or how I decided to become a civil engineer. I was a year into the university course before I knew what civil engineering was about. Did I want, in the words of the professional charter 'to direct the great sources of power in nature for the use and convenience of man'? I suspect I thought I might get to drive a big yellow digger!
What I really wanted to drive when I was a kid was a bus. It was different in those far off days. Bus drivers were isolated in cabs away from the general public and buses had conductors who took the money, handed out tickets and pressed the bell - once for stop, twice for go.
To be honest I still have an urge to try my hand at driving a bus - though maybe not as a career change.
Bus drivers today seem to have graduated from the Formula One School of Motoring. Once the passengers are on board and the door closes, they see the lights change to green and they are off, burning rubber.
Unfortunately, the Little Old Lady (or LOL as we computer-dudes say) who has just got on is propelled towards the back of the bus at great speed, a Usain Bolt to the driver's Jensen Button, her feet a blur until she stops, spreadeagled across the back seat, her expensively coiffured hair streamlined into a white spikey halo like a dandelion clock and the contents of her shopping bag shared amongst her fellow passengers.
Of course the reverse is true when it's time to get off. The driver reads 'Bus Stop' as 'Pit Stop' and swerves in and brakes at the last moment. Our LOL is then catapulted forwards to the front of the bus. However, an experienced LOL has perfected a one legged left handed skid turn which ensures that she exits, at speed, by the door and not through the windscreen; at the same time depositing her used ticket in the appropriate box and directing a well-aimed handbag to the side of the driver's head.
Actually bus driving seems to be fun. Where do I sign?
What I really wanted to drive when I was a kid was a bus. It was different in those far off days. Bus drivers were isolated in cabs away from the general public and buses had conductors who took the money, handed out tickets and pressed the bell - once for stop, twice for go.
To be honest I still have an urge to try my hand at driving a bus - though maybe not as a career change.
Bus drivers today seem to have graduated from the Formula One School of Motoring. Once the passengers are on board and the door closes, they see the lights change to green and they are off, burning rubber.
Unfortunately, the Little Old Lady (or LOL as we computer-dudes say) who has just got on is propelled towards the back of the bus at great speed, a Usain Bolt to the driver's Jensen Button, her feet a blur until she stops, spreadeagled across the back seat, her expensively coiffured hair streamlined into a white spikey halo like a dandelion clock and the contents of her shopping bag shared amongst her fellow passengers.
Of course the reverse is true when it's time to get off. The driver reads 'Bus Stop' as 'Pit Stop' and swerves in and brakes at the last moment. Our LOL is then catapulted forwards to the front of the bus. However, an experienced LOL has perfected a one legged left handed skid turn which ensures that she exits, at speed, by the door and not through the windscreen; at the same time depositing her used ticket in the appropriate box and directing a well-aimed handbag to the side of the driver's head.
Actually bus driving seems to be fun. Where do I sign?
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Life in the Slow Lane
Tick.
At 11am on the 28th September 2010, I was a company employee. At 11.30am I was an ex-employee and, at the same time, joined the ranks of the Jobless. I remember saying then that I could be out of work until Christmas. That seemed to be the worst case scenario. And here I still am.
There are a few consequences of being unemployed that might not be immediately obvious to those who haven't experienced it.
One of those is the effect that being idle has on Time. I had always thought of Time as a non-variable commodity. An hour is an hour no matter how you fill it. But that is not the case. We've all experienced this to some degree. You are late for an important meeting and stuck in traffic. The dashboard clock in the car is a blur as the numbers flash round closer and closer to your meeting time while you get more and more frustrated. Minutes feel like seconds.
The reverse is true for the Jobless. I quickly realised that if I was going to survive a long period without work, I would have to find things to occupy my mind. I also realised that I was going to have to get used to doing things more slowly than I was used to. I even started walking more slowly - after all there's no rush; I've got all day. Deadlines are something for those with a job.
I had not factored in the devious nature of Time. Time is evil and when it sees that you are trying to defeat its purposes, it slows down with you.
Try doing absolutely nothing for - say - five minutes. Don't read or watch tv. Just sit and keep an eye on the clock. After about thirty seconds you feel that you have been up all day and it must be time for bed! The distance between tick and tock becomes unbearably long and the rest of the day stretches out before you into infinity. And there will be another one tomorrow and the day after.
Of course there are always little jobs to do around the house - especially if you have a resourceful partner - and this can help. But still Time can frustrate you. A job that normally takes two hours to do when you haven't got two hours to spare, only takes 45 minutes when you have all day to do it. Everything just falls into place and you find that you are unaccountably efficient. That screwdriver is exactly where you first looked for it; the screws didn't stick or the heads get mashed up; when you put everything back together again there aren't two pieces left over and everything works perfectly. And while you are doing it you are acutely aware that the clock on the wall is ticking in a basso profundo, like an old vinyl record played at the wrong speed.
Damn - I typed too quickly.
Tock
At 11am on the 28th September 2010, I was a company employee. At 11.30am I was an ex-employee and, at the same time, joined the ranks of the Jobless. I remember saying then that I could be out of work until Christmas. That seemed to be the worst case scenario. And here I still am.
There are a few consequences of being unemployed that might not be immediately obvious to those who haven't experienced it.
One of those is the effect that being idle has on Time. I had always thought of Time as a non-variable commodity. An hour is an hour no matter how you fill it. But that is not the case. We've all experienced this to some degree. You are late for an important meeting and stuck in traffic. The dashboard clock in the car is a blur as the numbers flash round closer and closer to your meeting time while you get more and more frustrated. Minutes feel like seconds.
The reverse is true for the Jobless. I quickly realised that if I was going to survive a long period without work, I would have to find things to occupy my mind. I also realised that I was going to have to get used to doing things more slowly than I was used to. I even started walking more slowly - after all there's no rush; I've got all day. Deadlines are something for those with a job.
I had not factored in the devious nature of Time. Time is evil and when it sees that you are trying to defeat its purposes, it slows down with you.
Try doing absolutely nothing for - say - five minutes. Don't read or watch tv. Just sit and keep an eye on the clock. After about thirty seconds you feel that you have been up all day and it must be time for bed! The distance between tick and tock becomes unbearably long and the rest of the day stretches out before you into infinity. And there will be another one tomorrow and the day after.
Of course there are always little jobs to do around the house - especially if you have a resourceful partner - and this can help. But still Time can frustrate you. A job that normally takes two hours to do when you haven't got two hours to spare, only takes 45 minutes when you have all day to do it. Everything just falls into place and you find that you are unaccountably efficient. That screwdriver is exactly where you first looked for it; the screws didn't stick or the heads get mashed up; when you put everything back together again there aren't two pieces left over and everything works perfectly. And while you are doing it you are acutely aware that the clock on the wall is ticking in a basso profundo, like an old vinyl record played at the wrong speed.
Damn - I typed too quickly.
Tock
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Compos(t) Mentis
Compost noun; a mixture of decomposed organic substances such as rotting vegetable matter etc which is used to enrich soil and nourish plants.
So says my dictionary on the subject.
People garden for different reasons. It seems to be fashionable these days to grow your own produce, thereby saving money that you would have spent on vegetables in the shops and, as a by-product, rescuing the entire planet from destruction by carbon dioxide poisoning by not having to import a bag of potatoes from a farm in the next county.
However, most gardens are status symbols. Whether you own a stately home with thousands of acres of rambling woodland and formal geometric boxwood hedging enclosing the ornamental duckpond or whether you have a two foot strip of grass between you and the general public, the overwhelming priority is that your garden looks better than the one next door.
It doesn't matter whether you can tell your aster from your lobelia, just as long as the weeds aren't obscuring your view of the outside world and the grass is neatly trimmed, you can hold your head up high in the world.
Another way of saving the planet is to make your own compost, although I doubt if this alone would prevent an attack from unfriendly aliens with an orbiting thermo-nuclear weapon. However, if compost making is the way to avoid Armgeddon, I'm doomed.
I got my first garden when we moved to a new house in 1977. In the intervening 34 years, I have religiously kept garden and kitchen waste in a variety of containers in different conditions for different lengths of times and have produced enough compost to fill a small flowerpot, though it wasn't filled right to the top.
There are many books written on the subject of compost making, but the main gist of the instructions is that you have a heap of organic material which heats up and rots to produce a sweet smelling, fine and crumbly brown medium which can be used to enhance your garden soil. It's easy isn't it?
All you need to help Mother Nature along is air - and water if the compost gets too dry.
Air is no problem. This comes free on a daily basis courtesy of the atmosphere. I have never had a problem of my compost being too dry. Insects and worms that stray into my compost heap quickly develop gills or they drown. Even in death they don't contribute to the organic mix that I am striving for as they are preserved intact as if suspended in amber.
Two years ago I purchased a purpose-made compost bin with a lid. I raised it up off the ground to prevent water rising up from below; I added dry ingredients in the form of ripped up newspaper; I bought a box of accelerant as recommended by a friend (who incidentally told me that making compost is as easy as falling off a log). Two years later, when I open the bottom door of my bin what do I find? Potato peelings, leaves, newspaper pieces that are still readable - all covered in a cold, wet slime, but still fully recognisable as the 'waste' products that were added months before.
My family do not understand the anguish and frustration that I suffer as a result of my not being able to control a natural process that should proceed without any human intervention. Cruel remarks have been made to the effect that when I die they are going to lay me on my own compost heap in the hope that I will be preserved for ever. Given that some of the dead plants that I have discarded on to my heap have actually grown there, I might even come back to life.
In the meantime, I'm off to balance on a log and see if I can defy gravity as well.
So says my dictionary on the subject.
People garden for different reasons. It seems to be fashionable these days to grow your own produce, thereby saving money that you would have spent on vegetables in the shops and, as a by-product, rescuing the entire planet from destruction by carbon dioxide poisoning by not having to import a bag of potatoes from a farm in the next county.
However, most gardens are status symbols. Whether you own a stately home with thousands of acres of rambling woodland and formal geometric boxwood hedging enclosing the ornamental duckpond or whether you have a two foot strip of grass between you and the general public, the overwhelming priority is that your garden looks better than the one next door.
It doesn't matter whether you can tell your aster from your lobelia, just as long as the weeds aren't obscuring your view of the outside world and the grass is neatly trimmed, you can hold your head up high in the world.
Another way of saving the planet is to make your own compost, although I doubt if this alone would prevent an attack from unfriendly aliens with an orbiting thermo-nuclear weapon. However, if compost making is the way to avoid Armgeddon, I'm doomed.
I got my first garden when we moved to a new house in 1977. In the intervening 34 years, I have religiously kept garden and kitchen waste in a variety of containers in different conditions for different lengths of times and have produced enough compost to fill a small flowerpot, though it wasn't filled right to the top.
There are many books written on the subject of compost making, but the main gist of the instructions is that you have a heap of organic material which heats up and rots to produce a sweet smelling, fine and crumbly brown medium which can be used to enhance your garden soil. It's easy isn't it?
All you need to help Mother Nature along is air - and water if the compost gets too dry.
Air is no problem. This comes free on a daily basis courtesy of the atmosphere. I have never had a problem of my compost being too dry. Insects and worms that stray into my compost heap quickly develop gills or they drown. Even in death they don't contribute to the organic mix that I am striving for as they are preserved intact as if suspended in amber.
Two years ago I purchased a purpose-made compost bin with a lid. I raised it up off the ground to prevent water rising up from below; I added dry ingredients in the form of ripped up newspaper; I bought a box of accelerant as recommended by a friend (who incidentally told me that making compost is as easy as falling off a log). Two years later, when I open the bottom door of my bin what do I find? Potato peelings, leaves, newspaper pieces that are still readable - all covered in a cold, wet slime, but still fully recognisable as the 'waste' products that were added months before.
My family do not understand the anguish and frustration that I suffer as a result of my not being able to control a natural process that should proceed without any human intervention. Cruel remarks have been made to the effect that when I die they are going to lay me on my own compost heap in the hope that I will be preserved for ever. Given that some of the dead plants that I have discarded on to my heap have actually grown there, I might even come back to life.
In the meantime, I'm off to balance on a log and see if I can defy gravity as well.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Technobabble
I have been listening to a programme on my coal powered wireless set about the launch of 3-D mobile phones. I suppose since mobile phones seem to do just about everything these days ( I assume you can still use them to talk remotely to other people) there's no reason that they shouldn't operate in 3-D though to be honest I find that the best way to see things in 3-D is to keep both eyes open.
I can't deny that I am behind the times when it comes to modern communication technology. I gave up trying to keep in contact with the goose-stepping march of progress after the video recorder gave way to the DVD. This was concurrent with me having just bought my first video recorder.
We have passed into an era when we no longer need to know how a thing works in order to be able to use it. I still can't understand why the light on the ceiling comes on when I press a switch on the wall. Or is that just me? As I say, I'm a technological stegosaurus. Apples, Blackberries and Blue Rays are all things that I would order in a restaurant.
The mobile phone has gone through regenerations faster than a test tube full of randy fruit flies. Maybe after all this is the way to future App-iness. (See what I did there?)
Despite my reluctance to drive myself down the communications highway there is one thing that intrigues me about the use of mobile telephones. It is something that I have discovered following a period of shallow research carried out by me on a sample of less than a few people.
The results clearly show that the second word uttered by users of mobile phones once connection has been made is 'just'.
This can signify
a) location: as in "I'm just on the bus/in the supermarket/in the toilet
or
b) activity: as in "I'm just shampooing the dog/writing my blog/growing my hair
While this is interesting in itself, there are two further interpretations that should be considered.
The use of the word 'just' could be taken to mean dissatisfaction with one's present circumstances.
"I'd rather be on the beach in Brazil with a cold drink in one hand and a hot man/woman (delete as applicable) in the other but..... I'm just on the bus"
Or it could indicate a state of incompleteness or 'only just'.
In this case "I'm just on the bus" might indictate that the person in question has boarded that bus but that the doors have closed and they have left a leg outside. (or for hands-free sets - an arm).
I haven't personally witnessed this, and more research is obviously required.
Anyway my idea is this. Yes, there is an idea lurking - all the above has not been for nothing.
The technology must exist for the phone companies to be able to monitor the rogue useage of the word 'just'. There must be a way that they could make a small charge for each occurrence which would be added to the monthly bill to the phone user. At the end of each financial year the companies could then prepare a statement which would be submitted to the appropriate government department and the revenue raised, less a fee for administration, would go to help to reduce the national deficit.
I can't think why no-one has thought of this before. It is a foolproof system and there could be no legitimate argument against it. Who could claim that this is not a 'just' tax?
I can't deny that I am behind the times when it comes to modern communication technology. I gave up trying to keep in contact with the goose-stepping march of progress after the video recorder gave way to the DVD. This was concurrent with me having just bought my first video recorder.
We have passed into an era when we no longer need to know how a thing works in order to be able to use it. I still can't understand why the light on the ceiling comes on when I press a switch on the wall. Or is that just me? As I say, I'm a technological stegosaurus. Apples, Blackberries and Blue Rays are all things that I would order in a restaurant.
The mobile phone has gone through regenerations faster than a test tube full of randy fruit flies. Maybe after all this is the way to future App-iness. (See what I did there?)
Despite my reluctance to drive myself down the communications highway there is one thing that intrigues me about the use of mobile telephones. It is something that I have discovered following a period of shallow research carried out by me on a sample of less than a few people.
The results clearly show that the second word uttered by users of mobile phones once connection has been made is 'just'.
This can signify
a) location: as in "I'm just on the bus/in the supermarket/in the toilet
or
b) activity: as in "I'm just shampooing the dog/writing my blog/growing my hair
While this is interesting in itself, there are two further interpretations that should be considered.
The use of the word 'just' could be taken to mean dissatisfaction with one's present circumstances.
"I'd rather be on the beach in Brazil with a cold drink in one hand and a hot man/woman (delete as applicable) in the other but..... I'm just on the bus"
Or it could indicate a state of incompleteness or 'only just'.
In this case "I'm just on the bus" might indictate that the person in question has boarded that bus but that the doors have closed and they have left a leg outside. (or for hands-free sets - an arm).
I haven't personally witnessed this, and more research is obviously required.
Anyway my idea is this. Yes, there is an idea lurking - all the above has not been for nothing.
The technology must exist for the phone companies to be able to monitor the rogue useage of the word 'just'. There must be a way that they could make a small charge for each occurrence which would be added to the monthly bill to the phone user. At the end of each financial year the companies could then prepare a statement which would be submitted to the appropriate government department and the revenue raised, less a fee for administration, would go to help to reduce the national deficit.
I can't think why no-one has thought of this before. It is a foolproof system and there could be no legitimate argument against it. Who could claim that this is not a 'just' tax?
Monday, 14 February 2011
The Law of Averages
I have fallen foul of the Law. The Law of Averages that is! After 37 years of continuous employment I now find myself out of work and a victim of the economic recession.
People say "Oh well after 37 years, by the Law of Averages, it was bound to happen sooner or later".
This seems to work on the same principle as the Chaos Theory whereby an indescriminate flap of a rogue butterfly's wing in the depths of a South American rain forest can cause World War Three, an outbreak of bubonic plague or a serious shortage of custard creams.
In my case, it means that some work-shy layabout in a slum district of a major city somewhere in the world, who has never worked in his life, has inadvertantly got himself a job and, to keep the averages right, someone (me) who has always had a job, has to lose out.
And so the world stays on a even keel. I suppose I should be grateful that I have been given this opportunity to maintain the balance of the universe. I might even feel proud to be a part of the greater scheme of things.
Until the credit card bill arrives.
How easy would it be to find said work-shy layabout and convince his employers that he is not the man for the job? Or would that kill a butterfly?
People say "Oh well after 37 years, by the Law of Averages, it was bound to happen sooner or later".
This seems to work on the same principle as the Chaos Theory whereby an indescriminate flap of a rogue butterfly's wing in the depths of a South American rain forest can cause World War Three, an outbreak of bubonic plague or a serious shortage of custard creams.
In my case, it means that some work-shy layabout in a slum district of a major city somewhere in the world, who has never worked in his life, has inadvertantly got himself a job and, to keep the averages right, someone (me) who has always had a job, has to lose out.
And so the world stays on a even keel. I suppose I should be grateful that I have been given this opportunity to maintain the balance of the universe. I might even feel proud to be a part of the greater scheme of things.
Until the credit card bill arrives.
How easy would it be to find said work-shy layabout and convince his employers that he is not the man for the job? Or would that kill a butterfly?
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