%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
|
Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Miss Polly I had cause this morning to look up the words to the nursery rhyme, Miss Polly Had a Dolly. To my surprise, I found that the British version has one small but significant difference from the American. Here’s the version Google knows: Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick And she called for the doctor to come quick, quick The doctor came with his bag and his hat And he knocked at the door with a rat-a-tat-tat He looked at the dolly and he shook his head And he said, "Miss Polly, put her straight to bed" He wrote on a paper for a pill, pill, pill I'll be back in the morning if the baby's still ill The only difference in the Brit poem is in the last line, which goes: I'll be back in the morning with my bill bill bill Apart from the facts that the words hark back to an earlier time when doctors still travelled to the patient, and that the poem’s origins are shrouded in mystery, reality insists that I prefer the British version. Word count: 184 |
| A Few Thoughts on Weather There is a ridge that runs between Coventry and Birmingham. You would not notice this unless you travelled the main road between the cities. Although gradual, the road rises steadily for several miles and then, as you approach Birmingham Airport, it starts descending until it arrives in the outskirts of Birmingham. It may seem an insignificant feature but this echo of the more dramatic Edge Hills to the southeast has a surprising influence on the weather in both cities. It was several years before I noticed that Coventry has much better weather than Brum and points west. It was almost inevitable that, while the western midlands was receiving snowfalls that paralyzed traffic and rain that caused the Severn to flood, Coventry was lucky to get a frosting of snow or a pleasant drop of rain that threatened nothing. Being of a geographical mind, it did not take me long to connect the weather with the fact of the ridge that I had noticed on only my second or third journey between the two cities. It was obvious to me that the prevailing winds arriving from the west were forced upwards as they left Birmingham and released the worst of their moisture before they reached the crest of the ridge. Being able to descend to warmer levels after that, their fury lessened and Coventry experienced a milder precipitation in consequence. It's called a rain shadow, I believe. This is all very well until summer arrives. If England decides in her wisdom to have a warmer summer than usual, then Coventry will bear the brunt. That ridge milks any rain clouds long before they reach the city and the inhabitants will suffer in the unrelenting heat and humidity of a desperate few weeks. Inevitably, thoughts turn to the coast and a release from the stifling heat that Coventry can suffer at such times. And so was born Coventry Fortnight, two weeks in July when the factories shut down and every man and his family, friends and dogs made their way to the sea. Coventry is situate bang in the middle of England; indeed, a little village named Meriden is no more than a couple of miles from the city and claims to be the very centre. There is a stone cross on the village green that is reputed to be the exact spot. This means that the Coventrian is spoiled for choice when it comes to coastlines; whichever direction he chooses, it will be a hundred miles before he can see the ocean. Closest by a mile or two are the open sands of Norfolk or Lincolnshire on either side of the Wash. Norfolk especially is beautiful in spite of its reputation for dreary flatness and it has that wonderful sandy beach running all the way around the bulge from the Wash to Wells-next-the sea. To the soul who finds peace and rest in emptiness and huge skies, it should be Norfolk. There remains the unfortunate fact that it is the North Sea we're looking at here (for who would dare bathe in it?). Psychological it may be but I swear it is colder than the waters on Britain's west coast. The name hardly helps either. So we must turn our thoughts westward and that means Wales, if we don't want to drive too far. Going for the shortest distance means North Wales, spectacular mountains, deep valleys and narrow winding roads that will leave us exhausted by the time we reach the coast. It is worth it and was one of our favoured destinations. A little more distance brings Pembrokeshire within reach and this, too, is a good choice. With better roads than in the north, even more interesting coast and more English than anywhere else in Wales, this became a favourite destination too. But the champion has to be Cornwall. Not the dreadfully over-popular North Cornwall but the extreme southwest, the Lizard Peninsula indeed. Almost unknown to other vacationers, the Lizard is the secret gem of the British coastline with beaches the equal of any tropical isle, secluded coves, tiny fishing villages and climate so mild that it's best not to tell anyone for fear of it becoming generally known. In truth, however, any of these would be acceptable as an escape from the humidity of Coventry in a hot summer. Whichever you choose and no matter how bright and cloudless the day, a British coast will provide a stiff breeze that blows away the memory of sweaty summer nights and endless blazing days. And the Atlantic is bitterly cold if you're used to the Indian Ocean but it is just about bearable if you immerse yourself carefully. Which brings me to the point of this exercise. How could I talk of New England weather without first considering Olde England? They are so similar that the American version deserves its name but also so different in ways that awaken one from the dream of English winters and summers. New England is like our beloved island but more so. In America weather is extreme; choose any part of the country and the weather will have a way to kill you. In New England it would usually be a blizzard on loan from Canada but there are other tricks up its sleeve. A few years ago western Massachusetts experienced a storm big enough to have a tornado or two at its edges. And when it gets hot here, it is as humid as Coventry but hotter. Word count: 954 |
| A Music Post Listen to this guy. I’d be laughing too if I could sing like that. Filipino, by the name of Cakra Khan. |
| Crab of the Day Yesterday I realised that, apart from my music posts, I only post about old age these days. Obviously, this is a result of my having reached an age that even I consider old but I suppose I ought to strive to extend my outlook beyond the narrow confines of my own experience, if only to keep the young and middle aged entertained. The problem then becomes that I have pontificated often enough in the past on those more youthful ages of man and I really don't want to repeat myself. Even that is presuming that you were listening at the time, which is surely an almost life-threatening presumption, if you ask me. So I am left with the proposition that I should write about what interests me now, rather than set myself up as some sort of archaeologist of ancient pre-history. And what interests me at present is this phenomenon of ageing. It seems I might as well get on with it. All of which turns out to be a long-winded way of saying that I post about old age and, if you don't like it, why are you reading it? Word count: 191 |
| Old Age Old age is your reward for having survived thus far. |
| Ghostly Laughter A wonderful quote from season 2 of Slings and Arrows, spoken by the ghost, Oliver Welles: "Oh, come on, Geoffrey, you're speaking to a ghost. Wake up and smell the coffin." |
| There seems to be a lot of talk of the weather on the Newsfeed these days. Me, I live in New England so I just keep my head down and mouth shut. Catch me annoying the weather gods! |
| Writing Recently I've been coming across a lot of blogs reflecting on why writers write. The most common reason seems to be that we write because we like doing it but, thinking about this, I realize that it's not true for me. I hate writing. If it were not for the keyboard, I would never write anything longer than a poem. At the age of sixteen I commandeered my mother's old Imperial typewriter and bashed out half a novel. And I do mean "bash". It was a tank of a machine, weighed a ton, and required real force to work the keys. I did not know it then but it was to affect my typing style ever afterwards; I am still heavy-handed on the keyboard. Twenty years later I was working on a lightweight electronic typewriter and pushed it all over the desk with my pounding. And now I have cause to thank the computer keyboard manufacturers for producing such a robust and reliable product. Which is not to say that I don't break modern keyboards - I do. But it takes a while and, invariably, it's the Enter key that goes, the microswitch underneath finally battered into submission. That's when another brilliant invention of the manufacturers comes into play; there's another Enter key at the bottom right of the board and, with a swift adjustment of my habits, I can type just as fast using the alternative. And that brings up the matter of speed. I never learned to type properly and I use one finger, index on the left (I'm left-handed so this works for me), and my right index finger has responsibility for the Enter and Shift keys. It's called the Hunt and Peck method, I believe. This means that I can never aspire to the typing speed of a true touch typist but I can rattle along at a fair old pace, even so. The "Hunt" part of my method has become more of an instinctive awareness through long years of practice and my typing speed is reasonable as a result. Yet I do not trust my instinct; I still have to watch the keyboard while typing, if only to confirm that my finger is hitting the right keys. I envy those who can watch the screen while typing. But I will never take one of those software typing courses and teach myself to do it properly. Partly, this is because I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks but, more importantly, I have discovered that my typing speed fits perfectly with the rate at which I think. By the time I've completed one sentence, the brain is just about ready to supply the next. Were I to increase typing speed, I would merely waste the time saved in sitting motionless while the mind catches up. So it is the keyboard that enables me to "write". This is reinforced by the fact that, thanks to another event way back in the mists of time, I switched my handwriting from lower case to capitals and this makes my writing very slow. I have become a creature of the keyboard. As to why I set words on a page, I think that must again be a speed-related matter. Whether we write books, short stories or poems, what we are doing is to set out our thoughts in a logical, understandable manner, with the intention of arriving eventually at a conclusion. Speaking is an unsatisfactory solution to this need for communication, too subject to interruption by others, stray thoughts that lead one into side streets of irrelevance, and omission of important facts through the heat of the moment. Writing gives us the time to organize and sharpen, concentrate and refine, so that the finished product is that much more effective in attaining its goal: to communicate something we feel is important. And, for me, the keyboard is the perfectly-paced tool to enable me to do this. Without it, I doubt I'd even blog. Why is there this need to communicate? Ah, there I think we're getting into what is called "the human condition", something common to us all and yet totally inexplicable. We can say that we are social animals but this does nothing to explain why we feel so compelled to tell each other stories, be they fact or fiction. It's just one of those things. Word count: 728 |
| Yet Another Apology Well, as I have mentioned elsewhere in WDC today, I woke up as sick as a dog. Looking back in this blog, I see that I last apologised for the slowing down in production due to illness only two months ago. It looks bad, I know, but what can I do? When the sickness fairy strikes, I'm clearly not dodging quickly enough. Anyway, this is my latest humble apology. I will try to continue to produce my usual daily fare but it ain't easy at times. Began a story for SCREAMS!!! a few days ago and the deadline is not far off - no guarantee now that I'll finish it in time. All I can do is try. Word count: 117 |
| Factory Tales 3 A few years ago, I watched a re-run of the American Who Wants To Be A Millionaire show. No excuses; when I slump down in front of the television, I'll watch anything. But, on this occasion, I'm glad I happened to be watching the show for it included an interesting contestant. He was a big guy with very long hair tied in a ponytail and it was obvious, when Regis asked him what he did for a living, that he didn't really want to answer. Almost apologetically, he replied that he stacked shelves in a supermarket. Now, there's nothing unusual in that; plenty of people stack shelves at one time or another in their career. The reason for the guy's embarrassment became clear when Regis asked how long he'd been doing it: thirteen years. I am as susceptible to preconceived notions as anyone else and I admit that I was surprised at this answer. Many of us would assume, no doubt, that the guy was a "loser" to have stayed so long in such a dead-end job. And this, no doubt, was what caused the man's discomfiture at his admission; he was used to others' reactions on hearing this. The problem with the assumption was that he was articulate, intelligent and eventually went on to the point most contestants reach on the show - he walked away with $32,000 in his hand. I must suppose, therefore, that he had stayed a stacker because it suited his purposes, not because he was incapable of doing anything else. How quick we are to define a person by his or her job. Males especially are used to being asked what they do and being classified according to their answer. Yet there are many who persist in menial jobs because it happens to fit with their life's goals; very often this is because what they really enjoy doing doesn't pay. I know this because I've done it myself often enough. The period of five years in which I worked as a machinist in a car factory is the prime example of this. I accepted the job because I needed to find work as soon as possible on arriving in England; I stayed in it for so long because I liked it. It was very physical work but the body learns quickly and grows accustomed to the demands made on it. Operating any machine becomes second nature in a few days, thus freeing the mind to do whatever it fancies. The only mental requirement was counting each piece until one achieved the stated quota and even this became automatic in time. So the job suited me in that it gave me plenty of time to think. If I have a vocation in life, it seems to be thinking, but I have yet to find anyone who will pay me to do so; working as a machinist is as close as I've come to that ideal situation. The job had benefits beyond this, however. Most importantly, it provided me with the opportunity to come to know the English working class. Although both of my parents came from working class backgrounds (my mother would argue with this, stating that her father had a white collar job; but he was a clerk only, fitting into the complex English class structure at lower middle class at best), I was brought up in the colonies where the culture is uniformly middle class. My roots remain with the working class, however, and it was the factory that taught me this. I am quite sure that I started the job with all the usual prejudices and assumptions of what my fellow machinists would be like. The work was classed as "semi-skilled", meaning that it did not take too much intelligence or training to learn, and it would be natural to think that those who stayed at this level did so because they could rise no higher (see how even the language predisposes us to think of some jobs as higher than others). I soon found that this was nonsense. As I came to know my workmates and make friends amongst them, I became aware that they were no less intelligent than myself, indeed, that many of them could think far quicker than I could. The only real difference was in education; I had been privileged to receive an academic education, whereas they had been consigned by circumstances to the worst schools, where little was expected of them because they were, after all, working class. Society, their parents, their peers, all assumed that they would leave school at the age of sixteen and go directly into some blue collar job. Without any alternative, they complied without demur. It was chess that was the most outstanding illustration of this and I stumbled upon it during my first night shift. Even more so than on days, the aim on nights was to churn out the quota as fast as possible and then do whatever we pleased. And what pleased some of them, I found, was to play chess. In my early twenties I had become quite good at chess, having several friends who played it and eventually meeting someone who read books on it. This started me reading too and I arrived at a time when I knew that I could become very good at the game. But I also knew that, to reach the top flight of chess, it was necessary to devote one's life to it; I was not sure that I wanted to do that. The dilemma was decided for me when I met someone who lived and breathed chess. He lived in a bare apartment with only a television, a table and a chair, and he spent his nights in poring over a chessboard in the light from the TV. It was weird. I gave up all thought of ever playing chess seriously and allowed it to drop out of my life. So I was pretty rusty when I discovered the little group of chess players in a corner of the factory. I watched for a while and, when they invited me to join in, I accepted, thinking that I would slaughter them easily. And so I did, at first. But they learned so quickly that very soon I was having to shake off the rust and get down to some real thinking. It seemed that, as fast as I could recall old opening strategies, they would catch on and make me work for a result. I was quite relieved when my two-week stint on nights came to an end and I could go back on days. One of the chess players, a fellow called Malcolm, had become a friend during that night shift and, a few months later, he gave up night shifts and became a daytimer. He set up a chess group immediately and we began to play at lunchtimes. Malcolm was a great organizer (just one example of talent apparently wasted in the factory) and he introduced a series of chess tournaments with trophies for the winner. Suddenly everything became more serious. When it comes to chess, I am extremely competitive. The game is a measure of intelligence and to lose is to feel humiliated. My pride insisted that I win those trophies. And I did win a few, although those guys made me work for it. Soon I was getting out my old chess books at night and studying to stay ahead. But they just kept on learning from me and remained hot on my heels. It got so bad that I can remember waking up one night with the solution to an adjourned game in my head. I was even thinking about it in my sleep! It all came to an end when the factory closed down and I must admit to a feeling of relief. At last I could put chess back where it belonged and relax a bit. I had won a few tournaments but also, to my shame, lost a few. Malcolm could give you details; he kept records of every game played and rated the strength of the players. But the whole story is a perfect example of the lesson I learned: never assume that a man's job is the measure of the man. And that guy on Millionaire brought this flooding back to me. We are all different and have different goals and ways to achieve them; who is to say that the millionaire stockbroker is any more successful than the man who mows his lawn? Word count: 1,425 |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
I've always remembered that episode and thought that was a fun idea.
Quite good is quite a good compliment 
As someone who just reviewed an item in your port, I can't help but wonder, Did I pick an item that you'd throw out? 