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 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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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.     |
| Choking Do you ever get to know a certain action so well that, once it’s become almost automatic, just the thought of how it’s done throws you into confusion? I’ve noticed that this happens often, almost as though the universe was geared to trip us up whenever we think we have things mastered. Take my medicines, for example. Well, no, don’t take them, I’ll do that. After all, I’ve been taking some of them for decades so I ought to be really good at it. And I am, except that lately, I’ve been looking at the process. And I’ve started choking on them as a result. Nothing serious, just a coughing fit as a few drops of water go down the wrong way. But it’s caused by sudden lack of confidence that I know how to do this. That is ridiculous, of course - I’ve been swallowing tablets every day for twenty years and never had the slightest trouble with it. And now I’m thinking, “Do I throw in a whole gulp of water before swallowing or do I do it all in one smooth motion?” Which cause a sort of hesitation and I end up with a bit of both alternatives. Instant disaster. So I thought I’d write it down. Might give me more understanding of what is going on, I thought. And it has. Now I think that this is probably the cause of sportsmen “choking” at the last and most important hurdle. They’ve done it a hundred times in practice but now they must do it in competition. And suddenly the skill deserts them. Which is why they call it choking, of course. Word count: 274 |
| Forgotten Gems Sometimes I write notes to myself, reminders of ideas that I don't want to forget. And sometimes I forget to write them down. Probably the most interesting are the ones that make no sense when I read them later. There's this one, for instance: Ode to a bathtub. What on earth was I thinking? |
| Name That Sleuth! Watching the Boy play video games yesterday and I saw a credit for a game-producing company called Ricochet. What a great name for a fictional detective, I thought. Rick O'Shea. |
| Forests New England is all about trees. They cover the landscape in cloaking forests, invade the towns, supply the wood that builds the houses and their leaves define the seasons. They are winning the battle against humankind for I read somewhere that, in many areas in the North-east, the trees are reclaiming farms abandoned by those who preferred a softer lifestyle down South. What surprises me about the trees is their variety. Looking at photographs of the forests in Fall, it is easy to presume that these are deciduous forests, beeches, birches and maples, many of them familiar to Europeans. And so they are, but the pine rules this land too, combining in alliance with the seasonal trees in their claim to the land. There are dark pine forests climbing the slopes of the hills and mountains and firs intermingle with the deciduous trees of the lower regions. Yet these forests are somehow different from those few left to England. They do not have the height and full, leafy canopy that I am used to; something is missing. I have pondered on this a long time, wondering whether my memory deceived me or whether the trees here, inhabiting so much more an extreme climate than Britain's, have been unable to achieve that uninterrupted green canopy that every English forest creates. But I think I have the answer now. What is missing is the oak. All English forests attain maturity when the oaks win, when their huge and ponderous bulk eclipses all other trees. They become oak forests, mysterious places of gloom and leafy halls, and this is what I miss in New England. There are oaks in America; at least, they are called oaks, presumably because of some relation to the English oaks that the early colonists knew so well. But they are not the oaks of home - none of them attain the size and grandeur of the ancient English oak. And they do not rule the forests to become the sole creator of the very definition of "forest". Further North, I am sure the pines begin to dominate and these mixed forests of New England give way to the endless evergreens of Canada. But here variety rules and the forests are light and airy, with dappled sunshine sprinkling the leaf litter floor. It is easy to imagine Mohawk and Mohican, Iroquois and Algonquin, hunting through the forest glades, tomahawk and bow in hand, for these forests are as American as the English forest is European. It is not that New England disappoints in any way; merely that it is different from what I had expected. In many ways, the surprise has been how English it is, the narrow, winding roads, the quiet, reserved people, the constantly-changing weather. But that which defines New England in our minds, the forest, turns out to be more American than ever I had imagined. Word count: 479 |
| Funnier than Fiction Just heard a delightful misquote while watching practice for the Austrian Grand Prix: "He was the Jackal and Hyde of the sport." |
| Driving Time Very early on in my American experience, I discovered that there is a language gap between the Brits and the Statesiders. And I don't mean the one most famously referred to by Winston Churchill when he called us two nations divided by a common language. No, I am thinking of the way we perceive distance. Ask any Brit how far it is from Birmingham to London and he will say that it's about 110 miles. But if you ask an American a similar question, say the distance between Oklahoma City and Dallas, and he will tell you it's four hours. On hearing this, the Brit will wonder how long an hour has been a measurement of distance. He will understand what is meant but will not see why the Americans view distances in this way. To him, it's a simple question requiring an answer in miles or kilometers; if he'd wanted to know the driving time, he'd have asked. This illustrates a fundamental difference in the thinking between the Brit and the American and it stems from very different experiences of driving. British roads are always solid with traffic, particularly the motorways (multi-lane highways). Before he sets out on a journey, the Brit wants to know how many miles he will have to do. From this he will calculate an approximate time for the journey but he knows that it is a guess only. The likelihood is that traffic jams, road works and diversions will make his calculations seem laughable. In effect, by setting out on a journey, he is casting his fate to the winds. In America, however, the interstate highways are empty in comparison to the motorways in Britain. The American driver gets out onto the highway, sets his cruise control at the speed limit, and waits for the required amount of time to pass. It makes sense for him to measure distance in hours because he needs to know at what time he is likely to arrive at his destination. While the Brit is doing feverish mental calculations in an effort to maintain his average speed, the American thinks only of whether he will stop at a McDonalds or a Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch. Distances in America are of a whole new order in comparison to those a Brit is used to; they are continental. We are used to hearing that England could fit into a corner of the States; in fact, England would fit quite comfortably within the borders of one state, Texas. From Dallas in the North of Texas to El Paso in the South West is 620 miles, approximately the same as the distance between Cornwall and Northumberland. And that isn't taking into account the Panhandle, which reaches even further North. When we open our vision to include the other states, we begin to get some idea of just how vast this country is. To take just a few examples: New York to Los Angeles (East coast to West coast): 2,790 miles Seattle to San Diego (North to South along West coast): 1,260 miles Seattle to Miami (North West to South East): 3,300 miles Boston to Miami (North to South along East coast): 1,520 miles These are airline distances, comprehensible only if you're going by plane. In a car, you'd be thinking in terms of how many days the journey will take. It's no wonder the American thinks of distance as a matter of duration. Population density has an impact on driving experience too. In America, approximately 300 million people live in 6 million square miles; in England, a sixth of that population, 50 million, live in 120th of that land area (50,000 square miles). Even taking into account the fact that car ownership per head is higher in the States (and remembering that you can only drive one car at a time, no matter how many you own), that still means that traffic density in England is almost unbearable. As an example, a journey from Coventry to Cornwall, a distance of 300 miles, is a major undertaking. It will take you all day and you will arrive exhausted by the constant strain of driving in heavy traffic. You will have taken the motorway for most of the distance and paid for it by sitting stationary for an hour in a traffic jam just North of Bristol. In Cornwall itself, your optimistic plans for average speeds will have been torn to shreds by a solid block of traffic moving at the pace of the slowest vehicle on the road. Presuming that you're here on vacation, you're going to need those few days in the sun to recover from the journey and prepare yourself for the return. In contrast, a journey from, say, Oklahoma City to Dallas (about 390 miles), is guaranteed to take no longer than four hours and will be interrupted only by having to pay your dues on the turnpikes (toll roads) beloved of Oklahoma. There'll be some traffic but the great open spaces ensure that there's plenty of room for all. It's a different world. To speak of distances in journey times in England is optimistic, to say the least; in America, it's the only way to get your head round the concept. For journeys beyond the next state, it makes more sense to fly and so most Americans do. Which probably lowers the traffic density on the roads yet again… Word count: 906 |
| Blog Birthdays I've just realised that this blog's fifth birthday passed by earlier this month. Five years of blogging - that's a feat in itself and would probably be worth celebrating if I had any interest in celebrations at all. But I'm happy enough to claim humility in letting the date slip by unnoticed. Truth is, I don't take notice of dates and am often surprised by my own birthday. But, talking of feet (it's a pun on the alternatively spelt version of the homonym), I was examining the pic I'd chosen for the blog and noticed that those feet on the beach are very strange. They look flat but also arched rather highly. And it's a lousy day to be at the beach, judging by the dark clouds on the horizon. Which all goes to show that any port will do when looking for a blog post subject. Word count: 146 |
| A Change of Mind A few days ago, S 🤦  asked in QOTD about our all-time, favourite songs. It’s not an easy question to answer, so much depending on mood (both of players and listeners), circumstances, experience, etc. But I came up with an answer and gave it.I’ve been thinking since then and today I realised there is one song and performance that beats my picks. It’s a live recording of Dire Straits in their heyday but not, I hasten to add, the Alchemy recording of Sultans of Swing. That is great enough and most would have it as the very peak of the band’s incredible output. Yet I know of another one and this, I have decided, is the best. It’s the Wembley performance of Tunnel of Love in 1985. Yes, their best period and the necessary drummer, Terry Williams, is in the thick of it, just as he was in the Alchemy concert. The band is as together as they were in the more famous song and Knopfler’s solos are even better, in my opinion. There’s a completeness and flow to the whole thing (crowd included) that just pips Sultans. Anyway, I dug around and found the video and it awaits you below. Sure, it’s long but you’ll wish it were longer. Word count: 210 |
| Both Sides of the Pond There is one big difference between the health systems of the UK and the USA, and it has nothing to do with insurance, national health, or private enterprise. In the UK you are a number, a statistic expected to shut up and suffer whatever indignities are prepared for you. But in the States, if you decide against a procedure, you don’t have to go ahead with it. It has something to do with freedom, you see. Word count: 76 |
| Another Gripe Talking (or not) of words that annoy, one of my favourites is “cheater.” You may be thinking that it means “one who cheats,” but it doesn’t. It’s a made up word and very young indeed. You might find it in the dictionary but they’ll put any old rubbish in there these days. The truth is that the word is “cheetah” and it means an exceptionally fast-running member of the big cat family. If you want to refer to someone who cheats, you should say, “He’s a cheat.” That’s it, simple as that. It’s a word that can function as a verb and as a noun. There was never any need to invent the superfluous “cheater,” because we already have a shorter and more accurate word for that. Why do I mention this today? Because I was just irritated by someone using the non-word, of course. Word count: 145 |
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