Photography then and now

Taking, editing, manipulating, storing and retrieving photographs in the 21st century would be a barely recognizable pastime for my ancestors of the late 1800s.

I’m lucky enough to have in my possession prints taken from Victorian plates which were taken by my great grandfather. He clearly embraced what was then a new technology by making clever double exposures of himself playing his alter ego at chess and of his wife drinking tea from a dainty cup with herself as companion. He would have had a device similar to the one below whereby focal length was adjusted manually by winding the object lens to and from the plate on rails. It is possible that he may have had his own processing facilities involving chemical baths and washes all accessed from under a black cowl by the user; dark rooms would have been a luxury.

Imagine his amazement if he could see the capabilities of today’s equipment. Instant auto-focus (which can be over-ridden), Instant and adjustable light metering, long and short focal length lenses adjustable by a thumb dab, almost infinitely adjustable processing, at times from within the camera itself, and the ability to create, duplicate, share without limit.

Even in my time I have owned cameras with a fixed lens, minimal or no exposure adjustment and cartridge film – think ‘cloudy, sunny, sun-on-beach settings! I upgraded my camera from time to time but always a few years behind the latest technology for financial reasons and still own what was the 1990s apex of my collection, the Canon 500D, an SLR with interchangeable motor-driven lenses.

In 2003 I stepped into the digital age and consigned my old cameras to a box of mementos and curios. I felt a degree of loyalty to the Canon brand and went through four or five compact ‘point and shoot’ examples before acquiring the 450D, a digital version of my prized SLR which is gratifyingly compatible with my older motor-driven lenses. Eventually I missed the convenience of a pocket sized camera and chose the Sony DSC HX50 with its barely credible 30x optical zoom. That has remained my daily camera.

Since then I seem to have taken over 27,000 images and have them stored on my laptop and backed up on at least five external hard drives. All are tagged by subject or theme or name, or all three and so are instantly retrievable. I edit only lightly by straightening horizon lines, darkening an occasional over-exposure or airbrushing out unwanted intruders.

Lately I have become excited by video and indulged myself with a GoPro ‘action camera’ which is not much bigger than a matchbox but can shoot startlingly sharp footage in up to 4k resolution and can be attached to almost anything using an array of third party fittings and gadgets. I fix it to my bike when we ride, to my car windshield when we drive, to my lapel, or handheld, when we walk. It automatically cancels out shake or vibration and has a wide variety of touch-screen settings. I can edit the footage on my laptop to cut unnecessary sections, slow down, speed up, add music, narration, captions, titles and credits and share online.

Photography in all its forms is a wonderful way to record a life lived.

A Weekend in the Bubble

As the four Maritime Provinces of Canada (Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Newfoundland and Labrador have commendably low COVID19 infection rates (PEI has no current cases) it was decided by mutual consent to open the borders between these Provinces and thereby allow short breaks, visits to relatives, shopping and other trips.

We registered online and received our authorization passes by return email. On Sunday morning we drove to the Confederation Bridge, paid our toll, and drove the 13 kilometers across to New Brunswick. Normally you roll off the bridge at cruising speeds and continue to your destination but this time a slight diversion took us past a small police presence where we waved through without even having to show our passes. Fair enough, we must have looked safe! The heat was intense - 32C and feeling like 38c with the humidity.

After a couple of hours driving we reached Moncton and stopped at Costco with a smart shopping list. Masks were recommended but not compulsory so we took a cart and navigated the almost empty zig-zag queueing system into the deliciously cool store. It's umpteen hundreds of thousands of square feet are piled high with industrial sized packs of everything imaginable. We stocked up on paper towels, bagels, cheese and various other items, in bulk.

A visit to Value Village and then we were heading back north. Before we reached the bridge we stopped for ice creams and when almost home we called ahead for a take out curry.

On Monday morning, a Public Holiday here, we set off for Stratford in the car with the bikes on board. Parking at Mount Herbert we picked up the Confederation Trail south and east and rode for 31 kilometers to Lake Verde and back. The humidity was high and the sky mostly overcast with a strong crosswind, there and back.

Somehow amid all that we found time to fit in three episodes of the Handmaid's Tale, Season 3, and two movies: Doctor Sleep and Joker.

Weekend movies and cycling

‘Blinded by the Light’, based on real events, is at heart a coming of age story. Javed, a Pakistani teenager, lives with his controlling father and obedient mother in Luton, North London. We meet him in 1987 as a high-schooler attempting to stay afloat on the high seas of family expectations, the lure of western music, vicious racism and girls.

His passion for writing poetry and a chance introduction to the music and lyrics of The Boss lead to an awakening of the soul and inevitable conflict with his father’s rigid ideology. Jared has formed a close relationship with an English girl and is torn between his cultural roots and the freedom and excitement of the west. Boiling point is reached when Jared wins a writing competition and insists on travelling to New Jersey (Springsteen’s birth place) to pick up his award and his father tells him not to come back.

Happy endings abound when the two reconcile after Jared gives a heartfelt speech at a school event revealing that he has ample space for both his new lifestyle and his South Asian roots. The film shows the beauty of music and love against a backdrop of ugly racism, demonstrating how an immigrant boy can learn to embrace a new culture yet remain loyal to his origins.

‘The Legend of Tarzan’; not our typical film fare but, intrigued by the trailer, we gave this a go and soon found ourselves immersed deep in the African Congo admiring the lush jungle and its wholly credible CGI beasts. The old Edgar Rice Burrows creation is retold with a nice mix of reverent fidelity and exciting action scenes. To help those unfamiliar with the tale, Tarzan’s upbringing by apes and subsequent return to a life of British gentry is shown in neat flashbacks.

In short, the thrust of the plot is Tarzan freeing Congolese men from the grip of slavery under Belgian King Leopold; an apt theme for the times we live in. Naturally our man gets separated from his feisty wife Jane but manages not only to unchain the slaves but to rescue his mate from the jaws of death.

A British emissary sent to the Congo as Tarzan’s sidekick provides some fun with self-effacing humour and Jane is played superbly by Margot Robbie. If there’s a weak point it’s perhaps the great man himself. While he looks the part, all chiselled abs and flowing locks, his demeanour is low key. Nonetheless he impresses with much effortless swinging through tall trees and wonderful relationships with the jungle animals.

           

Cycling has become our latest weekend activity. We ride on quiet, Sunday morning roads to reach the Confederation Trail where we can start loops around and through Charlottetown, steadily increasing our range. This time we reached the centre of town where the Trail ends. Nearby is the former Railway Station building, now home to the Workers’ Compensation Board of Prince Edward Island, while at Peakes Quay the former engine sheds now house a series of diners and cafes.

We spun through a deserted downtown and out to Victoria Park where a bike lane takes you past the harbour and on to sleepy residential roads. Soon we were back on main roads for a fast downhill coast on North River Road to Ellen’s Creek then a sharp uphill effort and we were home, 26kms under our belts.

Judging a Book By Its Cover

I’m a fan of YouTube videos, especially those dealing with UFOs, ancient archaeology, conspiracy theories, the paranormal and other hard-to-explain phenomena. The Internet is crawling with them however there are clues to the value of such material even before clicking ‘play’. If the title includes any or all of the words: shocking, stunning, mind-blowing, insane or jaw-dropping, then I won’t watch it. Similarly, if the thumbnail depicts a grey alien or a traditional flying saucer then I am on guard.

All of the above are examples of ‘click bait’ and unless I have very good reason to watch (for example a solid recommendation) then I move on. I know from experience that the more enticing a video tries to appear, the less credible or reliable it is likely to be, and therefore less interesting or informative.

If I have chosen to sample a video and the introduction is a mess of thunderous drumbeats and quick-cut editing then I’m gone. Sadly today’s world is awash with such nonsense; a triumph of style over substance. Just occasionally one stumbles across a rich seam of worthwhile material. One such has been the output of private documentary filmmaker, Richard D Hall, a native of Tyneside who takes it upon himself to investigate many areas which are regarded as off-limits or taboo by the mainstream media.

I am half way through his seventy or eighty films under the Ufology category. It’s a revelation to see how many highly credible, intelligent and very high-ranking individuals have put their experiences into words or on paper. I recommend a visit to his site, Rich Planet where he puts all his material online for free.

I have already watched all his documentaries concerning the 2007 disappearance of Madeleine McCann in which he is highly suspicious of the parents, and produces a mass of evidence, direct and circumstantial, against them. There is plenty of food for thought.

***

On a lighter note, self-serve checkouts! I can’t be the only one who talks back to them, surely? Some are acceptably direct, Atlantic Superstore for example. Others are quite calm and polite, like Sobeys. However the one which annoys the bejesus out of me is the shrill bitch at Wal-Mart. One millisecond after you scan your item she’s bleating, “Put the item in the bagging area” in an irritated, sassy voice. Give me a damn chance! I’m doing it! If she doesn’t detect the tell-tale feel of weight in the bagging area within an instant she comes on even stronger, waling at me as if this is my last godamn chance.

I snap back with liberal use of the F word. At the end of this distasteful experience she has the gall to enquire, “How did we do today?”

You did crap, I mutter as I grab my item and head for the door where, I might add, I am now met every time by a staff member who wants to check my receipt against the single bloody item in my hand. I simply glare and ignore the suggestion that I - “have a nice day!”

Evolution

I have recently been delving into human history. Not for the first time, but now from the perspective of late middle age with a good deal more reverence, compassion and humility. "Sapiens" a remarkable book by Yuval Noah Harari, prompted this, with its startlingly clear descriptions and analysis of modern man and our development over the past 75,000 years.

Listening to the audio version at night has at times kept me from sleep, pondering astounding discoveries, calculations and achievements. From humble beginnings of foraging and survival to a world of science and medicine, philosophy and an appreciation for the arts, the journey is breathtaking.

But not all is rosy. In forming the cultural, technological, legal and political environments we take for granted, applaud today, man has displayed a selfishness and an ugliness of nature we can easily despise. Entire genera of native wildlife were hunted and chased from all continents that man sailed to. Not least of that wildlife were pockets of early man himself; remote branches of the tree of life stranded in their simple ways, uneducated in the ways of the latest incarnation of Homo Sapiens.

Indigenous peoples everywhere are still suffering at the hands of invasive western man. I am not opening that debate here but have been thinking of the tragic fate of Tasmania after its 'invasion' by Captain James Cook in 1777. Unsullied by the western world, the aboriginal inhabitants had enjoyed their pristine island for tens of thousands of years. That all full blood natives were banished to Flinders Island within fifty years and not a single one survived beyond 1860 is a crime against humanity and morally bereft.

I was viewing other material on the subject this morning with my girls sitting beside me on the sofa when I pointed to an 1860 image of four Tasmanians and little Kathleen said the unsayable, "she looks like a monkey."

I could not disagree so decided to explain and that led us to a discussion about the evolution of man involving the 'tree of life' and other visual renditions. In these days of extreme political correctness it was refreshing to answer an innocent question. The Big Bang and the origins of life I will leave for another day!

The Naked Vacuum Cleaner

"On my way," she texted. "Shopping done!"

 

"I'll be ready," I replied. But ready for what, and by when?

 

Susan drives from O'Leary to Charlottetown for a few days every week, often stopping on the way for provisions at Sobeys in Summerside. 'On my way' signified to me the start of a sixty minute drive from the west of the island. Normally I am prepared way in advance but that day I was running late owing to an early morning excursion to Sport Chek, on the hunt for Under Armour compression shorts (long leg, 32 waist). But I digress.

 

I consulted my watch and sketched out a mental plan by which I would be sitting comfortably in my armchair awaiting Susan's arrival with time to spare, bathed, shaved, bathroom cleaned, laundry folded and stowed, and my modest abode vacuumed and scrubbed to the point where eating off the floor would be a serious contention; my preferred way of life.

 

While drawing a deep, hot bath, I shaved my cheeks till they glowed smooth and pink. I had stripped off and was about to clamber into the tub when a thought occurred... vacuuming can be sweaty work. Perhaps I should do that before bathing; such a sensible move. I strode to the storage room, bare feet slapping on the vinyl floor, and grabbed my vacuum cleaner (Kenmore, cylinder type, 1400 watts) and carried it to my bedroom. I would start there, shimmy to the hall, the second bedroom and thence to the living room; my faultless plan.

 

Here I will concede this was not my first foray into housework 'au naturel'. Perhaps it's that certain thrill, that frisson of excitement, dancing from room to room, wondering if it's safe to scurry past those huge patio windows. You get in the zone; the back and forth, the hum of the motor. In fairness and in my defence, it's easy to forget you're in your birthday suit.

 

I twirled out of my bedroom, tugging my trusty vac behind, long lissom limbs reaching and stretching into all nooks and crannies. Soft brush attachment in place, I sucked at ledges, shelves, skirting boards and radiators, leaping over the cylinder as nimbly as a young gazelle, in a world of my own.

 

As I pirouetted out of the bathroom, hose and nozzle in hand, and headed for the living room, I saw a person... a real, live, fully dressed person, looking at me with eyebrows arched high and jaw slack. I froze... my heart actually skipped several beats. While my mind processed the scene and its ramifications, my silent witness sank slowly to her knees. Then she bowed forward until her forehead reached the floor. Only then did she emit a sound, a stuttering squawk, half laugh, half wail...

 

As alarm took its vice-like grip on me, I leapt sideways in a single bound to the relative safety of bedroom two. "You're early, Susan," I ventured, studiously avoiding any mention of my state.

 

Her initial reply was a clucking sound which gradually resolved into peals of laughter. I sneaked a peek around the door frame and saw Susan lying on my floor literally quivering with mirth.

 

"You made good time from Summerside," I said.

 

Between ragged guffaws came the words, "I messaged you from Charlottetown, ten minutes away! Now I see what you meant by I'll be ready!"

 

***

 

We met under adventurous circumstances several months ago and became inseparable from day one so it's strange that I felt so cringingly embarrassed, but I did. Perhaps it was the simple business of being caught red-handed and bare-cheeked, quite unexpectedly. Well, put yourself in a similar position and imagine!

 

To her credit (and proof, though hardly needed, that she accepts every part of my character and personality), Susan didn't ask me why. Nor did she bat an eyelid while I blabbered on about having calculated that I still had an hour before her arrival, and had been side-tracked at the very point of leaping into the bath. There are no satisfactory excuses. No one behaves like I did, or if they do they don't get caught!

Dovetails

If, like me, you are lucky enough to have met someone new, you will be experiencing that fascinating period of learning and absorbing all you can about them. In the process, you discover areas of similarity and difference. Too alike and you might simply slide right off each other. But what if you are both very different? Will you be able to join like dovetails or will you fail to connect?

Extrovert       Introvert
Meat eater    Vegetarian
Wine             Orange Juice
Loud             Quiet
v Small         v Tall
Talker           Writer
Do-er            Thinker
Impulsive      Considered
Reactive       Composed
Boomerang   Languish     
Busy             Calm
Walker          Runner
Canadian      English


But that becomes inconsequential when each brings out shared traits in the other:
Traditional
Reliable
Private
Sensual
Honest
Comic
Romantic
Attentive
Loving
Caring
Dignified
Hygienic
Neat

2014... a good year.

flies, damn flies and statistics

The house fly lands on your knee and sets about preening its proboscis. You swipe at it with lightning speed yet it evades your slap, taking off as if you were a slow-motion buffoon. Ten seconds later it alights on precisely the same spot, to the very millimetre, as if taunting you.

 

Here's a trick for those of us in humid climates who made the mistake of opening our screen doors for fresh air. Close your screen and watch the little fecker. If he nears the now closed screen, swoop by and open it. He will be attracted by the draft and fly right out. Fact.

 

Never mind damn flies! Damn pseudo celebrities! Today we've been shown that Miley Cyrus's real bottom is even more hideous than the prosthetic ones she clips on on stage. Ghastly. There are some side-splitting images doing the rounds of the silly girl's head photo-shopped onto the plucked torso of an oven-ready chicken. Believe me, the naked similarity is hard to dispute! And as for her curious snake-like tongue, it spends more time out of her mouth than in it.

 

How many people do you need to assemble before two are likely to share the same birthday? Surprisingly few. It's about the number of possible pairings. 23 people produce 253 possible parings, just over half the number of days in the year. So if you are in a group of 23, there is a better than 50/50 chance that someone has the same birthday as you.

the beginning

Some weeks ago I posted an entry signifying the end of my blogging. Thank you to the several kind souls who expressed concern for my wellbeing. Their genuine worry, though unfounded, was humbling.

 

Last month I was motivated to write a submission for the Island Literary Awards and now feel a newer creative stream might be at hand. I may not write with the frequency of ten years ago but I will write with fervour.

Winter in Charlottetown

A touch chilly this morning for the first day back at school. Maisie didn't mind the cold and I didn't mind the official one hour delayed start. Kathleen couldn't wait to get back from the school run to crack on with Toy Story 3!

CBC Radio has been offering helpful wintry advice: like, keep your cat indoors. But since when did dogs take 'bathroom breaks,' long or short? And you know you're on a small island when they give out on the news that one especially frozen school bus wouldn't start this morning so those kids can expect an additional forty-five minute delay!

Following hot on dad's heels, Maisie has finished her own five hundred piece puzzle. These days she starts unprompted with the edge pieces, and has now learned to sort the remainder, in this case into sky, trees, hills and main subject. Her tenacity and more than a little paternal assistance won the day.

Returning to the seasonal theme, there have been ominous creaking noises from the roof as the thousands of pounds of compacted snow and ice up there slowly succumb to gravity. You can't help but duck and hurry under the overhang!

People wave frantically at their own image on the big screen...

I see this all the time at televised sporting events and it bugs the hell out of me! Call me too darn clever for my own good but, from the angle, I know I would be able to work out where the camera was and so appear to wave at the viewer. It's just spacial awareness, like not getting lost in the woods.

 

"Nigella's off her head on drugs!" Thus says the Daily Mail. Well, that's celebrity chefs and Chancellor of the Exchequers' daughters for you. Probably lining up a rehab book out in time for next Xmas. If it's not pseudo celebrity trivia it's alarmist stories of NHS patients abandoned to their fate in hospital corridors. I'm sure I'm not the only one who reads the BBC for news and the DM for a light-hearted alternative take - complete with 'hilarious' spelling, grammar, punctuation bloopers, and hopeless errors of fact.

 

I'm irritated that people have moved into the top floor apartment in the building opposite me. It stood empty for two years after the previous urinating-over-the-balcony types moved out. It shouldn't bother me but it does. I like to wander (almost) as nature intended with my blinds open. I can't for the time being. One of them came out with a towel on her head to smoke in minus 8C this morning. Again, not my problem really, but.

 

I'm not keen on the gigantic healthcare facility for seniors a quarter of a mile away. In fact I don't like seeing all the new ground being broken around town. We're in danger of spoiling our small town feel. I really MUST move out to the country.

 

People are parking too close to the school entrance where school buses arrive, in fact almost blocking it. Again, none of my business but when I picked Maisie up from school today I felt a nice flood of satisfaction as a teacher came out, waving wildly and angrily. Three had to move, hoo-ray.

 

Maisie lost her first milk tooth today and proudly showed me her gap which is "just like Daddy's." It's not stopping either of us eat homemade fries, eggs, toast and baked beans!

The Ancient Chamber Pot of Azerbaijan

The girls only have a dozen or so DVDs here and they are growing bored with the same old stuff. In fact they've recently been branching out into my own collection - the majority are unsuitable and referred to as daddy's scary movies but Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Back to the Future etc, are coming within range. Today I plundered the local Library catalogue and reserved the first three Harry Potter films for them, not my cup of tea, but I'll do my usual trick with 'DVD Shrink' and 'DVD Decrypter' and copy them so the girls can watch them forever and ever, amen.

 

***

Here is why men shouldn't buy bedding unsupervised. My favourite fitted Queen sheet needed a deputy, so I measured the bed, definitely Queen, 60" x 80" (that would be King in the UK; King in North America is sprawling, never mind the impressive acreage called Super King and California King!!) and I set off to do the rounds of Sears, Winners, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Wal-Mart. I handpicked a fitted cotton sheet for twenty dollars and two pillow cases for eight, chocolate brown, mmm.

 

So far so good. At home I discovered the new Queen pillow cases were a flapping seven inches too long for my puny Standard pillows. Several outings later I resigned myself to the fact there are no Standard pillow cases to be had these days. Bigheads abound I assume. So... I invested in two new Queen pillows. Later I ditched the girls' worn out Standard pillows and upgraded their entitlement to my serviceable cast-offs. What a palaver.

 

I don't have a duvet, just a comforter (known in the UK as a quilt). It's quite thin and akin to throwing an opened-up sleeping bag over you, but it's great for me even in winter (despite my lifelong habit of sleeping au naturel)! Well, I picked up a new comforter too and relegated the original to occasional duties. No problem on the size front and a snip at seventeen dollars!

***

I slipped over in the bath. To be precise I toppled from nearly standing to slung over the side of the bath tub. My ribcage took the full impact before I could break my fall. Initially I was shocked and winded, every ounce of breath gone. Surely I had punctured a lung or at least speared my spleen. After gingerly feeling for protruding organs I took a slow deep breath and realised I would probably live. That was two weeks ago and ever since I have winced and grunted and bemoaned my stupid clumsiness.

This week I tried a couple of longish runs, 10k and 15k. At first the bruised ribs grumbled but after a few minutes my natural endorphins started flowing and it was easier. I start marathon training in July and should be in fair shape by then.

google street view

For those who are curious about the small city I live in, for my Canadian friends who wonder how an odd Englishman sees Charlottetown, and of course for me, I am continuing to post my photography on Flickr.

It seems I am up against some stiff competition. While I hop from site to site on foot or in my Elantra, a certain Mr. Google is cruising theses historic streets in a Subaru Impreza dressed in mapping livery, updating the planet's view of the Maritimes.

Yesterday morning I spotted my adversary parked outside the prestigious Rodd Charlottetown Hotel, doubtless still dipping his bread into a soft-boiled egg and sipping coffee from fine china. His technical wizardry was safely under a protective tarpaulin while he perused the day's route. Meanwhile I scurried ahead capturing beautiful Victorian homes on Pownal.

The street view camera car records everything its multi-directional lenses can capture and transmits the data to Google HQ where they are stitched into a nearly seamless tour of... well, everywhere. I'm a sucker for virtually revisiting my old haunts, tracking down interesting places and often just stalking the cyber streets because I can. Navigation, tilt and zoom are my friends.

Thank you Mr. Google, but I think there is still room for my way. I can sneak down footpaths, crouch, stand on a wall, wait until the view is clear of cars and people, come back when the sun is shining, subtly shift position; I can crop, zoom, manipulate exposure.

This year I have been less bothered about writing my thoughts down on paper. Instead I am enjoying compiling this pictorial catalogue.

end of an era

In the late 1960s entertainment in the UK was on the cusp of development. Our TV programming was mostly simple and bland. I fondly remember "It's a Knockout!", a riotous outdoor game show in which villages of the Shires and beyond competed in friendly rivalry. The 'games' mostly involved greasy poles, lengths of industrial elastic and copious amounts of water. Village greens turned into mud baths amid contests of strength, agility and endurance.

 

"Jeux Sans Frontières" was an International version of the games. It was hotly contested by several European countries, represented by the winners of their own domestic heats. By the late 1970s the show had become grandiose. The challenges were more complicated, competitors wore outsized foam costumes and the spectacle had become essential Saturday evening viewing; a veritable British institution for over twenty years.

 

And through it all rose Stuart Hall, a forty-something local BBC news reporter, turned game show host whose flowery commentary and manic laughter became synonymous with the harmless fun. Little did we know, the wild hilarity hid a sinister secret.

 

Last week Hall, now aged eighty-three, pled guilty to various sex offences against girls, both minors and adults dating back to those Halcyon days of the 70s and 80s. The media is relentless in teasing out the details and we now hear that Hall boasted of one hundred partners during one three-month summer season of "It's a Knockout!" Co-presenters at the BBC have started to speak out, branding Hall a notorious sexual predator.

 

So is Hall the next Jimmy Savile, the disgraced former radio DJ and presenter of kids' TV shows, who died aged eighty-five in 2011? Will more accusers creep out of the woodwork? Savile hid in plain sight using his larger-than-life, comedic, marathon-running persona as a mask; he raised millions of pounds for charity but every pound is now tainted. Police are following over four hundred and fifty posthumous accusations of paedophilia against Savile. The BBC is subject to an Enquiry into why so many bosses and colleagues chose not to expose this man.

 

...

 

I grew up in the 60's and 70s. Hall and Savile were part of the backdrop to my formative years. They didn't particularly influence me but I laughed along at their antics. An era has ended. An era of apparent innocence.

 

The veteran Australian Rolf Harris, a fixture on British TV as singer, comedian, painter and all round personality, has lived for fifty years in England winning hearts with his songs, his amazing artistic talent, his unprecedented empathy presenting the TV show "Animal Hospital" and his wit and good humour. Earlier this year he was charged with multiple historic sex offences. He is eighty three.

 

How many more personalities from my childhood are at home, biting their fingernails, waiting for that knock at the door, that knock which usually comes before dawn, when least expected?

 

Can we trust that anyone is merely what they appear to be? Probably not. Coronation Street, that bastion of British soap operas, is under scrutiny. Script writers are hastily re-writing plots to account for the sudden departure of major characters. These people are household names. William Roache, aged eighty one, who has played womaniser Ken Barlow ever since episode one of The Street in 1960, has been charged historically with the rape of a fifteen year old girl.

 

Michael Le Vell, chirpy motor mechanic Kevin Webster, is charged with a string of child sex offences.

 

Andrew Lancel, former factory co-owner Frank Foster, is charged with five counts of child sex abuse. What is it about men in their eighties? What climate prevailed that led them to their sickening pursuits. Or what is it about soap operas? Are they fooling themselves with fantasy?

 

...

 

And there are others. Comedians are on the list. Stalwarts of the 1970s, Freddie Starr and Jim Davidson, have been arrested to face accusations of historic sexual misconduct. Disc Jockeys are a well represented category. In addition to Savile, that predator who ingratiated himself with the Royal Family, with senior Politicians and with Charity Heads, other leading DJs of the 1970s are in disgrace. Dave Lee Travis (aka The Hairy Cornflake) is charged with historic sexual assault.

 

Even that inspirational advocate for fringe bands, that finder of new and exciting material, DJ John Peel has been posthumously accused of sexual misconduct with a minor.

 

Gary Glitter, glam rock pioneer and wearer of impossibly high platform boots and silver suits, whose early single "Rock 'n' Roll, part 1" was one of my first purchases, is a notorious child sex offender both in the UK and the Far East. Recent investigations have brought to light yet more claims against him.

 

...

 

Max Clifford is well known in the UK as a Publicist, one of those odious individuals to whom celebrities flock for guidance. Clifford has high-profile clients who are keen to keep certain details of their private lives out of the newspapers. Clifford has the ear of national publishers. He can squash salacious rumours and he can raise smokescreens. For a fat fee. If for example Simon Cowell wants to be associated with bevies of beautiful women, headlines and photos will miraculously appear portraying exactly that.

 

Clifford has grown very rich manipulating the truth. In the current climate of sexual allegations, he has managed to stem the tide of rumour against many well-known names. However, for too long he has been the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. The dam has burst and the public is denouncing their former heroes and clamouring for justice.

 

I have the utmost sympathy for victims, but imagine my grim satisfaction when a certain name hit the news recently. A household name accused of eleven historic sex offences against young women… yes, Max Clifford.

 

I know the maxim 'innocent until proven guilty' but it must be understood that many of the above have already been charged. In the UK the Crown Prosecution Service brings the charges after reviewing evidence with the Police. The CPS has to be satisfied there is a genuine case to be answered before committing public funds. It's a trial before a trial, of sorts, and after that point, naming and shaming is fine by me even if it encourages the baying crowd.

We have every right to know and to be angry. Youngsters exploring their sexuality under-age between themselves is one thing but men in their thirties, forties or beyond preying on kids and young children (and with kids I include anyone under eighteen) wrecks lives and destroys innocence.

As the father of boys thirty years ago I didn't worry but now as the father of two small girls I do worry. However I take comfort from the systematic tracking down of these predators and their evil crimes, regardless of how long ago those may be.

woodbines in the kitchen

(Nan outside Coombe Avenue, Ensbury Park c1960.)

I prop my bike against the wall of a red brick house in Ensbury Park and mount the single concrete step to the side door. Saturday morning at Nan and Granddad’s has quickly become something of an institution now that I’m allowed to ride on the road. It’s 1969 and I’m twelve.

 

Without knocking, I twist the wobbly door handle and step straight into the kitchen. “Hi Nan. Hi Granddad.”

Nan beams broadly. She is standing at the sink shaving Granddad who has a hand towel wrapped under his chin like a child’s bib. He grins sheepishly, inclining his head in my general direction. One of his cheeks is white with soap. Nan places the razor on the draining board and wipes her palms down her apron.

“Cuppa tea, Paul?” Her soft Irish brogue is like singing.

“Please,” I say and perch on a plain wooden chair squeezed between the back door and the sink. Nan turns, almost on the spot, produces a cup, balances a small strainer on it and pours from a pot whose spout peeps out of a knitted cosy. Her woollen sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. She adds a splash of milk and stirs. “There,” she says gently, handing me the dark orange brew.

Granddad stands patiently, hands by his sides and fingers trembling ever so slightly. He is stripped to his vest, and his braces hang to his knees in loops. Nan picks up the razor and resumes shaving him. There are little rasps then she dips the razor in the sink and shakes it underwater. “Chin up, George.” She puts her fingers under his chin and tilts his head back, a little firmly, and starts scraping at his neck. “Nearly done,” she nods at me and gives that barely audible gasp, that short intake of breath with which she emphasises her points. I smile and sit waiting for this ritual to finish.

The kitchen is perhaps nine feet by seven and contains most of their needs: a gas stove, running water, a tiny Formica table, three unmatched chairs, an ancient radio and a window to the garden. In addition to the side door, there are two internal doors. One leads to the hall, the other to a small larder with shelves of tinned food. My grandparents spend much of their time here. The house is unheated but the chill is taken off this small space by body heat and the low flame which burns constantly from one ring of the gas stove. There is a stale atmosphere which I am used to by now, cigarettes, damp towels, unwashed clothes, potatoes and cabbage, the aroma of the elderly.

I hear a squeak as Nan turns the tap and rinses the sink. She pulls Granddad’s bib off, blots his cheeks and helps him into his shirt. Granddad puts his arms into his braces, turns and shuffles towards his chair. It is barely four feet away but he takes several tiny steps, his slippers scuffing the lino. He sits and sweeps the table with his hand, locating his Woodbines. I watch fascinated as he pulls one from the pack and places it between his lips. He holds a little silver lighter a few inches from his face and flicks it until he can feel its warmth then guides the unfiltered cigarette to the flame.

“Want one, May?” His voice carries a trace of his South London roots. He extends the pack into the room and she leans forward to help herself. Nan fires up too and soon the room is wreathed in rich, blue smoke. I observe their techniques noting that Granddad pinches his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, stroking off the ash with his pinky whereas Nan brings her whole hand to her face, fingers spread wide with the cigarette lodged at the base of the first and second finger. I tell them about school, about my brother and sister and my cousins. Nan is enthusiastic and Granddad smiles wistfully.

Now Nan stands and cuts fat slices of bread. She re-lights a spent match off the gas ring and opens the grill door on the stove. At the turn of a knob the jets hiss and she reaches in with the match. There is a little 'woof' sound and soon the smell of toasting bread and a lingering scent of gas join the fug. She settles back and switches on the ‘wireless’, a huge valve radio, all Bakelite and twill. There is a pause while the valves heat up then we hear the clipped tones of a BBC newsreader. He is telling the nation about the latest bombing targets of the I.R.A. Nan gasps quietly and shakes her head. “Oh, Paul... Northern Ireland.” It is what she always says, and it summarises Nan’s despair over her homeland without need for embellishment.

From time to time Nan pulls out the grill pan to check progress. I am hungry by the time she smothers the hot toast with butter and we all munch as we listen. The grim news bulletin gives way to the galloping theme music of ‘The Archers’ and for a few minutes we listen to the goings-on of a fictional farming family.

Nan switches the radio off and folds a newspaper to the racing page. She fishes a magnifying lens from her apron pocket, hovers it over the small print and begins to read aloud. The recitation of runners and riders is familiar and strangely comforting – the horse, the jockey, the trainer, the form in recent outings. Granddad gazes into space and listens to the litany for minutes on end, unaware of the blood spots on his shirt collar. He never needs a repetition and with the information in his head he stands, opens the door to the hall and inches to the telephone trailing his hand on the wall. We hear the rotary dial then he speaks slowly and clearly to the bookmaker.

Granddad scuffs back along the hall and soon he is back in his seat feeling for his Woodbines.

Nothing is rushed here. Life is slow.

morning runner

Orion hung low and large in the Southern sky as I closed the door softly behind me and padded out into the dark at 5:30am. I had risen early in an attempt to beat the sticky heat. It was a comfortable sixteen Celsius but as soon as I turned onto the sidewalk the humidity hit me. The start of my regular route north involves a steady half mile incline on Maypoint Road. As my loop today would be over sixteen miles I took the rise slowly but by the time I crossed the Trans-Canada Highway I was breathing hard and already sweating.

 

I trotted across the empty four-lane highway and headed on into the warm blackness. After thirty minutes I reached the three mile mark and slipped unseen onto Sleepy Hollow Road. This was the last time I would hit the ten minute mile pace. I use this course regularly and can peel off the broadly oval route towards home at many points resulting in runs ranging from eight to eighteen miles. So, I know the mile markers by heart and once I reached the Confederation Trail close to the Jail I dropped to 10m 15secs a mile with legs like lead and lungs like creaky bellows. My Lycra shirt and shorts were soaked. The Trail grew more familiar as starlight faded but everywhere was silent as the grave and I minimised the crunch of my footfalls by keeping to the grassy fringe.

 

I had eaten plenty of carbs the previous day and forced down a bowl of oats first thing but I was out of energy. I took regular pulls from the drinks bottle that sits in a belt-mounted pocket behind me and swallowed a sachet of energy gel after ten miles but something was decidedly wrong. I let my mind empty to find that zone where the right pace is effortless. I counted my steps and timed my breaths to them – one inhale to three paces and one exhale to three paces. Right, left, right – left, right, left. After a short while the hypnotic effect worked and I closed my eyes to run blind for ten seconds at a time.

It was 7:30am and broad daylight as I reached the eleven mile point where the Trail terminates at the Ghiz Park in downtown Charlottetown. The yielding surface of the Trail gave way to the harsh jarring of pavement and I made my way across town to Victoria Park. There I picked up the boardwalk and ran beside the harbour for a thousand yards, slowing all the time until mile thirteen when my dead legs gave up.

I walked for two minutes and downed the last of my water. My left foot was screaming from a long-standing, intermittent injury, my thighs were on fire and salty sweat made my eyes sting. Gently I settled back into a slow jog and climbed fifty feet above sea level. As the gradient steepened I walked again and realised heavy grey clouds had gathered. The road leveled and I jogged again to mile fifteen when a thick drizzle began to fall. After a short walk to cross the light Sunday morning traffic on North River Road I set off running on the long descent to Ellens Creek Bridge.

Another minute of walking up the sharp rise away from the creek then I was running the final half mile up Beach Grove Road. At 16.36 miles this is the second longest training run in my marathon preparation and at two hours and fifty minutes is below the pace I anticipate for a four and a half hour marathon. I’ve run it twice before, ten minutes quicker. I put the lacklustre performance down to a combination of lack of sleep, insufficient to eat and drink both on the day and the previous day plus drenching eighty per cent humidity.

PS: I drank two pints of water, had a hot bath, slept for two hours then ate a large lunch and began to feel considerably better. The following day I suffered no ill effects and ran five miles in forty-five minutes. Making time to stretch my leg muscles thoroughly after Sunday’s run had probably kept any delayed-onset-muscle-soreness at bay the next day. I think I need to eat more the day before long runs. At one hundred and sixty-six pounds I’m about eight pounds lighter than a year ago despite adding considerable calf and thigh muscle mass.

a post Olympic view London 2012

I have a bad case of Olympic fever. For sixteen days I lived the action: charged up the hundred metre straight, gasped breaths between strokes in the pool, grunted with each tennis serve, panted and grimaced my way to impossible weight lifts and span my imaginary pedals at the velodrome. I should be exhausted but no, I’m still on a high.

The sporting achievements were truly impressive but these days world records are nothing unless delivered with glamour. The athletics showcase events, the 100m and 200m sprints, threw up almost predictably stunning results by Usain Bolt and his Jamaican cohorts but did you check out the diamond earrings, the gold neck chains and the designer sunglasses colour coded to match the one-piece Lycra suits.

The price of failure is high and with this in mind competitors were spurred to ridiculous lengths. At least two weight lifters were all but crushed beneath the crippling weight of their loaded bars; the coach of the losing Russian women’s volleyball team has since committed suicide.

However with former middle-distance track giant Seb Coe at the helm it was never in doubt that London 2012 would deliver big. For Team GB Andy Murray was always going to thrash arch-nemesis Roger Federer at Wimbledon; Mo Farah was destined to overhaul all his African cousins in the 5k and 10k; Chris Hoy simply HAD to pedal his bike to a record fifth Gold and little Jessica Ennis was nothing less than a certainty for the women’s heptathlon – a gilt-edged, copper-bottomed dead cert!

I can’t take some events seriously: beach volleyball is a cross between sunbathing and soft porn; rhythmic gymnastics (while doubtless a highly demanding physical triumph) could be dismissed as girly ball-bouncing and ribbon-jiggling; I’ve never watched it but sailing is probably just a few laps round the Isle of Wight and a nice glass of Chianti; BMX biking was something we did over the common and got punctures – (hey, don’t you know your saddle’s way too low?); table tennis, good grief we played that at the Youth Club as teenagers and now the Chinese seem to dominate the world!

This Olympiad was not without a wryly comical side, for me at least. I was still shaking my head in disbelief at yet another flawless dive leaving barely a ripple in the Aquatic Centre when the commentator (doubtless some chlorine-soaked old wrinkly) hooted in derision at the over-rotation, loose shoulders and general sloppiness of the performance. Diving beauty is clearly in the eye of the beholder.

 

In this age of visual excess and clamour for Warhol’s fifteen minutes The Games were a platform for the movers and shakers to be seen moving and shaking. No opportunity was wasted by competitors, reporters, statesmen, celebrities or spectators to see and be seen. Prime Minister-in-waiting and friendly buffoon Boris Johnson even gauged a period of comical suspension from a zip wire would do his self-promotion no harm at all and he was probably right.

crazy olympics report london 2012

I find it difficult to imagine Apollo squeezing into his Speedos for a few sets of beach volleyball; Hermes mounting his stallion for some ‘horsey-dancing’or Poseidon and Heracles adjusting their noseclips as they prepare to start their synchronised swimming routine...

The first Olympic Games for the Twitter and Facebook generation has produced some crazy stuff. Clues that this was a ‘modern’ Games came at the Opening Ceremony; teenage Olympians marching in the entry parade, their iPhones held aloft capturing video instead of/as well as soaking up the atmosphere of a lifetime.

I thought the Opening Ceremony, despite media criticisms, presented Great Britain to the world in a strong light. Above the spectacular Olympic Stadium remotely controlled cameras scuttled like big black beetles on a network of high wires to beam pictures of the visual feast from every conceivable angle. TV viewers had sumptuous views from inside, outside and above the stadium without having to stump up an eye-watering £2,100 pounds for the most expensive tickets in the house.

I’m watching the spectacle from Canada. There’s a bias in the TV coverage towards events favoured in Canada and The States and commercials appear every few minutes. I hear regular references to landmarks such as Bucking-HAM Palace. Those irritations aside, at least I have five Olympic TV channels, including three in hi-definition, plus plenty of unofficial streaming online so I have most events covered. Reports tell me the Brits are infuriated with some crass home commentary and insensitive interviewing. Another sign of the times is the stinking army of British Trolls unleashing verbal campaigns against British athletes on Twitter and in online comments threads everywhere. It seems Silver is regarded as abject failure. The prospect of a Canadian disrespecting a Canadian athlete seems unthinkable.

Call me an old traditionalist but Track and Field are where the true spirit of the Olympics lies. I’ll be watching the athletics with keen interest from this weekend onwards.

The Mad

• Gymnasts using little water pistols to spray the Uneven Bars (By the way, when did we stop calling them the Asymmetric Bars?)
• The trampolinists whistling shrilly with each breath. (Is it just me or did her hips look a bit soggy?)
• Swimmers wearing TWO caps, one on top of the other. (Never venture out without your undercap!)

The Bad

• Badminton players expelled for trying to lose.
• Athletes naively posting scans of their Olympic security passes online.
• Olympic officials who allegedly charged a barely credible £19,000 to expenses for a single bottle of 1853 vintage Cognac.

The Sad

• The civilian cyclist tragically crushed under an Olympic shuttle bus on Thursday.

I can’t help but wonder what that mythical god and resident of Mount Olympus, Zeus would make of twenty-first century shenanigans: Olympians stabbing away at smart phones or wearing giant headphones as they saunter into the arena. Everywhere style vies with substance for supremacy and you can be forgiven for thinking competitors are awarded marks for fingernail flag painting, naval jewellery, sparkliest shoes and wackiest cycling helmet. Despite all the silly trappings of modernity, athletic cream will rise to the surface and I’m sure there will be some truly momentous performances.

the label maker

The eagle-eyed among my select readership will have noticed the appearance of labels on my entire blog archive. Michelle suggested this idea as a way for her to delve into my literary nonsense with at least some direction. Speaking as an indefatigable cataloguer, lister and categoriser, self-certified neat freak and all-round terminal Virgo, it is frankly astonishing that I hadn't done this sooner!

So, after three hours of browsing, choosing and applying labels, there is now a "tag cloud" sitting ominously in my sidebar leading the curious to fictional flights of fancy, pompous pontifications and rip-roaring reviews. For those with a visual preference, many posts still carry links to my photo site. This has proved an interesting trip down memory lane.

I found the exercise supremely satisfying. Similar but on a slightly smaller scale to completing the writing of my "Memoirs to Age Fifty," listing my complete worldly possessions, scanning my three thousand 35mm photographs, tagging them all along with the fourteen thousand or so digital photos in my files. It leaves me feeling comfortable. Yes, tidiness is very soothing in a chaotic world, therapeutic even.

There came a time when I couldn't rest until my music, film and book collections had been catalogued in Excel spreadsheets. Now for example, I can sort the whole music file into alphabetical order by band, chronological order by release date, alphabetical order by genre, chronological order by purchase date, ascending order of purchase price, descending order of personal star-rating and... need I go on?

... ok I will. I have all fourteen hundred CDs ripped to mp3 on my hard drive (with obligatory backup of course).

My stamp collection includes used examples of almost every British issue since 1840 and mint examples of everything since 1900. My coin collection is practically complete with every British coin minted since 1837 (plus a fair quantity of European, American and Canadian examples). Oh, and of course they are all catalogued in exciting spreadsheets! I had weeks of fun scanning the coins (both obverse and reverse naturally)!

Is it all a sickness, an affliction of details? Probably. But does it rule my life? Not that you would notice, I hope!

Now, where's my label maker? :)

Someone shoot me if I start printing labels for "TV," "couch," "fridge," "spoon..."

These are the Days of Our Lives

So I fell unceremoniously back to earth...

Ten days on and I'm still feeling somewhat detached from reality. I watch a TV banking commercial and think - I don't work for that household name any more. I can please myself today; what shall I do, where shall I go? Well I'm varying my routine and doing what takes my fancy. Domestic chores are fine by me, I like cleaning, washing, polishing and tidying. No one organises my day, not even me.

Blue skies and a thin watery sun entice me into taking the bike out. Although dry it is only deceptively fine and the bitter cold soaks into my bones. A ten mile round trip to the DIY Superstore was sufficient today. Swirling leaves caught my eye this afternoon so I unexpectedly spent two hours with a noisy toy blowing them into a giant drift and filling sack after sack after sack. I ate no lunch because I wasn't hungry.

Where have all the bloggers gone? I trimmed my blogroll a couple of months ago but I need to do it again. Don't be offended if I drop a link - so many have ceased posting and commenting and moved on that I need to have a clearout. I'm not very good at doing peripheral so I am sticking to hardcore from now.

You'd have to be deaf and blind to miss Arctic Monkeys, the hype machine is in overdrive. The debut album is smart and very self-assured and their lyrics will stand up to close scrutiny. British influences abound but the result is individual. Hard rock meets Indie, intelligent, articulate and acerbic and I'm going to sidestep any thoughts of comparisons.

The other new CD on my hi-fi is the debut from The Kooks. This is instantly accessible and inevitably will be seen as the album The Libertines should have made. Gritty tales of urban life over scorching melodies and slabs of guitar. My kind of twenty-year-olds, enough said.

Good heavens look at the time! I need to crack on with planning a lazy itinerary for tomorrow.