Moolies

A grand day out

The whirl of positivity that is December (if you have young children, at least) began in earnest on Saturday with the 'secret day out'.

It was written on the calendar: "Day out".  Nora was fascinated. Are we going to the Zoo? No, that's next Saturday. Where are we going then? Aha... wait and see. Her interest and strain grew as the week went on, and spilled over in to a bad mood by Thursday. Tell me! (Duckface very much making an appearance). So, the night before we went, we told her half the story. Under oath not to tell James.

We were going to meet Thomas the Tank Engine.

Didcot Railway Centre is a delight, staffed by energetic volunteers who roll about in ecstasy at their luck to be able to spend their spare time working on, training to, and driving beautiful restored railway steam engines. The journey there was comparatively, monstrously easy for us, comprising as it did of: a bus, 2 tubes and a train. But, leaving the house at 9, we were there by 11.28. Really not bad. James meanwhile, still did not know what we were doing, and I felt a bit mean that he couldn't read. He spotted a silhouette picture of a steam train on a sign at Didcot station and smiled. We feigned ignorance and carried on walking. When we came out in to the grey sunshine from the tunnel, there was nothing to show what was happening apart from a small shed, and a few people milling about. there were rails, but then, we were still at a train station, weren't we.

Suddenly, from the left, came that beautiful, hairs on the back of the neck sound: a proper chuff chuff chuffing as an engine, with green livery, wide and flat bodied rather than rounded came toward us from round a bend. It was carrying two coaches, and it had a vast, circular smiling face on the front.

James stood still in total shock and amazement. Not so much stood, but more like, he looked like he might execute a startled star jump. His face beamed out light and he jumped  as he yelled "IT'S A STEAM ENGINE!!!".

Oh yes. Not just one, but a walk along the path revealed a proper engine shed, just like Thomas, with smiling engines on all the lines going in. It was overwhelmingly amazing, and fantastic! So we decided to go on Duck before going to try and find Thomas.

Why are steam engines so glorious? It's not just nostalgia. They weren't going when I was young. More, they were rusting hulks in elephant graveyards, but  looking at them up close, they emanate the pride the people who made them so obviously had. They wear their engineering on the outside. They demonstrate their power visibly and on a cold day, the fire in their bellies is visible and tangible. Even though surely, being the coalman in that tiny space with the driver must be a bloody miserable job, you envy the opportunity to feed the mighty beast as its plumes of dragon smoke and steam are ejected with huge force. A modern diesel and electricity fueled engine is a bulk made appliance, in contrast to these forged, elemental beings. They're magnificent.

After we had left Duck's lovely old carriage (third class) we walked up from the other end of the Centre compound. At some point, nora saw the sign "Ride with Thomas and meet Father Christmas". What??! Father Christmas? Smiles of amazement all round, as we walk up towards where Thomas was sitting, waiting. In fact, the whistle was about to blow for that bunch of children, so we stood and watched as Thomas whistled and chugged backwards out of the 'station' and down the line. The centre had really done a decent job - they'd found a proper small sized tank engine and his livery was great, although it could have done with a clean. I told James (who said "Thomas's face is dirty!") that was was dirty from having puff puffed children along the branch line all day.

Waiting for the return of Thomas, we went in to the engine shed. More amazement and awe at seeing really huge engines close up. Then a return to the Thomas queue, with all the other small children, and ridiculously happy, smiling parents. A small glimpse of the not-really-very-fat Controller (James decided he was the Thin controller - aha. Good work). Ushered in to a Christmassy carriages, we edged up the line toward the front, where 'Mother Christmas' was executing through-put.

Now Nora had a bad Father Christmas experience the other day. She saw the person billed as Father Christmas on top of a bus in Streatham, and decided in short order that it wasn't. Why was he pretending to be Father Christmas? It wasn't fair. Nora cried. She's very close to asking the wrong question now, and when she does, I will not lie to her. I have always promised I never would, but have sidestepped the question in the past, with "Well, what do you think?" and other vaguely encouraging noises. So this was a bit of a make-or-break. Mother Christmas was a lovely slightly older woman of quite spherical size and grey hair, dressed up in red velvet, who had the ease with children of a well versed Grandmother, and was full of anecdotes about Rudolph, who has a purple nose currently because he has a cold. She spun tales about the elves and told the children that she had put Father christmas on a diet, so that he could eat anything he liked over Christmas  - and presumably become rotund again. By the time we were ushered through, Nora was under a kind of spell, which saw her through one of the worst Father Christmas impersonators I have ever seen. Under 30, slim, and wearing a terrible false bear with straps showing, he made absolutely no effort to be friendly beyond putting on a low voice and saying "Ho ho" a couple of times. He looked like someone who had been pushed in to doing the task at the last minute, and had no enthusiasm for it. Mck and I were heartbroken. Nora was silent, and I was desperately worried she would burst in to tears at any moment. They received their gifts each after relating what they wanted for Christmas (James was a little shy and amazed) and we went out of the carriage.

Nora said nothing.

James was desperate to open his present, which was a rather gloriously oversized tractor. Perfect for a small boy. For this, Father Christmas was a total hero. Nora opened her present - a maths-friendly jigsaw with 36 large pieces. We made encouraging noises about how she'd only been saying she liked maths yesterday, and how Father Christmas must have heard her. Nora remained inscrutable, and stood, basically silent. We went back on thomas, and along to the front of the Centre.

The rest of the day: another ride on Duck (this time in first Class - what stunning carriages they were too - basically equipped with armchairs!) and some 'making things' and playing. And receiving a long balloon each. James constantly playing with his tractor. When we had got off Duck, we went and sat at the front of him, on a bench, so we could see him whistle, and shunt his way back down the line. McK too a video of him chugging. James said "Thank you for giving us a ride, Duck!", and I smiled indulgently. Then later, on our way out, Duck was still masterfully chugging up and down the line. James called across, "Duck! Look at my balloon!". To him, the magical engines really were alive. Their rictus smiles in place for politeness's sake. He decided that at the end of the day they would be able to sigh in relief and yawn before going to sleep.  Even Nora half believed, and neither of them questioned the way their faces had been hung on the front of the engines, looking a little battered around the edges from years of storage, and use.

Aftermath...

Sitting eating her tea, Nora said "Why was Father Christmas wearing a beard that wasn't real?". We feigned confusion. She had seen the elastic straps on the all too obvious, tatty white beard, and because she hadn't asked 'the question', and because it was clear he had been real to her, I remembered that Raymond Brigg's Father Christmas was recognised everywhere he went on holiday. so maybe he only grows his beard actually at Christmas, and the rest of the time he shaves, so that people won't recognise him. That, it seemed, was the correct answer.

Aunty Clare, Uncle Tim and their lovely zippy little boy came over on Sunday. James told his cousin proudly who had given him his new tractor. "Father Christmas!" "Oh", said Aunty Clare, not aware of when this event occurred:  "Who did we meet yesterday? "

...This could all go horribly wrong.

-Who did we meet yesterday, darling? It was Father Christmas wasn't it!

McK stood with a fixed smile, looking a bit desperate. I chimed in. "Wow, he was so busy yesterday wasn't he? He was in Bristol in the morning, and he must have come on the train or used his sleigh because we met him at Didcot in the afternoon, didn't we?" Nods of agreement from the two small people present.

Phew.

I predict that I will not be writing about meeting Father Christmas in quite the same way for Nora ever again.

Stubble

Definition of Stubble = Stagnation + bubble. 

Copyright Robert Peston. 

An excellent word for a clear observation. My observation on the back of that observation: we're just so screwed up.

I don't think as a nation we have a clue how to live within our means any longer. We borrow against a future that doesn't exist (we imagine). We don't build enough housing, therefore the housing that we have spirals out of control. We have a govt - a succession of govts, who keep building and development works "off books" by massive industry borrowing, with massive pay-back rates, but you know, hey, look we got everything we needed and more today, right? That is exactly the same mentality as the credit card obsessed population has toward money. It's not even money though is it. It's "credit", this weird alternative economy layer, which pretends it  will one day be real money, paid back and everything. In the meantime, just wap out your credit card and Bob is your Uncle! A vast new TV, despite the fact that your old one works perfectly well. New clothes? Who cares if you've got a wardrobe full of them - they're all soooo last year! Let's build a new mega hospital and close all the old ones now! Now now now I want it NOW!

Sorry, I really went off on a rant there, but I think the original statement does hold. We as a nation have lost the plot when it comes to money. The banking profession has already forgotten the disaster it made. It will make another one. Although I entirely agree with the bailout, it absolutely needed to happen, in doing so we seem to have given our banks the idea that they are untouchable. Lehmens went down but... I'm still getting my big fat bonus this year. Have you seen the FTSE 100 figures? They're bouncing up in the hundreds about 5k. It doesn't really make alot of sense until you realise that the mass delusion remains well entrenched. Credit is wealth. Betting vast sums of credit (not even actual money) against market chimeras... and you there, consumer: spend spend spend! You don't have to pay it back. Just declare yourself bankrupt! 

I do think Capitalism is utterly screwed. I also think that the UK is suffering a mass delusion based on previous power. In order to maintain our world status, we have deliberately let our banks behave as if they have access to unending betting credit. The City of London is one of the most important banking hubs in the world, you know. Really. Honestly. Leave it alone, EU, we've got to maintain our status because it's the only bloody thing we've got left. Our population expect a reasonable standard of living, but on what basis? All we really do, in a service driven economy, is sell things and time to each other, using credit cards. We don't make those things. They come from China, where people earn a slave wage in comparison. Our population continues to grow, as immigrants continue to pump in to this country having bought in to the whole delusion. They then become the ones earning the slave wages in *this*  country, providing the services that our deluded residents appear to think we're too posh to push. Or clean, or mend, or look after.

Where the hell do we go from here? The only concrete thing I can discern from this whole mess is that we need a mass house building programme. and I mean massive. Humungous. Landscape changing. And legislation denying anyone including landlords the opportunity of owning more than 2 properties above and beyond primary residence (or something like that). 

And credit cards should be banned*.

The bounce does worry me, but at the same time, I almost feel that the population is so blind to what is really happening around them that it doesn't really matter what transpires. As long as they can continue to consume, they don't really care.

On that note, I would like to contribute my own phrase to tghe modern lexicon. I get quite angry about the phrase "Make do and Mend". it's used semi-ironically, usually in magazines to promote products. Because we don't really want to do it, do we. And in fact, most people won't. they'll just know it's a good idea. But you see, mending is...well.  What we always did do. And there's nothing wrong with mending. In fact, mending is a virtue. you get to spend the money you would have spent on a new thing either on something good instead, like travelling to an amazing place, or you get to not have to spend money that you don't have. Mending is also a spit in the eye of the cunts who try to persuade you that you really, desperately need to spend your hard won credit on the latest fashion. Be it in clothing or gadgets. It is not a mark of being poor. Living within your means is not living frugally. It is living practically! Rationally! I'm not sure my phrase quite captures that but it is: Mend, don't spend.

I use the word "cunts" and it's not a nice word, but then I don't think we live in very nice times. The whole country, from Govt to streetsweeper has been hypnotised by credit, and we absolutely will pay the price. If this bubble bursts, do we bail out the banks... again? The delusion can't last forever.

*Well, I bloody wish they were. I made the mistake of organising one to cover xmas last year. Have snipped it up since and am still paying it off. Doh. Not doing that again!

Nora flew!

The day didn't start auspiciously. It started, as it ended, with large amounts of water evacuating the sky with rapidity. But no thunder. Phew.

We'd put off the bike practicing from the day before, because one parent and two barely controlled small children on bicycles who need to be walked across main roads - not so good. There's great joy to be had, meanwhile, when living in a wet climate, in buying a full waterproof provisioning system for your kids, regardless of the point that it won't be used very often. When we got to the playground with the wide disused paddling pool (brilliant practicing ground for kids) in, there was an almighty puddle in the middle, and with continuing buckets of water flooding down from the sky, we had the playground to ourselves, laughing like idiots, splashing each other with puddle water.

Nora's a nervous sort. She worries about most things and her first reaction to new things is sadly, often a "No I can't!" with a look of panic until she's persuaded that of course, she can just give it a try. Just once. So I took off her stabilisers without her knowing a couple of weeks ago. First time she tried, we got to the stage of us holding on to the saddle and running like a doubled up monkey next to the bike as she cycled, then yesterday in quick succession it went from graduating the saddle hand to a back-resting hand to a.... no hand!

No hands! Nora flew! 

I did, I think, jump up and down waving my hands in the air and going "Woohoo!".

Poor Nor - she wanted to instantly be able to cycle like a pro, and was fed up when she couldn't - but she managed to take a curve on her own and do a couple more runs before the insistent rain became a little bit too much for the little cold wet feet to bear any longer (the only limit with kids and water is - why do they make children's' wellies with such stupidly low tops? The group of people who are most likely to want to wear wellies, have to wear ones that don't do the job. Ridiculous). So, regardless of days out and Nannies and Grandads next weekend - more practicing!

(We promised Nora a 16" 'grown up' bike when she'd learned too. Thank god for Ebay).

Faces in everyday things. Why?

Matt Jones has posted a great discussion piece on Berg London: "Humanising data" in which he discusses design solutions which are in sympathy with the point that mysteriously, faces appear to surround us, created seemingly magically from the everyday.

I chipped in with a few thoughts in a post, given that I was mulling over this very thing as I returned home the other day. The conclusion I came to was this. Here's what a typical baby development site says about the development of sight in the newborn:

"At first your baby can't focus farther than 8 to 15 inches away — just far enough to make out the face of the person holding him. He can detect light, shapes, and movement beyond that, but it's all pretty blurry right now. Appropriately enough, your face is the most fascinating thing to your baby at this age (followed by high-contrast patterns such as a checkerboard), so be sure to give him plenty of up-close time.

1 month
At birth your baby didn't know how to use his eyes in tandem, so they may have wandered randomly or even crossed now and then. This month or next, he'll be able to consistently focus both eyes and track a moving object. A rattle passed in front of his face will often transfix him as he explores this newfound ability. He may also enjoy playing eyes-to-eyes with you: With your face very close to his, move your head slowly from side to side, with your eyes and his eyes locked."

Mothers' faces and bodies are optimised to accommodate their new offspring's limited vision capacity. Dark eyebrows, dark eye centres with white surrounds, dark lips and nostril holes and also importantly, dark nipple circles for feeding (ok, that's not a face, but there are two of them. not sure how relevant that is but still). 

Put simply, it appears to me that the proliferation of faux faces around us in everyday design is asa direct result of this first visual stimulus. We are pre-programmed to fall in love with the human face - the Mother's face. It is the first source of comfort, safety and reassurance for us.  I don't think it is an enormous stretch of the imagination to suppose that this formative experience has an *enormous* effect on our growing intellects, and my suggestion therefore is not only do we seek out these faces, either consciously or otherwise, as consumers but we do also as creators. The face: stylised, unwittingly introduced, or confidently asserted represents something so fundamental to our visual sensibilities that we  are as drawn to it as we would be any comfort blanket. The face - the Mother's face is the original security and reassurance device.

What I'm missing in this epic thesis is any theoretical discussion or reference to back it up. I can't begin to assume that this thought is in any way unique and new. So anyone got anything interesting they would like to cite?

Here are some faces, for your enjoyment:

Faces in places

There are faces everywhere

Hello, little fella!

I saw a face! I did! In a house!

::Waves::

Hello yes. Still here. Bit distracted.

Lots of things I want to get off my chest though, and no time to say them.

For absolutely no reason at all I've been researching ethical footwear. Well, no, if I were writing a column, I'd say it's because I need a new pair of shoes, and I'm a bit fed up with wearing petrochemical ones, BUT, I am a vegetarian. So what gives? Is there a truly ethical shoe company, from whom one can source decent winterish shows that last, that have a low carbon footprint and dare I even mention this, might even be made of leather, given that leather is a bi-product of an industry where the carbon etc has already been accounted for? Ans: Not so simples. So more on that later because it's *interesting*. 

Watching a documentary about the Great War last night, I was struck how much the war, for long stretches, seemed to be characterised almost by hysteria, throughout the players. Sending tens of thousands of men to their deaths, surrounded by the carnage from the days or weeks before in a landscape so much closer to hell than anything by Jake and Dinos Chapman. Andrew Marr mentioned one Army Officer who had been a maths teacher before the war, who had calculated the rate of loss of his men if they went over the top, as a result of their knowing the exact position of the German machine guns. 100%. He took this evidence to his superior officers, and he was told "Obey your orders". They were all killed.

Back in the UK, in London - astonishing, this. you could actually hear the bombardment. From London. The siege mentality and paranoia gripping the UK must have been like a form of insanity. The whole war during the middle period where no gains were made on either side sounded unbearably irrational.

We went on holiday, James is growing up so much... I enjoy his company more and more I have to say. When he's not whining, he is a delight to be around. The whining is merely a phase, I'm sure. The holiday was wonderful and I wish I was back there now.

A whole slew of other ideas and Oooh, this that and the others - and I still haven't written about Arthur blinking Jefferson. But he'll have to wait.

So I joined in the whole Jan Moir thing

Just to get this on record for anyone who is following this, this is the complaint I sent to the PCC earlier on today, using a form which I can't currently get the URL to, given that the site is down. Here is the wording of my complaint (left out the admin type bits)

(No, I don't think I really need to post a link to the article do I? Not now. Not going to either. I think I had to link to the Mail once on here, and I didn't like it then.)

----------------------------------

Explanation : 1. Accuracy. The code states:
"The Press must take care not to publish inaccurate, misleading or
distorted information".
Even in the headline, which does not take care to suggest any
possibility of problems in the medical examination of Stephen Gately
after his death - it states clearly that the medical result was
inaccurate (and presents no factual evidence to back up this claim)

2. This is repeated during the article, again, with absolutely no
factual evidence to back it up, and yet Ms Moir seems to be determined
to press home her creative and non-factual version of events:
"Whatever the cause of death is, it is not, by any yardstick, a natural
one. Let us be absolutely clear about this."
No evidence given. Clearly Ms Moir is either entirely wrong, or quite
the worst investigative journalist I've ever read, since she doesn't
lay out her case.

3. "Intrusion in to grief or shock".
This terrible article, which is inferring lies, extreme  homophobia  and
insults not only about Stephen Gately, but his civil Partner, less than
a week (OK! I got that wrong, I don't follow celebrity death that closely) after the young man in question died of natural causes is disgusting.

5. Discrimination: the whole article is permeated with homophobia - fear
of a homosexual lifestyle, or homosexual relationships. Jan Moir infers
that the "ooze" of a gay lifestyle is somehow terrible and awful.

I could have been more specific but I, you know. Was at work n'stuff. So here's the reply from the PCC, from a Mr Yip (points for them though, at least it came from a human being):

------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for sending us your complaint about the Daily Mail article on
the subject of the death of Stephen Gately.  We have received numerous
complaints about this matter.

I should first make clear that the Commission generally requires the
involvement of directly affected parties before it can begin an
investigation into an article.  On this occasion, it may be a matter for
the family of Mr Gately to raise a complaint about how his death has
been treated by the Daily Mail.  I can inform you that we have made
ourselves available to the family and Mr Gately's bandmates, in order
that they can use our services if they wish.

We require the direct involvement of affected parties because the PCC
process can have a public outcome and it would be discourteous for the
Commission to publish information relating to individuals without their
knowledge or consent.  Indeed, doing so might unwittingly add to any
intrusion.  Additionally, one of the PCC's roles is dispute resolution,
and we would need contact with the affected party in order to determine
what would be an acceptable means of settling a complaint.

On initial examination, it would appear that you are, therefore, a third
party to the complaint, and we may not be able to pursue your concerns
further.  However, if you feel that your complaint touches on claims
that do not relate directly to Mr Gately or his family, please let us
know, making clear how they raise a breach of the Code of Practice.  If
you feel that the Commission should waive its third party rules, please
make clear why you believe this.

----------------------------------------------

I'm not going to start ranting about how confusing it is that I had a complaint, and I went to the "Complaints" commission, and apparently they don't want to hear it. I'll just put my reply up:

-------------------------------------------------

Sirs,

Thank you very much for your email explaining your position.

Whilst I agree with you that on matters of privacy and personal grief,
those aspects of the article should come under the umbrella of you
'Direct involvement' requirement, the complaint also puts equal weight
behind the lack of accuracy with regard to the cause of death, which
is public knowledge, and more importantly, the article makes broad
ranging generalisations with regard to the institution of Civil
Partnership, which are not directly related to Mr Gately. It also
attempts to make a comparison between the death of someone recently
who was battling a drug addiction with this death. The only
similarities in the cases being that the parties happened to be gay
men. This is clearly discriminatory in a  broad, and not personalised
sense. My case then is that this affects me personally, not only as
someone who knows people who have had a civil Partnership, but as a
woman who has had relationships with women, and therefore could be
described as bi-sexual or as having had "gay" relationships.

I hope that given the weight of, and number of justifiable complaints
in this case that you will act upon the more universal aspects of the
complaints, since the only other avenue for those who are horrified by
the homophobia in this article is the courts. My own view would be
that the organisation created to handle "Complaints" should be a more
efficient mode of dealing with the fallout from this?

Thank you for your time,

-------------------------------------

So very polite, I hope you'll agree. We'll see what they come back with.

It is interesting, all this. I'm not sure anyone really knows how to deal with these crowd situations, and have no idea what the impact is or will be. But those crowds, they keep on coming.

Greenpeace on the house, everybody say Yo

Hmmm. Well it's been a bit of a weekend, really.

First: Kingsnorth new coal powerstation - withdrawn for the moment. Okay, pretty good stuff.

Second: BAA say they're not going to pursue the new Heathrow runway. Bloody hell!

Third: Ayrshire firm has major investor withdraw from new coal fired power station. Ok...

Fourth: Greenpeace are currently up on the roof of parliament waving banners saying Politics has to change. ready for the new Parliamentary term

So it's all good stuff. Here's Greenpeace's 12 point policies for change, which I don't expect will happen now, but will happen purely because they have to - struggling in to being over the next few years, but unfortunately not at a speedy enough rate. you see, you look at that list, and every single one of them says "Government spending". Now I know that, and you know that. Unfortunately for the planet, we live in a democracy where every vote counts, and a large percentage of those votes are predicated on not having vast taxes making your lifestyle a bit more crap than it is right now.

In reality, what we need is a tripartite green governance mini-government a bit like a war cabinet, with a mandate to introduce this stuff Because We Have To. Then the rest of governance could go on as usual, with bitter infighting and sniping and so forth... but no one could blame any one party, and we could still make the changes.

Because we are at war, you see. We are.

Anyway! In other related news, I joined The Green Party, finally, today. I don't agree with some of their long term policies, but looking through their short term ones, it is remarkable how much that rhetoric is bandied around by the powers that be as if it was all their idea. The point is, I vote Green, and I'm, in the end analysis, a political, ideological animal seeking a belief system (it's in my genes) so I'm going to see if it works. I'm not going to stuff envelopes (solely!) though.

Gawd, I've got so much I want to write about atm, but I have gone on a sort of short holiday, which is in fact, fairly indicative of the point that I'm pretty happy right now, and feeling engaged in actions and... er... 'things' instead of staring at the computer thinking "I know I should probably be anxious or active about something, but I just don't feel up to it". That can only be good.

Meanwhile, having blurted, I've got to rush home to see my three lovelies.

Poor old Robert FitzRoy snubbed again

In my capacity as an amateur defender of the great Admiral FitzRoy, it has come to my attention that the BBC has committed an unforgivable sin of omission by talking about The Beagles's logbooks as if they were *Darwin's*, and even going so far as to talk about Captains' logs mere moments before mentioning the great naturalist and international interloper, as if he was the Captain himself! Here's the offending piece:

"Logbooks may yield climate bounty"

It wouldn't be so terrible (although it really is, rather), but what makes it worse is that they really harp on about the Beagle, and much, much worse, the article is about climate change and the weather. It's as if they hadn't bothered researching the point that FitzRoy was *obsessed* with the weather, and indeed, basically founded the Met office! You couldn't get a more apposite person to mention in the same breath as an analysis of climate.

Poor FitzRoy. Ignored so much in death, as he was in life, and so very unjustly. Here's his grave, that I managed eventually to go and see.

Read about him, if you don't know anything about him. He was a fascinating, flawed character with a big heart and a voracious appetite for geographical / meteorological knowledge but also sufferer of acute, and miserable depressive episodes. I've provided the two best book links below:

Evolution's Captain, by Peter Nichols. Really exhaustive but brilliantly readable and exciting history of The Beagle and Mr Fitz, going back to the original Captain and what happened to him (erk). 

This Thing of Darkness, by the late Harry Thompson. Very easy read. A novelisation of the relationship between Fitz and Darwin, but dwelling on FitzRoy, what happened next, more on the Fuegians and all sorts. 

I like to think that the overwhelming weight of evidence in Darwin's favour might have eventually turned Robert Fitzroy's desire for God to exist and everything to be in its place, as a glory unto him (etc) in to something he himself saw as more anachronistic and he might have eventually dropped it, if other events hadn't intervened. After all, he was far from stupid (although he was intensely proud, so it would have meant a huge leap for him to admit he was wrong). In life, he suffered intellectually a great deal, and had the rug pulled from under him several times. I empathise with the man for his frail humanity, and our shared condition of depression (although he suffered voluminously more than I ever have).

Anyway, there you are, Boo, BBC, do your homework and don't mislead people about something, er, admittedly relatively minor but still significant historically!

Ear popping sounds!

The trouble with kevlar tyres is - you just forget how to mend punctures. Easily. Having just spent nearly two hours... well, ok, I spent a large amount of that time also degunking the bike but having just managed to relocate the way the bloody wheel is supposed to go in to the er, wheel slots, with the chain not getting in the way etc, I proceeded to pump up the tyre to the recommended level, thought "ooh, that's a bit hard", then stopped putting it in to its outdoor home when aye aye, I realised the back wheel wasn't moving. Hmmmmm.... er... a bit of air out perhaps? Try that? the breaks didn't appear to be problematic...

BANG!

Whole damn thing burst, right in my bloody ear.

That was a bit of a surprise.

...and at 23.26 I think I'll call that a night. Sigh.

A brief holiday, apparently

I seem to have entered a period of "bored with the sound of my own voice", which will revert to the normal spouting gibberish within... ooh. Hours, I'm sure.

Oddly, there's quite a lot of stuff I'd like to talk about including:

-The ethical consumer conundrums: a) The kettle b) Is it possible to source ethical leather shoes, if you're a vegetarian (to reduce your carbon output)

...I've got a feeling I've done kettle before though. I am a creature of a small but intensely held series of thoughts

Family updates a go-go.

Meanwhile, I have a tale of surprising positivity where Ikea is concerned. James' dust allergy appears to be having far more outward symptoms these days, which is sad. He wakes up sounding like he has a heavy cold every day, and about 20 minutes in to leche / story time, he will suddenly sneeze, twice, necessitating the removal of an enormous amount of heavy duty, dark green mottled snot. He's been breathing in dust all night, see. not to mention the red eyes and constant rubbing in the evenings.

So. Children's' stuff tends to be dust-trap-a-go-go, so after extensive research I found that Ikea's "Trofast" system comes with the potential for lids for all its bucket-like plastic slot-in shelving er... bits. Reducing available surfaces to flat, hooverable cover ups is far, far preferable to a random surfaced clump of god knows what ie: a load of old junk piled up in a corner or something.

Astonishingly, I found myself deciding to go to Ikea on a Saturday night, after the kids had finally gone to sleep and managed to get there at 10pm, 1 hour before closure. After racing (as much as you can do whilst pushing a huge wheely trolley) through the store, finding a total lack of colour choice and thus ending up filching as many plastic buckets (of varying sizes) from the displays as I could, afterwards  negotiating the utterly frustrating crap of dragging your arse through the 'market place' to get to the not exactly awful but nevertheless extremely tiring business of dragging enormous cardboard covered packages on to your trolley. On your own. At 10.40 at night... I did indeed manage to purchase our entire shelving solution. Sans lids! Not a single bloody lid in the place! The whole point: the very reason I'd chosen this system in the first place was missing. They'd all been gonded by shoppers braving the Sat afternoon scrum.

Two things happened subsequent to standing in the till queue at 10.50 on Saturday night:

1) They delivered all the goods at 7.45am the following morning. Less than 12 hours after I'd bought the stuff. Now that, I respect, I have to say. There is much wrong with the Ikea experience, so it's surprising to write something positive about them.

2) You can get the lids online! Wooo!

So, hopefully we should be able to organise the kid-crud, and maybe reduce James' symptoms. I hope so.

Oh, bugger. That's a post, isn't it! Well, er... it'll be ages till the next one, just you wait.