tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-325704602024-03-14T03:24:54.361+00:00The Age of UncertaintyIt deepens like a coastal shelfSteerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.comBlogger1061125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-51818318018203217082022-02-16T17:53:00.002+00:002022-02-16T17:53:32.293+00:00Cold Comfort Farms<p>Ten years ago, I was working on a farm in the middle of a cold Sussex winter, trying to push some huge metal wheelie bins up an ice-covered slope. After falling over several times, I gripped onto the bins as firmly as possible, only to discover that my hands had stuck to the freezing metal. It was not the best of times.<br /><br />There were lighter moments. Occasionally, we'd stop for a cup of tea and see how long it took for the dregs of our cups to freeze once we'd tipped them on the ground. Meanwhile, in a nearby barn, some mice had taken the used teabags from our makeshift bin and turned them into a cosy little nest. </p><p>I barely knew the people I worked with, but the grim, Siberian labour camp conditions created a sort of camaraderie. <br /><br />When friends asked me what I was doing, I told them a half truth: I was setting up an online secondhand bookselling business, with a man called Pete. If they wanted to imagine a rarefied atmosphere of antiquarian books, that was fine with me. The reality was harder to explain and I'm not sure I even understood it myself.<br /><br />It had all happened by chance. A few weeks earlier, I'd been approached by someone I vaguely knew who'd heard that I'd recently left an online bookselling job to set up my own business. Pete invited me to a local pub and, over a pint of Harvey's, produced a succession of Excel spreadsheets that showed how the two of us could make our fortune. My bookselling experience combined with his business acumen would be, he argued, be a winning combination. </p><p>I wasn't convinced, but it was flattering to be asked and, after all, what did I have to lose? Pete proposed that we ran two separate, but linked, businesses, so I would still have the independence I needed, but with a guaranteed supply of books. I mulled it over that evening and said yes the following morning. </p><p>The farm was 10 miles away, in the middle of the Sussex countryside and was owned by a gypsy family. For reasons I never fully understood, they all seemed to be called Billy and lived in a static home which was occasionally turned 90 degrees to the right or left, perhaps as a homage to their nomadic past.</p><p>Pete had sublet a barn from the family and had established a small business selling penny paperbacks, but had no idea what to do with all of the older, non-barcoded books. My role was to go through the stock, sort out the wheat from the chaff and find a way of selling the books online. I'd already done this in my previous job, so what could possibly go wrong? </p><p>I soon had my answer. Several weeks of sifting through books ridden with mouse droppings in subzero temperatures took its toll and I developed pneumonia. I hadn't taken it that seriously until I saw the look on my doctor's face after she'd tested my lung capacity. It was time to stop. The rest of February was a write-off, spent mostly in bed.<br /></p><p>By the beginning of March, I felt able to go back to work and found Pete in an ebullient mood. He had just bought a large van, which meant that we could move our stock around between different premises. All I had to do now was find a suitable location for my part of the business. </p><p>How did one go about finding suitable properties to set up an internet bookselling business? I had no idea, but like any sensible person I tried Google and eventually found this. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_MYs_PaJkuyWlxmO2UyfwdLP6ZVKLhkHpBGIgSqECsJURZMBMSVKZ5TKB9x4atcOx2kLMeUoIjmtq1ORcfiRWx2nfU8dI8Zhk7i9NLcVA5BX0NwqFQFdq37xIqHCvwZblJkbpClkGieL9Nck0qovry6vypFoqlOadVEkPnv8EEnmko2spZdQ=s2816" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1864" data-original-width="2816" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_MYs_PaJkuyWlxmO2UyfwdLP6ZVKLhkHpBGIgSqECsJURZMBMSVKZ5TKB9x4atcOx2kLMeUoIjmtq1ORcfiRWx2nfU8dI8Zhk7i9NLcVA5BX0NwqFQFdq37xIqHCvwZblJkbpClkGieL9Nck0qovry6vypFoqlOadVEkPnv8EEnmko2spZdQ=w388-h257" width="388" /></a></div><p></p><p>After my spell in the icy gulag, the new site felt like paradise. The owner was a gentleman farmer whose wife ran a B&B for visitors to Glyndebourne and his other tenants included the official glovemaker to the Queen. Every time I opened the door, I felt of rush of pleasure as I looked at the view:<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizCIg5WxT_uNuYdDBRGcYA97IHZ9EqrLpd-hLeSDwPi2tCkMPJOiyA9hAXNvdwuI-rHFxL5JZdTbBelcvqSsDqpdu2fTToNlAI5sMvXSy5msyo0ikSHSm3-V_axhPZvIXOSMKdBZ8iKQBL60GNyazYu6aKOJT6u9t_xV8HMrVVL-TI9qEyZXM=s2816" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="1864" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizCIg5WxT_uNuYdDBRGcYA97IHZ9EqrLpd-hLeSDwPi2tCkMPJOiyA9hAXNvdwuI-rHFxL5JZdTbBelcvqSsDqpdu2fTToNlAI5sMvXSy5msyo0ikSHSm3-V_axhPZvIXOSMKdBZ8iKQBL60GNyazYu6aKOJT6u9t_xV8HMrVVL-TI9qEyZXM=w314-h474" width="314" /></a></div><p>I could have quite happily spent my days sitting in this empty building, just looking at the view and listening to music. If only such jobs existed. Sadly there was rent to pay, so I had to start focusing on the nuts and bolts of the business. Literally:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMSuMl3EGhOWVZnyHgtAyxGWjSYxyoilqrsK0KyuEH6kzbi1qNBUdwAr-SdDeZZqju2WSlvMcynBJ2SpDgbk3DihHKQ6aGI8RIC_UILCOIiatQnR8q_wZ9lSILrixY6OCctDYO_vsA6xjAySnMgkQSDtIVJMW_eJ7eBcv4NzMZdrUxpaWY5OM=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMSuMl3EGhOWVZnyHgtAyxGWjSYxyoilqrsK0KyuEH6kzbi1qNBUdwAr-SdDeZZqju2WSlvMcynBJ2SpDgbk3DihHKQ6aGI8RIC_UILCOIiatQnR8q_wZ9lSILrixY6OCctDYO_vsA6xjAySnMgkQSDtIVJMW_eJ7eBcv4NzMZdrUxpaWY5OM=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>It took two weeks to assemble the giant Meccano sets masquerading as shelving units, one nut and bolt at a time. It was indescribably tedious and if someone had told me that I'd have to disassemble it and reassemble it somewhere else, six months later, I might have felt like giving up. <br /><br />Along with the shelving, there was the other minutiae to consider: postage, computers, printers, furniture, setting up a BT account, banking and stationery. Even something as simple as a packing slip required HTML skills that were way beyond my abilities, but somehow I had to learn. Gradually, it was beginning to take shape, but there was one thing missing: staff.</p><p>Fast forward to a month later and it was impossibly idyllic. I was working in a beautiful rural setting with two postgrads and a member of the cast of The Archers, which added to the bucolic atmosphere. We spent our days sorting through old books in a cosy little office, accompanied by the soothing strains of a French classical music station. What more could anyone want?</p><p>Sadly, it was too good to last. Our business generated a lot of waste and our landlord had made it very clear that he didn't want his B&B guests disturbed by the sight of wheelie bins, or woken up by any early morning waste collections. I couldn't argue with that. If I was in the land of Nod after a night's Gotterdammerunging, I wouldn't want a dawn chorus of "ATTENTION! THIS VEHICLE IS REVERSING!"<br /></p><p>So far, I'd managed to use Pete's van to take our unwanted books away, but that took two hours out of my day. Also, Pete's bargain van was rather erratic and, without any warning, things would suddenly stop working. On one occasion, I was driving to a warehouse in Birmingham and discovered that the windscreen wipers weren't functioning. I pulled over and texted Pete:</p><p>"Got to turn back. The wipers aren't working." </p><p>Pete quickly replied: "Is it raining?" I replied that it wasn't, but it might start raining at some point in the journey, in which case I'd be in a bit of a pickle. I think Pete thought that I was being an old fuss-pot. <br /></p><p>The business model was simple enough. We received bulk deliveries of old, pre-ISBN books and sorted through them, identifying any titles that might be worth selling. It doesn't take long to learn which books have no value at all in the secondhand market - things like everyday bibles, old textbooks and Victorian poetry anthologies, or titles like <i>Little Women</i>, <i>Reach For the Sky</i> and anything by Walter Scott. </p><p>Sadly, these books are sent off to be pulped as nobody wants them, particularly the charities who have just sold them to us as a waste product. If the books have nice covers, they may have a future lining the shelves of some faux olde worlde pub, but most will end up in places as unlikely as road surfacing material. In a normal one tonne delivery, anything up to 90% of the books end up being thrown away.</p><p>I resisted leaving my rural idyll for as long as possible, but I had to face facts: the business was generating too much waste for our genteel setting. I had to find a new home for the books. After a few fruitless weeks of searching online, I found this:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE8q1vpManV91hCaF6Gc_izJP3sWxAgen2on5FwTWsSBxtf7TfnUBK0EBJM14gebvcwWW0KvKEA7DOOx7SgvVKMn16wCDaNQYAwWVd94YO2LDhVFgGIzaJQxsOEKmjRS9cuJrHrah0rGCaHsUeTqC6eQwcsIs59A15vrFhafWUtEiymeAnfmY=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE8q1vpManV91hCaF6Gc_izJP3sWxAgen2on5FwTWsSBxtf7TfnUBK0EBJM14gebvcwWW0KvKEA7DOOx7SgvVKMn16wCDaNQYAwWVd94YO2LDhVFgGIzaJQxsOEKmjRS9cuJrHrah0rGCaHsUeTqC6eQwcsIs59A15vrFhafWUtEiymeAnfmY=w419-h314" width="419" /></a></div><p>It was as grim as it looks in the photo, but it was big and cheap - perfect for a growing business. We could have as many wheelie bins as we liked and receive deliveries from articulated lorries. However, expecting my staff to work in a large barn, particularly as the weather got colder, was asking too much. How could I provide them with a decent office space?</p><p></p><p>Fortunately, I had a brainwave:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmd9a_3EYTLhWxvix5WCJ_WOHRCWbRQp0OfDhLvJZtOKzkG9WDi45N9kNaxYlXV2uJVz-esMqnIi4R6Nu9dmPcj5XEDbtZ0ti2IxICKHvZz88MrmQ29Uk3UZEAozbUfxGcLvDeFMqPvfWz5WJlXGKTzZYBKix49PhBub-7fMd50GN77xW2lF0=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmd9a_3EYTLhWxvix5WCJ_WOHRCWbRQp0OfDhLvJZtOKzkG9WDi45N9kNaxYlXV2uJVz-esMqnIi4R6Nu9dmPcj5XEDbtZ0ti2IxICKHvZz88MrmQ29Uk3UZEAozbUfxGcLvDeFMqPvfWz5WJlXGKTzZYBKix49PhBub-7fMd50GN77xW2lF0=w445-h334" width="445" /></a></div><p></p><p>I won't claim that my garden shed idea matched the splendour of our previous office, but once I'd installed decent lighting, a couple of heaters and painted the inside a bright colour, it was tolerable. Perhaps we might have been contented there, but unfortunately things took a turn for the worse.</p><p>Impressed by the size of the barn, Pete decided that he'd like to set up a little sideline there and employed the first four Polish men who responded to his Gumtree advert. They were perfectly pleasant individuals, but had a penchant for drinking vodka in the morning. Once Pawel and his chums had reached a suitable state of inebriation, they would amuse themselves by performing stunts with a forklift truck (those things can move a lot faster than you might imagine). Occasionally, the forklift would almost crash into our office, veering off seconds before impact. </p><p>To add insult to injury, they played Heart FM and, on one occasion, I had to listen to Adele accompanied by the cry of a bull being sodomised by one of its stablemates in an adjacent barn. It was at moments like this, I wondered where I had gone wrong.</p><p>But in spite of my reservations, the business worked. The sales slowly but steadily grew as we added books to our inventory and received orders from all over the world. Having a global marketplace meant that even the most obscure book stood a reasonable chance of finding a buyer. In a bookshop, I strongly doubt that our 1920s book about UHT milk production would have sold, but online we found someone in Uruguay who couldn't wait to read it.</p><p>After a year, I thought I'd developed a pretty good business model. The overheads were low and the turnover was growing month by month. But I hadn't foreseen that there would be a number of obstacles to our progress. Here are five of the worst:</p><p><b>1. Animals</b></p><p>Being a townie, I was under the naive impression that we were the sole occupants of our barn, but I soon learned otherwise. From a robin's point of view, our bookshelves were just a suitable place to build a nest. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy3L5TI2YCRbZpuxtoy5UMD1ZA_2A3LgBSlQSiiNKpjGZX7o1aIOzQGeB-twQg6FY4Yb4Uh7rr4tz-x-OYSVTv9KEQpHN8g1Ru4mW7ATxlcv7UzXhIfWXv7-1ADCfqUMtQ2_2XaOl0aSJyuvQDTX9GZfMaXtIcXtcHcOIjTLIR6XX_d2ZUsI0=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy3L5TI2YCRbZpuxtoy5UMD1ZA_2A3LgBSlQSiiNKpjGZX7o1aIOzQGeB-twQg6FY4Yb4Uh7rr4tz-x-OYSVTv9KEQpHN8g1Ru4mW7ATxlcv7UzXhIfWXv7-1ADCfqUMtQ2_2XaOl0aSJyuvQDTX9GZfMaXtIcXtcHcOIjTLIR6XX_d2ZUsI0=w423-h317" width="423" /></a></div><p>When the eggs hatched, we had to tread very carefully, hoping that we wouldn't frighten the mother away from feeding her birds. This meant that if any poor soul ordered a book near the nest, I had to cancel the order. Of course, I couldn't tell them why, so I had to invent a vaguely plausible excuse and hope that our rating wouldn't suffer.</p><p>After a few weeks, the birds flew away, leaving several pecked, soiled books as a souvenir of their visit.</p><p>The poor Poles who worked in the open barn also had to contend with birds defecating on their computer monitors and keyboards, which must have added insult to injury. </p><p>In addition to birds, we shared our barn with amphibians:</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKlHfWgouizwNsW3vqVbWYRxcwR7YrW6qEQKf75zEvmsJ-Ze8az37sQscdzfYh-YU5vF6sarlnB_rgvbtbxO4Oz8lo8IrtJL1LiAdBSpKBk9jOnD1eg8CU2VO-4WcctsH-as9RlZnUBkv_VE3hLcvtWcPWoA304bxs-CPAV5JO4BB0loOl_wU=s4128" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3096" data-original-width="4128" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKlHfWgouizwNsW3vqVbWYRxcwR7YrW6qEQKf75zEvmsJ-Ze8az37sQscdzfYh-YU5vF6sarlnB_rgvbtbxO4Oz8lo8IrtJL1LiAdBSpKBk9jOnD1eg8CU2VO-4WcctsH-as9RlZnUBkv_VE3hLcvtWcPWoA304bxs-CPAV5JO4BB0loOl_wU=s320" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNeSpNxFHaB5jeGaGgnGeLw01Os1HZVfF4Swnu1I5z6MsDc6qxU6LsPkMlhbuXUsUQUXfrF3ge8yV6yMejvfKvO49BUtMKjig2CcRcIQZu20eJPFWZ95MvYIKd1YGGXZfrnxW3Vq2i99D3M851ybF6KFc5YeJ_DkeM4f2xfkUgfBTI6YJjQ0k=s420" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="420" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNeSpNxFHaB5jeGaGgnGeLw01Os1HZVfF4Swnu1I5z6MsDc6qxU6LsPkMlhbuXUsUQUXfrF3ge8yV6yMejvfKvO49BUtMKjig2CcRcIQZu20eJPFWZ95MvYIKd1YGGXZfrnxW3Vq2i99D3M851ybF6KFc5YeJ_DkeM4f2xfkUgfBTI6YJjQ0k=s320" width="320" /></a></div></div><p>But the most bizarre moment was when we saw a mink casually walk past with a rat in its mouth. The moment it noticed us, the mink jumped and let go of the rat. Seeing an opportunity, the rat scuttled off into a narrow gap by the door and hid. When we returned after the weekend, we found the mink lying dead with its legs in the air. Next to it, was a huge pile of rat droppings.</p><p>Our uninvited guests may have thrown the occasional spanner in the works, but overall they provided many comedic moments and I grew to love the absurdity of it. I also cherished the moments when a robin would land a few feet away and patiently watch me unpack my deliveries. Perhaps he was hoping for a bookworm.</p><p><b>2. Couriers</b></p><p>I thought I'd set up a foolproof system. Rather than faffing around taking parcels to the nearest post office, I'd found a courier who would do all the hard work. All we had to do was put the UK orders in one mailsack and international orders in the other, then someone would come and collect them. It all worked very well until the day nobody turned up. </p><p>After a number of unanswered phone calls, I discovered that the company had gone bust. They had several days' worth of our orders in their warehouse and for the next few weeks, I began each day issuing refunds and apologising to angry customers. Our rating dropped as a result and fewer orders came in, which was probably just as well, as there was nobody to collect them. </p><p>I learned my lesson and signed up to one of the biggest couriers in the country. They went bust too.</p><p><b>3. Gravity</b></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2j-pZo9N9NgIYv0vazQmYpFvJpUo3oRO8WQZEjq8o452-U0aR7HHxfcDxAN0iQ2_FHwcmnMkJyws2ivZAUd6hu19bxmyjLKKWNT8OapnGr_MB9EfWWl_px6aUMf3_7NxfjvfhmB1FbN79MrMN54L1xMuMhplNvCkqznwtAOjiVWuQAOkEPkY=s420" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="420" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2j-pZo9N9NgIYv0vazQmYpFvJpUo3oRO8WQZEjq8o452-U0aR7HHxfcDxAN0iQ2_FHwcmnMkJyws2ivZAUd6hu19bxmyjLKKWNT8OapnGr_MB9EfWWl_px6aUMf3_7NxfjvfhmB1FbN79MrMN54L1xMuMhplNvCkqznwtAOjiVWuQAOkEPkY=w364-h310" width="364" /></a></div><p>For no discernible reason, our Meccano shelving units would occasionally collapse under the strain of our growing inventory of books. The metal would buckle to the point where repairs were impossible. It was very annoying.</p><p>Gravity also nearly led to my premature demise when this teetering pile of boxes was delivered. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYaDrE3dPLHrxxgwjM4gBWkx5oIefgvZgXrS_YfiWR2brmyAffRQOZdot6S55vzln8bMp_LXUEj26zz3Kyu5vdBChK3ZtUWz-4PPjAF-iIafsmPL7Y3Qdr9N_Y0otH_QSB0PpY_KTTQJEuP2QnZW6BquW7SPX6jo4V3WU1C0ETisVBMETGWQ4=s435" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYaDrE3dPLHrxxgwjM4gBWkx5oIefgvZgXrS_YfiWR2brmyAffRQOZdot6S55vzln8bMp_LXUEj26zz3Kyu5vdBChK3ZtUWz-4PPjAF-iIafsmPL7Y3Qdr9N_Y0otH_QSB0PpY_KTTQJEuP2QnZW6BquW7SPX6jo4V3WU1C0ETisVBMETGWQ4=s320" width="265" /></a></div><br />It looks harmless enough here, but when this half tonne pallet was five feet above me on the back of a lorry, wobbling menacingly, I wasn't terribly happy about it. The delivery driver didn't inspire confidence when he said, "Looks as if it might fall off, mate. Can you stand underneath and try and keep it steady?" Like a fool, I complied because I wanted to show that I was also a proper man, just like him.<br /><p></p><p><b>4. Suppliers</b></p><p>Like couriers, suppliers can suddenly go into receivership without any warning. Even if that doesn't happen, they may decide that my few hundred quid a month isn't enough of an incentive for them to bother separating their old books from the new, preferring to sell them to a waste paper merchant.<br /></p><p><b>5. Partnership</b></p><p>Business partnerships are tricky at the best of times. Pete and I were like Del Boy and Rodney. Pete was a geezer and although I liked him personally, I didn't agree with the way he avoided paying people to extend his credit. Occasionally, his 'entrepreneurial' approach would land him in deep water and more than once his business teetered on the brink of disaster. <br /></p><p>I was definitely a Rodney. I used to worry if I was a day late with my payments and liked to do everything by the book. <br /></p><p>Eventually, Pete and I reached an amicable separation, but continued to help each other out and share premises. </p><p>Without Pete's quest for global domination, I no longer felt under pressure to expand and decided to continue as a one-man operation. The business was at a level where it ticked over nicely and I was contented sitting in my small office, listening to music, sorting through the random selection of books that passed through my hands.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVXNLW8qWLnnOpAWyt6v1CfEFSUMoJxp051v53_SXvS7WqrxoWbaJixAd38TCYpBvnRvwW_-8kEfYgJ2szncwl6DU5ywcDJPas4vQol2GVJ6XhZu7nBLvrs82KELDRsEDU1oSmZXpjKQ995jWcNd187uRgbG-b5rY1O69yjBGBvfIQQyDliYc=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVXNLW8qWLnnOpAWyt6v1CfEFSUMoJxp051v53_SXvS7WqrxoWbaJixAd38TCYpBvnRvwW_-8kEfYgJ2szncwl6DU5ywcDJPas4vQol2GVJ6XhZu7nBLvrs82KELDRsEDU1oSmZXpjKQ995jWcNd187uRgbG-b5rY1O69yjBGBvfIQQyDliYc=w420-h315" width="420" /></a></div>The job was a strange mixture. One part of it involved sitting in a warm, cosy office, listening to Bach and looking at antiquarian books. The other involved mundane manual tasks, like trying to push heavy wheelie bins through the muddy surface of a farmyard. The physicality of the work could be particularly draining - if you've ever had to load and unload one and a half tonnes of boxed books, you'll know what I mean. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIm272jQdgv9W8Wv7136Fl8J0w83OMm2UHl6-5pI01IC-G3FOh3NyeDPcCyvsOU6Ub1-o8N6JpajhqukV01g_nc_qkwSmTmBmYsvCzH3h6jaj9g716AuSEcXagyXzar8GnzvXHkRb5U8sXsHCJCrt9rUpM1JEmjx9piXx1pMzq2XMSwr9Iou0=s420" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="420" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIm272jQdgv9W8Wv7136Fl8J0w83OMm2UHl6-5pI01IC-G3FOh3NyeDPcCyvsOU6Ub1-o8N6JpajhqukV01g_nc_qkwSmTmBmYsvCzH3h6jaj9g716AuSEcXagyXzar8GnzvXHkRb5U8sXsHCJCrt9rUpM1JEmjx9piXx1pMzq2XMSwr9Iou0=w407-h271" width="407" /></a></div><p>But although the chores could be repetitive, the books themselves were endlessly fascinating, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. Although most of the stock was rubbish, literally, a delivery could yield all sorts of surprises, from a signed first edition by Siegfried Sassoon to a letter written by Paul Nash. </p><p>If things had gone as planned, I'd probably still be in my cowshed now, assailed by weasels, toads and robins. However, a few years ago, my wife won funding from the local authority for our son to go to a school that specialised in teaching autistic children. As I was the only one who could take him there (and be on call to collect him if he had a wobble), my wife and I decided that we should swap roles. I tried to continue running my business on a part-time basis, but it didn't work and I very reluctantly said a final farewell to bookselling. </p><p>Five years on, I am still at home, bored senseless and doing a terrible job at running the house, while my wife is developing a blossoming career as a freelance editor. Sometimes I fantasize about resurrecting Steerforth Books, even if it meant having to start from scratch again. But whenever nostalgia strikes, I remember the darker side of the job: the mud, the Heart FM, the near-death incidents, the rats and the back-breaking deliveries. </p><p>And it still isn't enough to put me off. <br /></p><p> <br /></p>Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-65346392379514119172021-08-08T11:49:00.003+00:002021-08-08T18:54:32.707+00:00Journal of a Plague Year<p>2020 was going to be a good year. Holidays were booked and my older son, whose crippling anxiety had made him virtually housebound, was about to begin a programme of treatment that would gradually help him overcome his fear of the outside world. There seemed to be a lot to look forward to. <br /><br />Of course, there were various reports in the news about a deadly new virus in China, but hadn't we heard it all before when we were warned about mad cow disease, bird flu and Ebola? These things always fizzled out. Even when the Italians were warning us that we were two weeks away from a crisis, people said "Ah, but that's the Italians. They're very tactile. It won't spread as quickly over here." <br /></p><p>As the number of UK cases began to rise, I was still busily planning a weekend break in Luxembourg, while Boris Johnson was busy enjoying a two-week holiday with his girlfriend. Crisis? What crisis?<br /><br />In hindsight, perhaps we were dutifully following Elizabeth Kübler-Ross's model for the five stages of grief, the first of which is denial. We told ourselves that the number of people with Covid-19 was only 12...37...93...168...279..., but by early March, creeping doubts were beginning to set in. Perhaps we were heading for a scenario that was more like this:<br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3Zbf7pQkEvA" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>
Within just a few weeks, denial quickly became replaced by anger and fear. How did we sleepwalk into this position? Who was to blame? Should we let the virus sweep through society until herd immunity was achieved, or should we batten down the hatches and risk destroying the economy? <br /><br />After some Olympic-level dithering by Boris Johnson, the hatches were battened down. All non-essential travel was banned and a silence seemed to descend on the world. The normally thriving streets of Lewes became eerily deserted. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslah0d0TEQ9eYST0_fyZGT75Erb8oHZbRCP2zYT6pt74zqMSLkEExzSIp-3NRLwuu_DawkxK1FC2qPJau7tkZLiWa4okQdsDomNLPJNuSJP8f28VOCyTL_z_J6xuKwviW7gzS4g/s600/Lewes-High-Street.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslah0d0TEQ9eYST0_fyZGT75Erb8oHZbRCP2zYT6pt74zqMSLkEExzSIp-3NRLwuu_DawkxK1FC2qPJau7tkZLiWa4okQdsDomNLPJNuSJP8f28VOCyTL_z_J6xuKwviW7gzS4g/w400-h300/Lewes-High-Street.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br />My son's CBT sessions for his agoraphobia were cancelled. After two weeks of being reassured that the outside world was a safe place, he was now being told that actually it wasn't and that it would probably be better if he stayed indoors. He willingly complied. <br /></p><p>It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The first lockdown coincided with some unseasonably warm weather and many people enjoyed this unexpected holiday. The distant roar of traffic was suddenly replaced by birdsong and, in the field behind our house, children started to build makeshift dens and swings. It seemed like a glimpse of a more benign world. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDd50RE99KUmGORUxQe_5JLcldD4HYYDn4dy1GbgVtnCV37ZPozOozps_8aPkqGRrAXxO4g9Kvz36QfIRAOVu0y5Yea4h5cNyw3oNkDk-l79lKJLKL_BQCxy3DiPn-MdWcLJ3HA/s600/Field.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDd50RE99KUmGORUxQe_5JLcldD4HYYDn4dy1GbgVtnCV37ZPozOozps_8aPkqGRrAXxO4g9Kvz36QfIRAOVu0y5Yea4h5cNyw3oNkDk-l79lKJLKL_BQCxy3DiPn-MdWcLJ3HA/w400-h300/Field.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>However, things were starting to turn ugly at the supermarkets, as a mass hysteria developed over a potential shortage of toilet paper. In some city-centre stores, fights were breaking out over the right to have a clean bottom and, while I saluted the protagonists' commitment to personal hygiene, it seemed a baffling thing to come to blows over. </p><p>The toilet-paper crisis was swiftly alleviated by the beginning of food shortages, which meant that fewer trips to the loo would be required. Gripped by a fear that society was on the brink of collapse, people started buying up all the dried pasta and rice they could find. On a trip to Tesco, the whole meat aisle was empty, apart from two packets of Heck pork sausages. <br /><br />We were quickly reassured that there was no shortage of food; we were just trying to all buy it at the same time, which made it very hard for the supermarkets to replenish their shelves quickly enough. At this point, Tesco swiftly instigated their National Emergency Plan: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SG2LT7_Ie80PPg_6P_4FiXrR4bGk0wRpZZDiELjQTfuCYqo6qXWH0fm4if-6kSENZVzmuSgXQbc6eoy2LJMEb4IVgExbkUw2IgVohRK77hrtzh8UZdTokGeG4ZOW-8snoHJRYQ/s600/Tesco-queue.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="600" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SG2LT7_Ie80PPg_6P_4FiXrR4bGk0wRpZZDiELjQTfuCYqo6qXWH0fm4if-6kSENZVzmuSgXQbc6eoy2LJMEb4IVgExbkUw2IgVohRK77hrtzh8UZdTokGeG4ZOW-8snoHJRYQ/w400-h249/Tesco-queue.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br />Unlike the UK government, Tesco had prepared for this eventuality and, thanks to socially distanced queuing and a limit on the number of customers allowed in the store, the food shortages swiftly ended. I sometimes wonder if the Government should have resigned and handed over the reins of power to Tesco, who seemed to possess a sense of direction that Boris Johnson lacked. <br /><br />On the home front, I instigated what was, in hindsight, an absurd "dig for victory" campaign in our garden, turning part of the lawn into a potato patch and planting grow bags full of tomatoes. The end result is that, several months later, we had more cherry tomatoes than we knew what to do with and enough potatoes to delay death from starvation by a mere three days. <br /><br />But while my attempts at self-sufficiency might have been laughable, the local area came into its own. Many local farmers and market traders set up veg-box delivery services and every week we enjoyed a selection of fresh vegetables and fruit, all of which were apparently grown locally. It was a revelation; I had no idea that we grew avocados in Sussex.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-INPBKHBD4k0qsfd_XAAB_P335wuXy_XMC7w9TUlT3McDmFMV9prMVhvWhOn6YBcGa45LSe0endZZlwUSmNcXC5vbCaa1BnlarKZwC9sFbEkSGfZETKy0F7uf3y7YUkQ3V_nCg/s600/Veg-Box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="600" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-INPBKHBD4k0qsfd_XAAB_P335wuXy_XMC7w9TUlT3McDmFMV9prMVhvWhOn6YBcGa45LSe0endZZlwUSmNcXC5vbCaa1BnlarKZwC9sFbEkSGfZETKy0F7uf3y7YUkQ3V_nCg/w400-h289/Veg-Box.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Our veg-box deliveries quickly became the highlight of the week; partly because we hadn't spoken to another human being for days (I don't count the awfulness of a Zoom session as human contact).<br /><br />Another thing that impressed me about the local area was the community spirit that quickly grew. A campaign by the Royal Voluntary Service to recruit people to help the NHS received around a million responses, while, on a more local level, neighbours began to shop for each other and provide lifts for medical appointments. <br /><br />Encouraged by this growing neighbourliness, my wife and I volunteered to do a weekly shop for the elderly couple next door. They were both as deaf as a post, so it seemed like a good idea when the husband suggested sending their shopping lists to my wife by email. <br /><br />It all worked very well at first. Every week, my wife would received a shopping list that seemed particularly focused on prunes and bran (but never loo paper, strangely), which we would then print off and take to Tesco. But then, other emails started to appear and their tone began to acquire a more disturbing nature. <br /></p><p>At first, it was simple innuendoes, which we put down to the attitudes of a different generation. But then the content started to become more explicit. I'm not quite sure why a man born in 1935 felt compelled to share his sexual history with my wife. He seemed to imagine that he and my wife had a special connection and would send creepy emails with lines like, "I noticed that you were up very late last night". As the saying goes, there's no fool like an old fool.<br /><br />Thankfully, the rest of the people in our road were better behaved. Nobody subjected us to any impromptu live gigs or salsa-dancing sessions and the slightly Orwellian hand-clapping sessions never quite took off. There was a vague attempt to have a VE Day street party, but I felt under no compulsion to join in.<br /><br />Life went on. At first, many of us were so terrified of ending up on a ventilator, we regarded a panting jogger or cyclist with the same horror as someone wearing a suicide vest, while a random cough in a supermarket saw people fleeing in all directions. Fortunately, the fear gradually subsided and as the death rate began to fall, some restrictions were lifted.<br /><br />The 'new normal' was like the old normal, but with masks, handwashing and a Cromwellian ban on public fun. I welcomed the introduction of table service in pubs and the ban on social kissing and hugging was an added bonus, but overall it was a strange, melancholy time. <br /><br />To complicate things further, my older son had his first epileptic fit and had to be rushed to hospital. He had been found by his younger brother and, for weeks afterwards, every strange knock or bang would send our younger son rushing upstairs to see if everything was all right.<br /></p><p>The one highlight of that lost summer was a trip to North Yorkshire, where an old friend gave me a guided tour of the local moors. It was exhilarating to be somewhere different. Indeed, I felt the same level of excitement that I usually reserved for exotic, foreign holidays. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ztz5xt_700alqOfsNPCh6BZO99OKSD7nuhcCnDcxHNURMGreq_wmQ7LDcYr3e1hfo-3z7ZkZTPpr3QbYXLIUWWtFWfpf0OuDqCO8Ii891Dwk_98v80WCDd4WEYFosWwMfjuwdg/s600/Roseberry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ztz5xt_700alqOfsNPCh6BZO99OKSD7nuhcCnDcxHNURMGreq_wmQ7LDcYr3e1hfo-3z7ZkZTPpr3QbYXLIUWWtFWfpf0OuDqCO8Ii891Dwk_98v80WCDd4WEYFosWwMfjuwdg/w400-h300/Roseberry.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>But on the way back, reality crept back in. Kings Lynn was a ghost town and I spent a rather lonely evening eating a very indifferent meal, alfresco, in a deserted market square. Where had all the people gone? On the other hand, perhaps this was normal for a town next to the Fens. Did they all come out at night?<br /><br />I had thought that a visit to the quaint coastal village of Blakeney might provide some semblance of normality, but even here, it was impossible to escape from the bogeyman. Wandering around the deserted streets, I felt as if I was in an episode of <i>Doctor Who</i>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXDeF6Sd7qfpg_AYR7Iw0pujsk_YlNzjuJgCvMtleYbTaAN7w7aneOQmhzn-KlNlhxDF8O_a4KRXTBQ0HglT_Pjpo76zQX_tFLzsSkAkOAXRO8Kxy2z1jfXVihjP4xn5h1fYczg/s600/Norfolk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXDeF6Sd7qfpg_AYR7Iw0pujsk_YlNzjuJgCvMtleYbTaAN7w7aneOQmhzn-KlNlhxDF8O_a4KRXTBQ0HglT_Pjpo76zQX_tFLzsSkAkOAXRO8Kxy2z1jfXVihjP4xn5h1fYczg/w400-h239/Norfolk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />But the worst was yet to come. Having a lockdown in the spring was one thing, but shutting the country down for three months during a relentlessly grey, wet winter was another. People who had never suffered from mental-health problems now found themselves experiencing depression for the first time in their lives. I stayed at home, watched television and put on a stone, courtesy of Mr Kipling. <br /><br />Fortunately, there was light at the end of the tunnel and, after a succession of balls-ups, the British government finally got something right with its vaccine programme. My son's epilepsy diagnosis pushed him to the front of the queue and he received his first Pfizer jab.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrTy4daGT9qdvkz4HxKXnIsPvDag2GKmrHmpDJQhmVbABnj0I__AJktTb3g9-mf2kkQxVQfEOqgb_Pv2Z5VMg9ErHhsO8roCzD09bcClIdl3FvebML3e-9uPgIVqECaObP6t5pQ/s518/Vaccine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrTy4daGT9qdvkz4HxKXnIsPvDag2GKmrHmpDJQhmVbABnj0I__AJktTb3g9-mf2kkQxVQfEOqgb_Pv2Z5VMg9ErHhsO8roCzD09bcClIdl3FvebML3e-9uPgIVqECaObP6t5pQ/s320/Vaccine.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><p>As his carer, I was also bumped up the queue and a few weeks later, I received my first AstraZeneca vaccine. On both occasions, I was really impressed by the efficiency of the whole process and the dedication and patience shown by the staff, particularly the volunteer vaccine stewards. Indeed, I felt so grateful, I ended up becoming a vaccine steward myself. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJGiDhSNMzu1P0nwvls53XLEZFLlrA-LCXAp5myFKJdinxQddFXHy074L-m0mPzHFhgVkJUMyX3EaChMGVQwS6-PuzHiw9FY-annWGFeaC-BJUOi_DXViy9mDCa9V9h2ZC3N47g/s400/Steward1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJGiDhSNMzu1P0nwvls53XLEZFLlrA-LCXAp5myFKJdinxQddFXHy074L-m0mPzHFhgVkJUMyX3EaChMGVQwS6-PuzHiw9FY-annWGFeaC-BJUOi_DXViy9mDCa9V9h2ZC3N47g/s320/Steward1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Being a vaccine steward was exhausting. In Brighton, I was on my feet for six hours, with just one 15-minute break. The work was monotonous but vital, as it meant that the NHS staff were able to get on with their jobs rather than wasting time directing people. According to my phone, in an area that was a mere 25ft long, I walked over 8000 steps. <br /></p><p>After the miserable winter lockdown ended, I took a train to London and discovered that it was still closed. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCp09GXgR0JuLx0l4WDDSvN03M5apPZuqE3syvjOvR-791rX9HhI47I3J8hAUzyVfKdrNKZlioeHURNJIPvHimWLDyQ5q8TUzWPzo5fg2RQIcbKLirAlQ2A8m66dIPDwOGgE4Fg/s600/London.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCp09GXgR0JuLx0l4WDDSvN03M5apPZuqE3syvjOvR-791rX9HhI47I3J8hAUzyVfKdrNKZlioeHURNJIPvHimWLDyQ5q8TUzWPzo5fg2RQIcbKLirAlQ2A8m66dIPDwOGgE4Fg/w400-h300/London.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I suppose the empty train and PPE vending machine at Lewes Station should have given me a clue. But the idea of a deserted city seemed the stuff of science-fiction films, where the silence was only broken by marauding triffids or gangs of looters. In Trafalgar Square, three police vans were parked on the perimeter and I realised that I was under observation, which was a little disconcerting. <br /><p></p><p>Since then, life has gradually returned to normal. Relaxing the rules resulted in a spike of new Covid cases, but that now seems to be in reverse and the number of people wearing masks in crowded places is slowly declining. Friends have started kissing again, so we're now back to the nightmare of trying to remember if so-and-so is a one- or two-cheek-kissing person. <br /><br />Overall, I wouldn't say that Covid-19 has had a huge impact on my life. The people who have suffered have been the young, those who haven't been able to see loved ones and, of course, those who caught the virus. I was already leading a life of self-isolation looking after my sons, so the lockdown didn't change things much for me. <br /><br />However, I did learn one important lesson: make hay while the sun shines. Spend more time with friends and loved ones, visit the places you've always wanted to see and don't spend all your days at home eating Mr Kipling's Almond Slices. I hope that there won't be another long year like this in my lifetime, but this is, after all, an age of uncertainty.<br /></p>Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-25526570235348252482019-01-08T15:26:00.002+00:002019-01-08T15:44:49.934+00:00Since Then<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCa46a3yCXcU6_rgrB9NOgSMJrKxTpKJpnYsPVFn1YGGkU-HlybL-xQgQuBueyWzUhzdKdWpSx2o28hQRVldN-EF0LkTuKGQ0yUPPl7bGKIVW0LBFmX-cBFzBu8OdPWBHynRkdA/s1600/home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCa46a3yCXcU6_rgrB9NOgSMJrKxTpKJpnYsPVFn1YGGkU-HlybL-xQgQuBueyWzUhzdKdWpSx2o28hQRVldN-EF0LkTuKGQ0yUPPl7bGKIVW0LBFmX-cBFzBu8OdPWBHynRkdA/s400/home.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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For part of the 1970s, London-based viewers of the TV soap 'Crossroads' were six months behind the rest of the country. I can't remember why, but I do recall that part of the excitement of going on holiday was being able to watch an up to date episode. It was like travelling into the future.<br />
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As with all good time travel stories, I was shocked by some of the things I saw. Why was Sandy in a wheelchair? What had turned Amy Turtle into a common thief? Where was Ted Hope? How could so much happen in six months?<br />
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In the end, Thames Television decided to catch up with the rest of the UK and a special update was filmed, with motel owner Meg Mortimer explaining what had taken place in King's Oak. <br />
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As it's been a long time since I've written a blog post, I thought I'd emulate Thames and provide a brief update of what's happened here.<br />
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<b><u>1. I Have a New Home</u></b><br />
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When my mother died, I'd hoped that we'd finally have the opportunity to swap our terraced Victorian broom cupboard for a decent-sized house in Lewes, where I could hide from people and everyone would have the space to potter around. By decent, I mean normal; a three-bed semi with a garage and a garden longer than 20 feet. <br />
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Sadly, I soon realised that my small inheritance wouldn't even cover this modest ambition, as the prices for non-terraced houses suddenly shot up. Disheartened, I began to think the unthinkable: leave Lewes.<br />
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Long story short: we now live just outside Lewes, in a detached house with a view of the South Downs. Thanks to postcode snobbery, it was almost exactly the same price as our old house. I love it.<br />
<br />
<u><b>2. I Am No Longer Gainfully Employed</b></u><br />
<br />
In a normal family, my older son would probably be at university by now or in full-time employment, while his younger brother would be going to the local school and hanging out with friends. None of this has happened. Instead, I have gradually become a full-time carer to both boys, home educating the younger one.<br />
<br />
There are two types of people who home educate their children: those who want to and those who have to. I am firmly in the latter camp and would far rather be working. For all its frustrations, work brings camaraderie, a sense of purpose and, of course, money. At the moment, my time is spent almost entirely at home, as neither boy likes going out. <br />
<br />
After six months of this, I started to go a bit stir crazy, so my wife very kindly suggested that I went off on a little jaunt somewhere. This turned out to be a very good idea and I am now making full use of EasyJet's cheap flights. Visiting a city like Berlin certainly clears away the cobwebs and stops me feeling that my life is in a complete rut.<br />
<br />
As for the home education, although I may be a reluctant teacher, I am trying my best to ensure that my son has a thorough grounding in the basics, but is also free to follow his enthusiasms and passions. Sometimes we'll read a book together, but at others we might watch a film or YouTube clip and discuss it. <br />
<br />
So far, my son seems to be enjoying his lessons and is much happier than he was this time last year, so I'm quietly hopeful.<br />
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<u><b>3. Reading Helps</b></u><br />
<br />
It can be hard to maintain a positive outlook when you see your loved ones struggling. I feel haunted by the ghost of the carefree childhood that my older son never had. I have been assured by professionals that we did all the right things, but it is hard not to experience a residual feeling of failure. We do not bring children into the world to suffer. <br />
<br />
On gloomy, winter days, I wonder if this is it. Will I work again? Will my sons ever find their way in life and if not, what will happen when we are old? Will I even make it to old age if I live a life where I rarely get any exercise, because my son won't go out but doesn't like being left alone?<br />
<br />
Of course it's ridiculous to think along these lines and when I worked, I was far too busy. But during the afternoons, when the lessons are finished and lunches eaten, my quiet time can be a mixed blessing, so thank God for the novel. What greater pleasure can there be than getting stuck into a novel like <i>Buddenbrooks</i>, spending hour upon hour in 19th century L<u>übeck?</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Blogging also used to be cathartic, but without the stimulus of work and travel, I've been rather short of material. I haven't wanted to share my recent experiences because I didn't think it wouldn't be terribly entertaining, but I'm not quite ready to join the increasing number of people who have given up blogging. <br />
<br />
I will try to ensure that my next post is more amusing.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-88033890396559572182018-10-04T15:03:00.000+00:002018-10-04T15:03:43.582+00:00A Year in Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>This post originally appeared on my other, now defunct blog, in December 2016.</b><i><b><br /></b></i><br /><br />At the end of last year, my wife and I swapped roles. It was an easy decision, as I was the only one of us able to drive our sons to their new schools. My wife joined a publishing company and thrived, while I joined the world of stay-at-home fathers, and withered.
However, although this has been a challenging year, I've been grateful for the opportunity to read more books than ever.
I began the year by resolving to abandon my Kindle and enjoyed some serendipitous discoveries in charity shops. However, almost a year on, my teetering piles of books have reminded me why I bought a Kindle in the first place.
Here are a few of the titles that made a particular impression on me: </div>
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<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>1. SURPRISINGLY TOPICAL READ OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />Philip Roth's novel 'The Plot Against America', published 12 years ago, takes place in an alternate timeline in which Roosevelt lost the 1940 Presidential election to Charles Lindbergh. At the time, a story about an experienced politician losing to a celebrity with fascist sympathies and no experience of government seemed rather far fetched.
Of course, Hillary Clinton is no Roosevelt and Donald Trump is no Lindbergh, but the essential message of this book is worth heeding: democracy can become quickly debased if we allow it. </div>
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<img alt="philip-roth-2" class=" size-full wp-image-1142 aligncenter" height="267" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/philip-roth-2.jpg" width="400" /> </div>
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<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>2. BETTER THAN EXPECTED READ OF THE YEAR
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I'd always assumed that Norman Collins' novel 'London Belongs to Me' was a dreadful old potboiler, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that for all its faults, it was a compelling and vivid evocation of London on the eve of the Second World War. Set in a boarding house that has seen better days, the novel eavesdrops on the lives of its occupants with insight and humour. </div>
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<img alt="london-in-the-1930s" class=" size-full wp-image-1138 aligncenter" height="301" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/london-in-the-1930s.jpg" width="400" />
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<br />
The perfect comfort read, 'London Belongs To Me' has been reissued as a Penguin Modern Classic, with a glowing recommendation on the cover from Sarah Walters.
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />3. RANDOM CHARITY SHOP DISCOVERY OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />The name VS Prichett meant little to me apart from his occasional appearance in short story collections, so I was intrigued to find a novel by him in the Lewes branch of Oxfam. Largely set in the Amazon jungle, 'Dead Man Leading' reads like a Conradian tale as written by Evelyn Waugh, with a finely-tuned sense of the absurd. But although it is faintly reminiscent of the last part of Waugh's own 'A Handful of Dust', Pritchett has a clear, confident voice and the result is a book that is odd and unsettling, but strangely compelling.<br /></div>
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<img alt="v-s-pritchett-1990-92-27-41-800x418" class=" size-full wp-image-1134 aligncenter" height="209" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/v-s-pritchett-1990-92-27-41-800x418.jpg" width="400" />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />4. DYSTOPIAN NOVEL OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />'The Life & Times of Michael K' by JM Coetzee was published in 1983, winning the author his first Booker Prize. There is an awful lot of dystopian and post-apocalyptic genre fiction being published at the moment and some of it is very enjoyable, but Coetzee's brilliantly stark vision has yet to be matched.
<br /><br />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>5. BEST NEW THRILLER</b></span>
<br /><br />I enjoy a good thriller and with a Kindle I can read any old trash without anyone knowing, but I've no patience with books that suffer from lumpen prose, implausible characters and cliche-ridden dialogue, no matter how good the plot is.
Fortunately, Sabine Durrant's 'Lie With Me' is a cut above the average thriller and a worthy successor to Patricia Highsmith, intelligently written and well plotted. <br /><br />I thought it was much better than the overrated 'The Girl on the Train'.
Durrant does a very convincing job of narrating the story from the perspective of a man in his early 40s and her depiction of an affluent South London family rings horribly true. I also enjoyed her evocative descriptions of a Greek island, written in a clear prose style that avoids the overwritten cliches of many genre novels.
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<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>6. NON FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />
The subject of John Preston's 'A Very English Scandal' will mean little to anyone under the age of 45 and absolutely nothing to anyone outside the UK, but it is a story that will appeal to many. Jeremy Thorpe was the charismatic leader of Britain's Liberal Party, with a lust for power that was only exceeded by his penchant for young men. When the latter threatened the former, in the guise of a troubled individual called Norman Scott, Thorpe asked a friend to have him killed.
<br /><br />Beyond some smutty 1970s playground jokes ("What do Jeremy Thorpe and Captain Kirk have in common?), my only memory of Thorpe was a sympathetic one - a good man defeated by the bigotry of a different age.
How wrong I was. The Thorpe that emerges in these pages is a charming psychopath, callously exploiting the extraordinary loyalty of his friends and family to further his political career.
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<img alt="jeremy-thorpe" class=" size-full wp-image-1130 aligncenter" height="240" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/jeremy-thorpe.jpg" width="400" /><br /><br />
'A Very English Scandal' reads like a thriller and is utterly gripping from start to finish.
<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>7. OBSCURE CLASSIC OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />
'The Serious Game' is an extraordinary 1912 novel by Hjalmar Söderberg, who in his native Sweden is regarded as the equal of Strindberg. On the face of it it's a simple enough tale of a young couple who fall in love, but end up being unhappily married to other people. What's remarkable about the book is its modernity and insight, containing a candour that no English novelist would have dared to attempt in Edwardian Britain.
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />8. FORGOTTEN MASTERPIECE OF THE YEAR</b></span>
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'The Deadly Percheron' by John Franklin Bardin is one of those rare novels that transcends its genre. What begins as a rather eccentric mystery novel set in New York quickly changes gear, taking the reader on a strange journey into the darker recesses of the human pyche, where nothing is what it seems. Written in 1946, this novel has been largely forgotten since it was republished by Penguin during the 1960s, but has enjoyed a cult following.
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />9. MOST HARROWING READ OF THE YEAR<br /><br /></b></span>
<img alt="svetlana-alexievich" class="aligncenter wp-image-1123" height="267" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/svetlana-alexievich.jpg" width="400" />
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'Chernobyl Prayer' by Svetlana Alexievich is a brilliant piece of reportage, collecting eye-witness accounts of people affected by the Chernobyl disaster in 1986.
One of the most shocking stories relates how some robotic devices - sent in to move irradiated graphite rods - kept breaking down after a bried period of exposure to radiation. In the end, men were dispatctched to pick the rods up by hand, wearing only the flimsiest of protective suits. <br /><br />Told that they couldn't have more than 40 seconds' exposure to the graphite, the men soon discovered that it was impossible to do anything in under two minutes and went ahead regardless.
For me, the most harrowing part of the book was reading a wife's account of how she nursed her husband during a long, debilitating and painful illness, following his exposure to a massive dose of radiation. When he finally died, his body treated as radioactive waste, buried in a lead-lined coffin.<br /><br />
<img alt="chernobyl" class=" size-full wp-image-1127 aligncenter" height="283" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/chernobyl.jpg" width="400" />
<br /><br />But if this all sounds too upsetting, I should also add that 'Chernobyl Prayer' also contains some remarkable stories of heroism, compassion and survival. It is a gripping read that reveals the best and worst of humanity.
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />10. SILLIEST BOOK OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />
I really enjoyed Dorothy Hughes's 1940s noir thriller 'In a Lonely Place' and was keen to explore her backlist. Sadly, 'The So Blue Marble' is one of the most ridiculous books I've ever read, with an implausible plot and a selection of unbelievable characters.
Thinking that Hughes must have had an off day, I tried another novel by her and was equally nonplussed.
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /><br />11. LIGHTEST HEAVY BOOK OF THE YEAR</b></span>
<br /><br />Adam Roberts' 'The Thing Itself' is a high concept novel that bandies ideas about Kantian philosophy, quantum physics and artificial intelliegence around with the ease of someone talking about the weather. A description of the plot would be no help at all. All I can say is that it's a playful, witty, knockabout tale that wears its cleverness lightly and is consistently funny.
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<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>12. BEST NOVEL BY A BALD, SOUTH AFRICAN EMIGRE
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<br /><br />I'm a big fan of Justin Cartwright and really enjoyed reading his 2002 novel 'White Lightning'. With a narrative that alternates between South Africa and England, this is a poignant tale of grief and loneliness that is redeemed by the author's wit and humanity. I was particularly amused by Cartwright's description of a 'saucy film' shoot, only to later discover that in the 1970s, he wrote the screenplay for 'Rosie Dixon - Night Nurse'.
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These were the books that made a big impression on me, but I should mention that I also really enjoyed Kate Summerscale's 'The Suspicions of Mr Whicher', Trollope's 'Doctor Throne', Jonathan Franzen's new novel 'Purity', Andrew Hurley's superb 'The Loney', Lionel Shriver's latest book 'The Mandibles' and Derek Raymond's grim but brilliant 'Factory' novels.
I also read three books by Dutch people.
<br /><br />Next year I intend to not read any DH Lawrence or Commonwealth novels with lengthy descriptions of marketplaces, fruit and wise old men, but other than that, I am open to almost anything.</div>
<br />Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-86010148865577852352018-10-03T17:07:00.000+00:002018-10-03T17:07:37.530+00:00Present Imperfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7x3L75pwtSzZp6iObYn1cjNLjwCS-HoNEY8wQD0WkU2qUUbcxxVcHXZwtpMSC6RANZ_vbIi37Rs0Lcv3ERJ3xbaYFMSp-X2uIhjvtz-mgAp3yd_z9rZXWPl0UzszMq1LsZppvg/s1600/Holland_House_library_after_an_air_raid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="1600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7x3L75pwtSzZp6iObYn1cjNLjwCS-HoNEY8wQD0WkU2qUUbcxxVcHXZwtpMSC6RANZ_vbIi37Rs0Lcv3ERJ3xbaYFMSp-X2uIhjvtz-mgAp3yd_z9rZXWPl0UzszMq1LsZppvg/s400/Holland_House_library_after_an_air_raid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Many thanks to the people who have posted kind comments about the last post. I wasn't expecting anyone to notice my stealthy return to this blog, so I'm touched by the response.<br /><br />Two years ago I decided to finish this blog and try something new on Wordpress, as I thought that it would enable me to create something more impressive. I went through the process of signing up, buying a domain name and even read a guide to Wordpress. However, I was like one of those people who think that buying a pencil and a sketch pad will make them an artist. <br /><br />I managed a year with the new blog - 'Present Imperfect'. I hadn't quite turned it into the multimedia spectacular that I'd envisaged and my disappointment gradually turned into total inertia. <br /><br />However, I was stirred into action a couple of days ago, as my domain name expired and the company that hosted the new blog shut it down. I won't bore you with the finer details, except to say that restoring Present Imperfect would be a complicated process and, more importantly, cost me £75 - money that I'd rather spend on a kite or a hunting horn. <br /><br />I thought that the posts on the new blog had disappeared into the ether, but the html is still on Wordpress, so I'm gradually moving the material over here. In between transferring posts (which involves a tedious resizing of images), I will try to add something new.<br /><br />I return to Blogger like an errant husband, after an affair with a younger woman. I thought that Wordpress would inject a new potency into my blogging, but instead I discovered that I didn't have the energy to keep up with its demands. While I dallied away, Blogger patiently waited for me to come home, older and wiser. Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-87746539872494659692018-10-01T13:27:00.001+00:002018-10-01T13:27:41.608+00:00Am DramI recently found a batch of photographs from the 1950s, all of which feature theatrical performances. There's very little information on the backs, but I'm almost certain that they show the work of an amateur dramatics group rather than a professional one.
The clues are as follows:
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<ul>
<li>The photos were processed in the dreary London suburbs of Cheam and New Malden</li>
<li>There's quite a lot of over overacting</li>
<li>The pictures look like the work of an enthusiastic amateur; many were very blurry</li>
</ul>
But I may be wrong. You decide:<br />
<img alt="img_0006" class=" size-full wp-image-765 aligncenter" height="270" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0006.jpg" width="420" />
This photo was printed by Cole Studios (which is still going) in New Malden - a rather drab place between Kingston-upon-Thames and Raynes Park. It now has a large Korean community, for no discernible reason (unless it reminds them of North Korea).
The set looks quite spartan, but that isn't the case in the next picture:
<img alt="img_0008" class=" size-full wp-image-767 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0008.jpg" width="420" />This is clearly a very emotional point in the play and everyone seems to be weeping. Perhaps this is in response to an earlier scene, in which things get rather heated:
<img alt="img_0007" class=" size-full wp-image-766 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0007.jpg" width="420" />
This is a little bit racy for 1950s am-dram. I don't know what play it is, but it clearly isn't 'Charlie's Aunt'. I think it was very brave of Miss Perkins in Accounts to agree to strip down to her underwear, but perhaps it was even more courageous of Brenda to wear those awful pyjamas.<br />
<img alt="img_0005" class=" size-full wp-image-764 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0005.jpg" width="420" />
In the end, everything is resolved amicably. It turns out that Miss Perkins was simply modelling for an artist and the murder weapon was a telephone directory for New Malden and Cheam. Brenda is the murdereress and she switched to the terrible pyjamas because her dress had blood on it.
It is commendable that this company were prepared to tackle gritty dramas rather than just stick to the old favourites:
<img alt="img_0004" class=" size-full wp-image-763 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0004.jpg" width="420" />
Here we see a 'kitchen sink' drama, as evidenced by a kitchen sink and a packet of Fairy Snow. I presume that this is a challenging drama about race, as one of the cast appears to have 'blacked-up'. I also see that the woman is wearing hair rollers to indicate that she is working class.
<img alt="img_0003" class=" size-full wp-image-762 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0003.jpg" width="420" />
This is from 'Twelfth Night'. Today we would probably say that this was part of an 'outreach programme' that sought to 'create links with the local community' or even 'communities'. In the 1950s, they just did an open air performance and hoped that it didn't rain.
<img alt="img_0009" class=" size-full wp-image-768 aligncenter" height="286" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0009.jpg" width="420" />
This is from a production of 'Call Me Madam'. I find the rictus grin of the man in the middle slightly offputting.
<img alt="img_0010" class=" size-full wp-image-769 aligncenter" height="280" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0010.jpg" width="420" />
I have no idea what this play is, but I don't think it's 'The Importance of Being Earnest'.
However, this is:
<img alt="img_0011" class=" size-full wp-image-770 aligncenter" height="287" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0011.jpg" width="420" />
In this production, the weeping middle-aged man at the piano has been transformed into a sprightly young buck. I wonder if a stripey blazer would do the same for me?
I'm struck by how much hard work must have gone into the stage set and the costumes. I never used to notice these things until I met my wife's family, who worked in the theatrical world. Her father was the lighting designer for the London Coliseum, but although he was highly regarded by his peers, his work was rarely mentioned in reviews.
Since then, I've always taken more interest in the details.
<img alt="img_0012" class=" size-full wp-image-771 aligncenter" height="270" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0012.jpg" width="420" />
Once again, I have no idea what this is. I can only tell you that it isn't 'Look Back in Anger'.
And now, the show is over and it's time to take a curtain call:
<img alt="img_0002" class=" size-full wp-image-761 aligncenter" height="275" src="https://presentimperfectdotuk.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/img_0002.jpg" width="420" />Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-60896851384405301512016-10-14T21:48:00.003+00:002016-10-14T21:48:46.860+00:00Thank you<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtg4oVAJDJKimtgf62hWvpQayEXTvycW7EmJ_IdOZsoGEqs3bJKo9J6P52ikZgDq9Gn8Yy-9PG25W6F0VijL1bwF7Mg4shGyxmHamdYQ_ikofXDhJFAwlJP85EgKlGQcPc_s9Feg/s1600/saltdean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtg4oVAJDJKimtgf62hWvpQayEXTvycW7EmJ_IdOZsoGEqs3bJKo9J6P52ikZgDq9Gn8Yy-9PG25W6F0VijL1bwF7Mg4shGyxmHamdYQ_ikofXDhJFAwlJP85EgKlGQcPc_s9Feg/s320/saltdean.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
Thank you to everyone who posted such kind comments in response to my last post. I would have liked to respond to each individual comment, but I'm not firing on all cylinders at the moment.<br /><br />The cremation took place this morning and went as well as I could have hoped. Everybody seemed to think that my mother would have been pleased with it. We read one of her poems, I read a tribute and during the time of quiet reflection, we listened to Abide With Me. There was also a second poem by a Mr Anon, which was so apposite I wondered if anyone would guess the author's identity. <br /><br />At the end, I handed out roses to each person and they placed them by the coffin. Afterwards, someone came up to me and asked me where I'd managed to find such beautiful flowers. I didn't tell them that I'd spent £6 in Tesco the previous day.<br /><br />The next post I write will be to give the name and web address of my new blog. <br /><br />I will finish with a picture of my mother behind the till at Woolworths in Teddington, for Chris, who wondered if he'd seen her there. She worked there every weekday morning until 1990. My father thought that she should do something better, but the hours fittted around the school holidays and she wasn't too proud to work there.<br /><br />
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Next week, I will begin the long, slow process of dismantling a life,
forensically going through every item in her flat: the reading glasses,
tablets, walking stick, Werther's Originals, romance novels, Damart
catalogues, old birthday cards from her family, certificates, framed
cross stitch pictures, biscuits and unopened sets of notelets. </div>
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It will
feel wrong, as if she is going to come back and ask me what I have done.</div>
Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-19391371330834428882016-10-05T12:51:00.003+00:002016-10-05T19:44:29.308+00:00Never Say Never<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had thought that The Last Post was the last post; on this blog at least. I'd set up a new blog on Wordpress and planned to make it more 'multimedia', beginning with a podcast featuring my mother and her friends talking about the day war broke out.<br />
<br />
I wanted to record their stories before it was too late. <br />
<br />
Sadly, it already was too late. My mother had a major heart attack ten days ago, but didn't realise what had happened and simply thought that she was unwell. By the time she was admitted to hospital, four days later, the damage to her heart was irreversible.<br />
<br />
She didn't know that she was dying. During my last visit, only ten hours before her death, my mother asked me to bring a comb with me when I returned, as she was concerned that her perm was in a mess. I made a note to buy one the next day.<br />
<br />
The hospital phoned several times during the night, but I was sound asleep and heard nothing. When I finally answered, a doctor told me to get there as soon as I could. I raced across the South Downs in the dark, jumping the traffic lights when there were no other cars. I arrived just in time. <br />
<br />
My mother was asleep, with an oxygen mask over her face. The doctor didn't beat around the bush: "I'm afraid your mother is dying. I don't think it will be long. We've done everything we can to make her comfortable." The nurse stroked my arm and the doctor asked if we had any religious requirements. I shook my head.<br />
<br />
The oxygen mask steamed up every time my mother exhaled. I noticed that her left eyelid was half open, but I had been assured that she wasn't conscious. I wondered how things could have changed so much over a few hours. <br />
<br />
I took my phone out and sent a text to my wife to let her know what was happening. After pressing send, I looked up and noticed that the oxygen mask was clear. The nurse took my mother's wrist: "She's gone." A heart that had been beating continuously since 1929 had stopped.<br />
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It was a shock, but also a relief. My mother had died a peaceful, dignified death, blissfully unaware of what was happening to her. If she'd lived, she would have had a pretty awful existence, needing help with even the most basic tasks. She had always dreaded ending up in a home or 'going potty' and selfishly, I dreaded it too. <br />
<br />
In spite of decreasing mobility, my mother had led a pretty active life right up until the end. She spent her last two weeks hobbling around the streets of Lewes, determined to get one of the new plastic five pound notes. I don't know why she was so excited by them, but it became something of an obsession. Sadly, she didn't find one.<br />
<br />
I felt that I had to write this post, as I have written about my mother so many times and didn't want to leave out the end of the story.<br />
<br />
I have just started to receive cards through the post. Whenever I see the phrase "passed on", I silently cringe, partly because my mother hated it so much: "They haven't passed on; they've died," she would always say. I'm not sure why it made her so angry, but perhaps growing up surrounded by death, during the London Blitz, gave her a contempt for the coyness of the modern age. <br />
<br />
People are being very nice to me, saying how shocked I must feel, but my overwhelming emotion is one of gratitude that my mother lived as long and as well as she did. I've witnessed some pretty horrible deaths over the years and it was a huge relief to see my mother die peacefully. <br />
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At some point, I hope I'll be able to write something about my mother's life, but for the moment this is as much as I can do. <br />
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I will post a link to the new blog when it's ready.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-3493318222909412042016-08-11T09:16:00.000+00:002016-08-13T16:33:41.488+00:00The Last Post<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This blog is ten years
old today and I have decided that this will be my last post, as I
feel that the content has become increasingly repetitive. It was
relatively easy to write when I had a job that exposed me to a wealth
of amusing books, photos and diaries, but my present role as a
'carer' doesn't provide the same inspiration and posts take twice as
long to write. <br />
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Some people have
suggested that I write about my current experiences, but I feel that
this would intrude on my sons' privacy. My older son has very strong
opinions on the subject and every time I mention him in a blog post,
I experience a slight pang of betrayal. It would be better to just
stop. <br />
<br />
I also feel that I need to focus on what I am going to
do when, in a year's time, I'm able to return to work. I have almost
a third of my working life ahead of me and have absolutely no idea
what to do with it. I could revive my book business, but with so many
suppliers going out of business, getting stock has become a real
struggle. <br />
<br />
I’m planning to take a break for a while, after
which I will either set up a new blog or try and build a website. If
that happens, I'll post a link here. Unlike a well-known book
blogger, I will not be initiating the auto-destruct sequence and the
content here will simply gather dust in the attic of cyberspace and
the archives of the British Library.<br />
<br />
The blog began as a
simple experiment, while I was laid up in bed after eating some bad
oysters. I wrote a rather fatuous post and pressed publish, not
expecting anyone to read it. However, within a day I received an
interesting comment from someone called Ms Baroque and realised that
a blog post wasn't a monologue, but the beginning of a conversation.
<br />
<br />
I would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read
these posts over the years. I still can't quite understand why anyone
would want to follow this blog, but I'm deeply grateful to those who
do. <br />
<br />
I would also like to thank those who have commented for
their kindness, thoughtfulness and wisdom. Thanks to fellow bloggers,
I have discovered some wonderful books, learned about subjects I knew
nothing about and visited exhibitions that I might otherwise have
missed. <br />
<br />
In addition to communicating across the ether, I have
also met a few bloggers, all of whom were as interesting and likeable
as their writing. <br />
<br />
I would like to apologise to anyone who has
been offended by what I have written in some of my posts. There has
never been any intent to cause upset, but my attempts to amuse may
have occasionally hit a wrong note, either through naivety or
thoughtlessness on my part. <br />
<br />
I will continue to post on
Twitter and Instagram (as phil._.b), so I hope to maintain contact with some of the
people who have been good enough to follow this blog.<br />
<br />
Once
again, many thanks for reading.
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Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com102tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-20795349163054710332016-07-27T21:17:00.001+00:002016-07-28T08:07:04.691+00:00To the North<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By modern day standards I'm not particularly well travelled, but I have seen a little of the world and visited some unusual places. However, I've been pretty useless at exploring my own country. I wasn't fully aware of this until a couple of months ago, when I worked out that I had spent less than two weeks of my adult life on the northern side of the Watford Gap.<br />
<br />
It came as a shock to realise that I'd spent more time in Chile, Spain or France than the upper two thirds of Great Britain, so I resolved to do something about it. <br />
<br />
I'd wanted to explore the north for quite a few years, but my older son couldn't cope with any car journey over three hours and after a disastrous trip to Spain, we decided to give up on family holidays. <br />
<br />
However, my son has made so much progress during the last year, we felt that it was worth trying again, so I got out a map and worked out how far we could travel over ten days.<br />
<br />
I checked distances on Google Maps and came up with the following intinerary: Lewes-Knaresborough-Whitby-Alnwick-Lindisfarne-Edinburgh-Inverness-Fort William-Glasgow-Lake Windemere-Yorkshire Dales-Haworth-Lewes. It would be a whistlestop tour of northern England and Scotland.<br />
<br />
After confirming that our trip would include visits to Scottish relatives and a detour to the Lake District, my wife gave her royal ascent and I booked family rooms in a succession of hotels and b&bs. Then, two weeks ago, we got in the car and looked for a road sign that pointed to 'The North'.<br />
<br />
For many years, I assumed that the North began somewhere slightly beyond Northampton, where people began to rhyme 'luck' with 'push' and many placenames ended in 'by' or 'thwaite'. There would be drystone walls instead of hedgerows and wild, windswept moorlands. But I was wrong. Before the North there is a place called the Midlands and everything looks quite similar for a long time. <br />
<br />
I also noticed that even when I reached Yorkshire, it didn't look particularly northern until I'd driven right up to the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors, at which point the landscape dramtically changed and became more interesting.<br />
<br />
But rather than bore you with a blow by blow account, here is a brief summary of the highs and lows of the trip:<br />
<br />
HIGHS<br />
<ul>
<li>The landscape of the Scottish Highlands. </li>
<li>The accents, all of which were music to my ears compared to our local one.</li>
<li>Knaresborough - one of the most beautiful towns I've visited, anywhere.</li>
<li>North Yorkshire, which fulfilled my dreams of wild and windy moors.</li>
<li>Whitby - a beautiful fishing town with the best fish and chips in Britain.</li>
<li>The B&Bs we stayed at - a far cry from their grim predecessors.</li>
<li>The museums and galleries of Edinburgh - all within walking distance, unlike London.</li>
<li>Visiting my wife's Scottish relatives.</li>
</ul>
LOWS<br />
<ul>
<li>The awful chain hotels we stayed at - soulless and expensive, with suprisingly bad food.</li>
<li>Glasgow - I enoyed exploring the city, but my sons hated it and refused to leave the hotel. </li>
<li>11 days of UHT milk pods - you can't make a decent cup of tea with it. </li>
<li>The eternal struggle of finding somewhere to park.</li>
<li>Holy Island - It had always looked impressive from a distance. Up close, it has bungalows. </li>
<li>The cost of even the most basic evening meal.</li>
<li>The drive home, which went on and on and on.</li>
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Here are some photos: <br />
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Knaresborough was beautiful and civilised. I would like to go back for longer and also explore nearby Harrowgate.<br />
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I was also a big fan of Whitby, which is a very picturesque fishing port, but also a traditional working class holiday resort, which saves it from being too twee. I particularly liked the famed Yorkshire 'plain speaking' as displayed by a rather taciturn waiter who simply looked at our plates and said "All done?"<br />
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My wife took a while to adjust: "They don't seem to have a wine list. Is that a northern thing?" <br />
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I'd wanted to visited Whitby ever since I'd watched a BBC Play for Today called <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U20-mNgy35Q" target="_blank">The Fishing Party.</a><br />
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The ruined Whitby Abbey is the town's main attraction and the connection with Dracula draws many people with dyed black hair and unfortunate tattoos. I also noticed a lot of older men with shaved heads and large, slightly menacing dogs. <br />
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I don't normally long for bad weather, but I felt that the Abbey had lost some of its mystery in the bright sunshine, so in the evening I climbed the famous 199 steps and took some more atmopsheric shots, like this one:<br />
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This is the Falling Foss - one of the many beautiful rivers and falls in North Yorkshire. My sons loved clambering over the rocks. <br />
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Edinburgh was a big hit with everyone. We booked an apartment just off the Royal Mile, which I can warmly recommend if you like non-stop bagpipe playing. Sometimes two pipers were playing different pieces at the same time, like a Charles Ives composition.<br />
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An octogenrian relative offered to drive us around the city and out of politeness we assented, but it turned out to be one of the most terrifying experiences I've ever had, like a very slow but deadly James Bond car chase. <br />
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This photo above is of a very attractive Edinburgh cafe that serves haggis sausages.<br />
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What better way to start a visit to the Highlands than a cruise on Loch Ness? Sadly, we were acommpanied by several dozen Chinese tourists, all armed with selfie sticks, who seemed rather over-excited and kept shouting over the commentary on the boat. At first I thought it was a one-off, but we witnessed the same behaviour on several occasions and our b&b owner confirmed that this was a common phenomenon.<br />
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I remember a time when, along with the Japanese and the Scandinavians, the Chinese were the most well-behaved and self-effacing of travellers. What has happened?<br />
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I'd always assumed that Inverness was a small, charming Highland town and part of it still is, but it is also now one of Europe's fastest-growing cities, with Sim City-like industrial zones and suburbs. It also has a very large secondhand bookshop called Leakey's, which is well worth a visit.<br />
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After what my wife's great-uncle described as a 'dreich' day, we were rewarded with some glorious weather when we drove to the west coast. I noticed that nearly half of the cars on the road were from the Netherlands. I've no idea why, but perhaps they were seeking relief from the relentless flatness of their own country.<br />
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Plockton is one of the most beautiful places on the west coast - a small fishing village that, due to some geographical quirk, faces east. Its location in a protected bay and the Gulf Stream give it a surprisingly mild climate. Palm trees can be found by the harbour. <br />
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I had been to Plockton once before and met an interesting woman who was a very keen member of the SNP. She very kindly drove me around the Isle of Skye and gave me a map showing a route that took me on a path up into hills above Plockton. When I reached the top, the view was breathtaking. I vowed I would return as soon as I could.<br />
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That was 13 years ago.<br />
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Glencoe - a stunning place with a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massacre_of_Glencoe" target="_blank">tragic history</a>. I intended to go for a long walk, but when my sons found a stream and started building a dam, I didn't have the heart to stop them:<br />
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Parents can spend so much money on keeping their children entertained, but the greatest pleasures in life usually cost nothing (fuel, food and accommodation excepted). If we go back, I think I'll look for somewhere where my sons can just mess around in the water, preferably without drowning, <br />
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Later we stopped by a loch and my sons ruined two pairs of shoes, but had one of the happiest afternoons of their lives. <br />
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After the grandeur of the Scottish Highlands, Glasgow was an huge disappointment, as far as my sons were concerned. I thought it was it little like London - not beautiful, but full of interesting buildings and hidden gems, so I took a train to Partick and began exploring. I'd like to see more of Glasgow, but I suspect it will be a solo trip.<br />
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Glasgow's reputation as a tough city is neatly encapsulated in the 'No Spitting' signs in their old subway carriages, which can be seen in the excellent Riverside Museum. The sign wasn't simply an attempt to improve the manners of Glasgow's more uncouth inhabitants, but also a vital measure in the fight against TB, which claimed blighted the lives of many Glaswegians. <br />
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Although TB no longer ravages the tenements of Glasgow, the city still has many public health problems and I noticed many people who were not only morbidly obese, but also keen smokers. Glasgow is officially the sickest city in the United Kingdom and one in four men don't reach their 65th birthday. <br />
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After Glasgow, we drove down to the Lake District and hired a boat on Lake Windemere. Like Loch Ness, it was full of Chinese tourists with selfie sticks, but I managed to find a self-drive boat and we escaped from the madding crowd. Apart from a near collision with a paddle steamer, we had a very pleasant time. <br />
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On the final day, we visited the Bronte Museum in Haworth, which was well worth the additional two hours journey time. On the dining table, where the sisters wrote their novels, there is a small E carved by Emily, who died on the couch in the background. The other rooms are full of interest, containing childhood ephemera, Bramwell's paintings and Charlotte's wedding dress.<br />
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I was particularly struck by a display of locks of hair - Emily was very blonde - and wondered if it would be possible to recreate the Bronte family using Jurassic Park-style technology.<br />
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I said I wouldn't bore you with a blow by blow account, but I seem to have done exactly that. To conclude, the holiday was a success and my older son, who once refused to leave the house, seems energised by the experience. Like so many children with his issues, he loved the most remote parts of the Highlands and hated anywhere that was full of tourists.<br />
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As for me, in the same way that some middle aged men realise that they're gay after years of denial, I have discovered that I am a closet Northerner. I suppose all the signs were there - a fondness for mushy peas, an aversion to direct sunlight and a preference for plain speaking. <br />
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Perhaps I've been living in the wrong part of England all this time.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-77708912092839418402016-06-30T22:41:00.000+00:002016-07-28T12:39:36.162+00:00The Best of TimesIt's exactly ten years since the bookshop company I worked for - Ottakar's - was taken over
HMV Media, who incorporated the shops into its Waterstone's chain. I was happy at Ottakar's. It was a company that valued individuality, not only tolerating the quirky and eccentric, but actively encouraging it. Ottakar's and I were a good fit. <br />
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The company culture came from its founder and managing director, James Heneage - a man who was the antithesis of the grey-suited businessman. Fiercely intelligent and disarmingly honest, he had an unusual background. Expelled from a famous public school, he went on to join the army at Sandhurst and was allegedly responsible for the only mutiny in his regiment's history, when he got his soldiers lost in a jungle.<br />
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I suspect that many of the anecdotes about James were apocryphal, but it wouldn't have surprised me if they were true. James was a larger than life character, with a clipped military voice that boomed across the room. During a visit to one shop in early December, James was dismayed to find that there were no Christmas decorations and bellowed at the manager "What are you? Some sort of Calvinist?!"<br />
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But underneath the bluff exterior, there was a great warmth and we all felt that he was on our side. I have met many politicians, actors, writers and artists, but few of them have had the charisma that James Heneage possessed. He was a natural leader. <br />
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I enjoyed the job because in addition to the mundane business of running a shop, I had the opportunity to hold events, write articles about authors and meet a variety of people at launch parties. Sometimes the encouters were quite surreal: a conversation about NCP car parks with Lee Child, meeting John Grisham in a medieval hall that looked like something out of Hogwarts, dancing with a very drunk Mrs Doyle from Father Ted, meeting a True Crime author who told me that he could kill me with his bare hands if he wasn't a Buddhist, discussing the book trade with Jacqueline Wilson whilst sitting on a merry-go-round, advising Katie Price what she and Peter Andre should read in bed together...it was all very amusing. <br />
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I also worked with some lovely people - bright, unpretentious, full of fun, mostly. Most of the staff went on to greater things, but a few would have struggled to find employment anywhere else; for example, one member of staff liked watching DVD boxed sets of Apollo landings in real time and also had a collection of music by Nazi swing bands (one dance hit was called 'Bomb England'), but they loved their books and were a real assett to the business. <br />
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When the company was taken over, the new owners said how much they valued our 'passion' and wanted to incorporate it into the wider business, but within a year my job had turned into a very dull admin role, with all of the important decisions made elsewhere. After 18 unhappy months, I decided to leave Waterstone's before they left me. <br />
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But rather than dwell on sad endings, here's a small celebration of what I loved about Ottakar's:<br />
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Partly out of devilment, but also in an attempt to boost sales, I held an event featuring dangerous and exotic animals during the school holidays. In hindsight, it could have ended badly, but luckily it passed without a hitch. This woman has a rather useless chameleon on her arm. Why hasn't it turned blue?<br />
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In this photo, I'm holding a tarantula, wondering what will happen it it jumps off and runs away.<br />
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The Science Museum decided that their existing bookshop was too dull and asked Ottakar's to come in and make it more 'visitor friendly'. Less charitable souls might say that we took a good academic bookshop and dumbed it down, but it went down very well with the Museum and I really enjoyed the challenge of setting up a shop in such a unique envionment.<br />
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I'm not sure if the Museum realised how little we knew about science - we were completely winging it - but I think we got away with it.<br />
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I was very flattered when James Heneage told me that I was the ideal man for the job, possessing the necessary tact and diplomacy to deal with the museum authorities. Later I discovered that four people had turned the position down before I was offered it.<br />
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We had to work with the existing fixtures and fittings, all of which were very drab, but managed to come up with something half decent. Unfortunately, the director of the museum didn't like the illuminated sign, as he felt that the phrase 'Adult Books' had unfortunate associations. <br />
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An Ingmar Bergman moment from a lovely weekend in Sweden, courtesy of one of my ex-booksellers from the Clapham branch, who let us use her flat in Stockholm. As much as I love books, it's the people that I valued most about the job.<br />
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In the Crawley branch, we held the longest ever Jacqueline Wilson signing event, which lasted for eight hours. This photo doesn't do justice to the length of the queue.</div>
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Even the most jaded, world weary bookseller would be hard pressed not to be moved by an event like this. Jacqueline Wilson was wonderful and made every child feel as if they had a special bond with her. It was quite terrifying when it started, as I had no idea that so many people would turn up. When some very 'assertive' mothers started to surge forward, I had to act quickly to avoid a punch-up. <br />
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In Ottakar's the ethos was that quirky, interesting shops were good for business. Staff were encouraged to think of innovative ways to display and promote books, which made the job far more interesting for them. Every shop I worked in had at least one talented artist who produced the most astonishing windows.<br />
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In 2005, I had to open a shop in Worthing at the same time that my father was dying. It was a challenging time, but in many ways it helped having something to focus on. It was the first time I'd had the opportunity to recruit a team of staff from scratch, so I decided to follow my gut instinct and pick people I'd be happy to go to the pub with. The result was one of the happiest places I've worked in.<br />
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The set-up week involved converting a bare shell of a unit into a fully stocked shop with 25,000 books within five days. Every day we worked for up to 12 hours, then went out drinking. No matter lively the evening was, everyone was back the following morning at 8.00 sharp, which was quite remarkable in some cases.<br />
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The takeover of Ottakar's wasn't a certainty. The bid had been referred to the Monopolies Commission and we spent the best part of a year wondering what our fate was going to be. But on a Monday morning at the beginning of July, I turned on my PC and saw an email that read 'Welcome to Waterstone's'.<br />
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My heart sank.<br />
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If I ever come into a small fortune, I will revive a branch of Ottakar's just for the fun of it. I suppose the name is copyrighted, so keep an eye out for a bookshop called Ottokers, O.T.Takars or Otto Kerr's.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-78695956669976742992016-06-25T13:22:00.001+00:002016-06-25T20:53:53.525+00:00Life After Britain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The night before the EU referendum, the clouds prophetically darkened and a terrible storm broke over Lewes. My wife, who had been helping at a book launch in London, sent a text asking me to pick her up from Haywards Heath. <br />
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As I drove through the blinding rain, trying to work out where the road was, I thought about the following day's referendum and confidently concluded that the Leave campaign had lost its momentum. At the final moment, people would step back from the edge and take comfort in the fact that at least they had made their feelings clear. But I was wrong.<br />
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It feels as if someone has lit a fuse. This isn't just the end of Great Britain in Europe, but of Great Britain itself. In a few years' time, the famous Union Jack will be redundant and if there is still a United Kingdom, it will probably just consist of England and Wales.<br />
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People around the world are rightly asking why a successful, prosperous country has pressed the self-destruct button. In Britain, many of the 48% who voted for Remain are in a state of shock and anger.<br />
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Looking at the post-referendum statistics, it is clear that the country is split down the middle and that, rather than simply being a conflict between left and right, the divide is between old and young, rural and urban, graduates and non-graduates and, most destructively, Scotland and Northern Ireland versus England and Wales. Never has the ancient Chinese curse, 'May you live in interesting times', been more apposite. <br />
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I rarely write about politics, but as so many people are offering their two penn'orth, here are mine. It will be nothing new to British readers, but might be of mild interest to people elsewhere.<br />
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I think that the referendum result was largely about immigration and the pace of change that has taken place during the last decade or so. There has been a steady Commonwealth immigration to the UK since the Empire Windrush first arrived in 1948, but it was largely limited to the cities and those towns that had an industrial base, like Bradford, Luton and Oldham. <br />
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As recently as the 1980s, vast swathes of Britain were barely touched by immigration. There was an unofficial apartheid between two alternate visions of Britain: one a multiracial, multicultural, metropolitan society; the other, a more traditional, homogeneous one. <br />
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Overall, society was changing, but at a pace that all but the most bigoted could cope with. High levels of emmigration counterbalanced the influx and even during the 1950s and 60s, when Britain was supposedly 'flooded' with immigrants, the net migration averaged at about 12,000 a year. <br />
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But during the last decade, two things have changed dramatically. First, the level of net migration has risen to between 200,000 to 300,000 per year - in context, this is the equivalent to adding the population of the city of Brighton and Hove every year. Second, the distribution of migrants has been over a much wider area, often in places that had been untouched by earlier waves of immigration. In Wisbech, for example, around a <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/society/2014/jun/16/fear-anger-wisbech-cambridgeshire-insecurity-immigration" target="_blank">third of the population</a> are now of Eastern European origin.<br />
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Many voiced their fears about the rising level of immigration, but were frequently dismissed as racists. The famous encounter between <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTr8IVWBuPE" target="_blank">Gordon Brown and Gillian Duffy</a> perfectly summed up the divide between the metropolitan classes and those who felt left behind in a changing society. <br />
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Why did people feel so threatened? Was it simple bigotry, or a legitimate objection to the workings of global capital? I can only offer anecdotal evidence, but I think it might be pertinent.<br />
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A few years ago, I worked for a business that employed 200 people in a huge warehouse. When I started, the workforce consisted entirely of locals, then one week, a few Latvians joined. From the moment they started, it was clear that the Latvians were superior to their English counterparts: harder working, mostly better educated and nearly always far more motivated. The management took notice and recruited more.<br />
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My work often took me to other recycling companies and, time after time, I saw migrants working uncomplainingly in often awful conditions, doing dull, repetitive work in dim, unheated warehouses. The local people, who didn't find the minimum wage as alluring as their Eastern European colleagues, struggled to compete and began to resent the rising local rents and competition for work.<br />
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When the mainstream political parties failed to take the issue of immigration seriously, those who felt ignored and disenfranchised voted for UKIP in increasing numbers. David Cameron won the last election by undermining UKIP with the promise of a referendum. History may remember him as the man who unwittingly sacrificed Great Britain to win an election. <br />
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The referendum campaign has been a pretty lamentable affair, full of bigotry, hysteria, cheap sentiment and misinformation on both sides. Interestingly, although many dubious figures were bandied around, the economic arguments had far less impact than the ones based on principles. <br />
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I think the decision to vote to leave the EU was a desperate act by those who felt that this was their last chance to halt a tide of change that had already made the English an ethnic minority in London.<br />
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The fact that only half of the net annual migration came from within the EU was never really highlighted. EU migrants were also increasingly blamed for the rise in house prices when, in truth, they were only one factor in a complex picture. <br />
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Overall, I didn't witness any real anti-European sentiment, even towards the migrants from Eastern Europe. In the warehouse I worked next to, the attitude was more one of "You can't blame them for coming here, but where will it all end?". However, there was a real, visceral anger towards the middle classes, the institution of the EU and the metropolitan elite.<br />
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This has been a cultural revolution and a consensus has been shattered. <br />
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In a way, this conversation I had yesterday with my mother is indicative of the mindset of many:<br />
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"Well, we won. Now they won't be able to come over here and take our benefits."<br />
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"But most of them aren't on benefits. They often work a lot harder than we do."<br />
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"Well then, they won't be able to take our jobs."<br />
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For me, the referendum always felt like a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. The Leave campaign was dominated by jingoistic rhetoric and unreliable economics. The more sophisticated arguments by figures like Tony Benn, about democracy and accountability, were rarely heard. <br />
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On the other hand, the Remain campaign conflated the EU with Europe and frequently implied that anyone who voted to leave was a backward-looking racist. As someone pointed out, all racists will vote Leave, but not all Leave voters are racists. <br />
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The tragedy with this referendum, like the Scottish one, was that it offered only two extremes. I suspect that most Scots would have voted for the 'Devolution Max' option if they'd had the choice, and in Thursday's referendum, more people would have voted to remain in the European Union if a compromise had been on the table. But for the EU, the principle of free movement was non-negotiable. <br />
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So that's it for Great Britain, probably. Napoleon, Kaiser Wilhelm and Hitler tried to vanquish Great Britain, but a peaceful referendum succeded where they had failed. There may now be a vacant seat on the UN Security Council and there'll be no Team GB in the 2020 Olympics. <br /><br />It's not all doom and gloom. With around 90% of the UK population, the remaining rump of England and Wales will still be an economic and cultural power, but it won't be the same.<br />
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Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-42561647583047860342016-06-19T20:51:00.000+00:002016-06-19T21:35:06.226+00:00Day ReleaseAs some people who have followed this blog will know, my older son has faced many difficulties over the years and at one point, I wondered if he would ever set foot in a school again, let alone pass any exams. For quite a long time, things looked very bleak. However, I'm pleased to say that the last year has seen a remarkable turnaround. <br />
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With funding from the local authority, my son has been able to attend a school that caters for children like him and at last, he is beginning to discover his potential. He is particularly interested in science, maths and computing and is getting glowing reports from the teachers, so there's every chance he'll end up being far more successful than me (which wouldn't be that hard). <br />
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It's a pity that children often have to go through years of hell before they get local authority funding, but better late than never. And from the state's point of view, it's money well spent if a child can be turned from an individual who faces a life on benefits into an employable person. <br />
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I am now the prime carer in our household and spend most of my time ferrying our sons around, cleaning the house, shopping and cooking. It feels as if that is all I do now (one reason why I look forward to returning to work), but Instagram keeps reminding me that I do occasionally get out. <br />
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The following photos were all taken in Sussex during the last couple of months:<br />
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Herstmonceaux Castle. I visited it for the first time recently and was delighted to find that the car park was almost empty. Nothing kills the romance of an ancient castle more than several coachloads of people in pastel leisurewear. Even when the castle is closed, the grounds are still worth seeing.<br />
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This redundant observatory has been resurrected as a wonderful science museum for children, with lots of hands-on displays that make the official Science Museum in London look rather dull by comparison.<br />
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Market Street in Lewes during a rare, traffic-free moment. I like the lack of uniformity.<br />
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The Seven Sisters cliffs at Birling Gap. My sons love to explore the rockpools here. It's not quite the Great Barrier Reef, but it can still yield the odd surprise, from a beach covered in starfish to a woman covered in tattoos of Michael Jackson. <br />
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Whenever I see a red telephone box, I want to go and and ask for Scotland Yard. I don't know why.<br />
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My older son, during a rare moment in daylight. I think he was in a good mood because he'd just had an excellent school report; an event that surprised him as much as us. <br />
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This is a small annex to the bedroom of Rudyard Kipling's son, John, who was killed at the Battle of Loos in 1915.<br />
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The black house, just next to Lewes Castle, has what are called 'mathematical tiles' - fake bricks, that were used by the Georgians to make older, timber-framed houses look more impressive.<br />
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This is Bateman's - the 17th century home of Rudyard Kipling. Whether you're interested in the author or not, it's well worth a visit. <br />
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Market day in Lewes, where the affluent middle classes abandon Waitrose for the day.<br />
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My favourite car outside one of my favourite pubs. In Lewes, even the cars are half-timbered.<br />
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Ypres Tower, Rye, where the English kept an eye out for any marauding Frenchmen.<br />
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An abandoned quarry, just outside Lewes, now largely populated by nervous rabbits and dog owners who assure you that "He's just being friendly".<br />
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The entrance to Rudyard Kipling's library. Whilst browsing through the books, an elderly man came up to me and started to talk about the unexpected death of a middle aged man he knew: "Chap was about your age." I left feeling like a condemned man.<br />
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This tiny circle of stones appeared, briefly, one afternoon. The next day it was gone. Rudolf Steiner would have probably attributed this to gnomes. <br />
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Smaller and prettier than Lewes, Rye offers a number of literary curiosities, including the homes of Henry James, Radclyffe Hall, EF Benson and John Christopher. I love Rye, but it is a victim of its own success, with more tourists than locals during the spring and summer.<br />
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The moon and Jupiter over a Tudor rooftop at twilight. Not great quality, but not bad for a phone.<br />
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Lewes in the rain. There seems to have been a lot of it recently.<br />
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This is a close-up of a pillar at Lewes Station. It's being redecorated and the workmen have stripped away decades of layers of paint, leaving a rather interesting abstract design.<br />
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Lewes Station at twilight, when the station is almost deserted.<br />
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I never tire of this scene and have photographed it in all weathers. In an ideal world, every town would have a 1000-year-old building at its centre, to give us all a sense of perspective.<br />
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This is Uckfield - a much-maligned market town near Lewes. It's not the prettiest of places, but the older part of the town is full of hidden delights for anyone who takes the time to explore. <br />
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Birling Gap, where a child can turn a distant yacht into a pirate ship. </div>
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I apologise for the mundane nature of this post. I can't promise that the next one will be any better.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-71736646271712749512016-05-31T20:55:00.000+00:002016-06-07T20:19:34.999+00:00The Usual NonsenseAfter a lovely, child-free weekend in Frome last week, the karmic balance is now being restored by the ordeal of a half term holiday. As much as I love my sons, I am getting rather tired of repeating this particular conversation twice a day:
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"Dad, can I have something to eat?"<br />
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"Okay, what would you like?"<br />
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"I don't know."<br />
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"Well that doesn't really get me anywhere. What about some toast?"<br />
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"No thanks."<br />
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"A croissant?"<br />
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"No, I don't like them any more."<br />
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"Carrot sticks?"
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"No." (said with a weary sigh).<br />
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"Well, let's go into the kitchen and see what there is, shall we?" (said through gritted teeth).<br />
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We go into the kitchen and despite being presented with a full cupboard of cakes, crisps, biscuits, fresh bread, stale bread, cereal, nuts and various bars, I feel as if I have somehow failed. Eventually, a packet of crisps is begrudgingly accepted and I feel as if I'm the one who is being done a favour. <br />
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I think my younger son's still cross with me for tumble drying one of our cats (I did stop the machine as soon as I heard a strange bumping noise, I hasten to add).<br />
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Written down here, it all sounds incredibly petty, but one should never underestimate the power of a dripping tap.<br />
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Perhaps this was why I found myself being infuriated by almost everything I saw this morning, during a brief shopping trip to Brighton.<br />
<br />
The chief offenders were as follows:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>1. Jeans with holes in the knees:</b><br />
<br />
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I am neither a genuphobe nor a knee fetishist. Indeed, I am completely indifferent on the subject of knees, but these jeans offend me. The ripped jeans of the 80s were pretty daft, but at least the tear appeared vaguely natural. These just look stupid and I feel irrationally annoyed by everyone I see who wears them. <br />
<br />
<b>2. Hipster beards:</b><br />
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Long beards are fine in the 1892 England cricket team, or at an Iranian theological conference, but on the streets of Brighton they are just irritating. Why are so many young men slavishly following this trend? It's no longer just poncy, middle class men, sitting outside a <i>chi chi</i> cafe, pretending that it's perfectly normal to have a typewriter; I've also seen builders who look like Brahms.<br />
<br />
I suppose that the one plus side of this trend is that it makes it harder for Islamist gunmen to distinguish between believers and infidels.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Mad eyebrows:</b><br />
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Feeling compelled to pluck one's eyebrows to the point of oblivion is wrong, but the pedulum seems to have swung too far in the other direction, hasn't it? Whose bright idea was it to introduce eyebrows that look like Groucho Marx's moustache? In the history of fashion, I think this trend will be regarded as a brief moment of madness, like bubble skirts and spray-painted DMs.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Man-buns:</b><br />
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I suppose this hairsyle can be useful if you have a bald patch that you want to cover - it's certainly more windproof than the traditional comb-over, but I'm not a fan.<br />
<br />
It reminds me of those gormless-looking backpackers who use to congregate in Traflagar Square and have a strand of their hair threaded with beads, to show how deep they were: "I'm part of a global consciousness. I'm really into World music. Let's sing some Manu Chao - has Jens got his didgeridoo on him?"<br />
<br />
I know I'm being grumpy and petty. I think it's probably a dental abscess that's exacerbated my mildly misanthropic tendancies. I've been taking antibiotics for over a week and nothing has changed. Perhaps I've entered the post-antibiotic age, in which case I'm doomed.<br />
<br />
On a more upbeat note, my weekend in Somerset was a pleasure from start to finish. Frome is one of the most interesting and visually appealing towns I've visited, full of eccentric delights. I was also introduced to a beautiful village I'd never heard of, which turned out to be the setting for one of the most notorious murders in Victorian England.<br />
<br />
The house below features in Kate Summerscale's marvellous book, The Suspicion of Mr Whicher, which I read as soon as I got back from Somerset. It's extraordinary how little both the house and the village appear to have changed, physically, at least. <br />
<br />
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A weekend of good company and interesting discoveries lifted the spirits. There was a time when I wanted to walk the Machu Picchu trail, or go on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but these days a mere two days in Somerset is all I need to clear away the cobwebs.</div>
Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-47877069640496361422016-05-08T16:04:00.000+00:002016-05-09T06:52:48.599+00:00Mea Cuppa - The Decline of Tea Drinking in Britain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Twitter last week, <a href="http://petersipe.com/" target="_blank">Peter Sipe</a> asked me what I thought about a <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/05/04/why-the-british-are-drinking-coffee-instead-of-tea/?postshare=5231462460188117&tid=ss_tw" target="_blank">Washington Post article</a> about the decline of tea drinking in Britain (apparently, it's dropped from 68 grams per week in 1974 to 25 grams per week 40 years later). I read it and shuddered with horror. Without a single shot being fired, the British have become a nation of coffee drinkers. It's as if the ravens have left the Tower of London.<br />
<br />
The Washington Post claims that tea drinking is the most British thing there is, so what has gone wrong? I think there are several possible answers:<br />
<br />
<b><u>1. We've gone to the dogs</u></b><br />
<br />
Tea was a quintessentially British beverage because it offered a mild, barely perceptible stimulation, as restrained as the twitching upper lip of a dying Spitfire pilot. It was a drink that vicars and maiden aunts could consume it by the gallon without unleashing repressed passions. Labourers cherished it because the act of drinking a <i>cuppa</i> offered a brief, elysian respite from the drudgery of their working day.<br />
<br />
In recent years, we've turned our backs on moderation and self-control, placing more value on self-expression and cheap sentiment. We began to <i>let it all hang out</i> around the same time that city gents stopped wearing bowler hats (if I had the time, I'm sure that I could plot out a causal relationship) and this was accompanied by a growing preference for stimulants. The 'nice cup of tea' and the traditional pint of warm, weak beer became replaced by amphetamine-like coffees and ever-stronger alcoholic beverages. <br />
<br />
We went from becoming a nation that kept calm and carried on through the Blitz to one that wept like infants when Princess Diana died. We've gone to the dogs.<br />
<b><u></u></b><br />
<u><b>2. Travel has broadened the mind</b></u><br />
<br />
Around the same time that gentlemen were abandoning their bowler hats, British people were discovering the delights of having a summer holiday in a place where it didn't rain half the time. They loved the climate, but weren't so keen on the cuisine - "Ooh Joan, you can't get a decent cuppa anywhere and the food's so garlicky". After a life of eating bland, overcooked food and weak tea, Mediterrnean cuisine must have been as overstimulating as LSD. <br />
<br />
But after a while, people got a taste for 'foreign muck' and the supermarkets saw a growing demand for more exotic dishes, while old favourites like suet puddings, faggots and fish paste sandwiches saw a steady, inexorable decline. Our changing tastebuds, once shaped by a national cuisine of flavourless food and drink, now sought something a little stronger than tea.<br />
<br />
<b><u>3. Tea has got worse while coffee has become nicer</u></b><br />
<br />
Half a century ago, a cup of tea would have usually been made in the traditional way, with loose leaves in a warmed pot, brewed for at least two minutes before being served in decent china. On the other hand, a cup of coffee would usually look and taste like washing-up water. <br />
<br />
Then two things happened: some bastard invented the teabag and coffee began to become drinkable. <br />
<br />
The big coffee revolution took place in the mid-80s, coinciding with the advent of yuppies. I'm pretty sure of this because when I went to university in Wales in the early 80s, coffee in cafes was usually undrinkable, but when I returned to London in 1987, everyone seemed to be drinking cappuccinos. I felt as if I'd been away for 20 years. <br />
<br />
Coffee became seen as the drink of the cosmopolitan, go-getting white collar worker, while tea was the choice of builders and old people (there isn't time to venture into the dark world of herbal tea here, but it was the drink of choice of some of the worst people I've ever worked with - individuals who'd perfected passive aggressive behaviour into a martial art). <br />
<br />
Those are my three main theories. I'm not sure which one is the nearest to the truth.<br />
<br />
I don't have strong feelings about the relative merits of drinking tea versus coffee. I like both, but I dislike the coffee culture that has sprung up during the last 20 years. I'm annoyed by seeing people walk around clutching cardboard cups; perhaps because it represents that whole '24/7' culture of being permanently on the go. Good people fought for their right to have a tea break. Everyone should stop and sit down for 15 minutes. <br />
<br />
I also hate the wanky 'barista' nonsense, as if operating a coffee making machine is a specialist occupation, like tree surgery and stonemasonry. And why is there so much choice? Maybe we did need something more imaginative than black/white/with/without sugar, but if I offer to buy someone a coffee, I don't expect to have to remember some nonsense about a <i>double skinny mocha decaf latte </i>while I approach the counter. It's symptomatic of a spoilt brat consumer culture, in which all needs and inclinations must be catered for. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, tea is the drink of a civilised nation. Like coffee it has caffeine, but at a level where it feels like a relaxant rather than a stimulant. Having a cup of tea isn't just about drinking; it's about stopping and gathering's one's thoughts. Unless you have a cast iron esophagus, a cup of tea cannot be drunk quickly and that is one of its greatest virtues.<br />
<br />
The future looks grim, but the tide may turn and the new generation of young people may turn their backs on skinny mochas, tattoos and long beards. I live in hope. In the meantime, my household will continue to drink tea in the afternoon, accompanied by a slice of something nice. <br />
<br />
<br />
I will finish with this homage to tea by Chap Hop artist Professor Elemental:<br />
<br />
<b><u></u></b>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eELH0ivexKA" width="420"></iframe>Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-48959235248088069382016-04-10T20:47:00.000+00:002016-04-10T20:58:02.446+00:00And the Beat Goes On<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The school holidays seem to have lasted for at least six weeks, but the calendar says otherwise. Determined to get my money's worth from our National Trust and English Heritage membership cards, I've subjected my younger son to a gruelling tour of castles, stately homes and parks. His older brother has remained in his room, mostly sleeping, like someone in cryogenic suspension on an interstellar voyage. <br />
<br />
I find the planning and recollection of days out much better than the thing itself. The reality is usually either slight disappointment, or an awareness of being detached from the thing I am looking at and wondering why. But occasionally, something serendipitous happens that negates the angst. <br />
<br />
My last moment of serendipity happened recently, on a mild, end of March
day. I was sitting on a bench, by the ramparts of an 11th century
castle and could hear birdsong, a cock crowing and the sound of people
singing in the nearby parish church - it was Good Friday. At one point, a
brimstone butterfly fluttered past and I remembered why I love this
time of year so much.<br />
<br />
On the way home, I picked up my mother and
brought her to have lunch with us. As she struggled to get into the car,
she suddenly said "I'm running out of books. Can you get me some more
on your thing?" <br />
<br />
I've ordered so many books for my mother, Amazon
now thinks that my literary tastes revolve solely around tales of
working class girls who become impregnated by the local squire's son. When I
open the Amazon home page, a long list of titles is waiting for me.<br />
<br />
I
found one novel that looked like my mother's cup of tea, but the
customer review was one of the oddest things I've ever read, straggling
the line between madness and a haunting, epic beat poem. <br />
<br />
To quote it in full (and scroll down if you lose the will to live):<br />
<br />
<i>Wow this Book was absolutely Great. or shall I say Fantastic<br /> Yeah. Kay Brelland knows how to write a Book.. Thought the<br /> Windmill Girls was good. But she's gone one better with this<br /> One. It's been good to begin with . Got more exciting as it<br /> Got to Rosie joining the Ambulance service. And her father's<br /> Old Associate.I will call him Frank Purves was a bad man<br /> Wanted to cause trouble and make him start his old business<br /> Up. And Rosie s father said no he wanted no part in the deal<br /> He'd made with someone down at the docks.<br /> But he said to this man he got five hundred pounds to start<br /> Up. A whisky brewing set up. Illegal. But John said no.<br /> And sent a man to see him called Connor Flint. John told<br /> Him no way was he going to do this. He'd given it up years<br /> Ago. And .Connor said but you got five hundred pounds for<br /> This. He said. No Frank Purves got that . He hasn't seen any<br /> Money at all. Come his way. Frank has it all stashed away<br /> Somewhere. Connor believed John. Cause he didn't trust<br /> Purses and didn't like him either. So he went after him<br /> Rosie had a child. And she'd been attacked by purves son<br /> And had his child. Lots of hair Raising episodes happened.<br /> From Kidnapping of Rosie s Daughter. And John and Frank<br /> Having a bad fight. And Rosie ending up falling in love<br /> With Connor Flint. Who was in his thirties. Rosie was twenty one<br /> And her dramatic life in her Ambulance job. She was once a<br /> Windmill girl. And settled down .eventually. but will not<br /> Spoil to much by giving away too. Much. But. This book is<br /> A must to read. Lots of war. Happening V1 Rocketts falling.<br /> And causing disasters. keeps you on the edge of your seat.<br /> Well this was truly great .enjoyed it very much . Worth waiting<br /> For. To read. So I give this<br /> Five stars truly worth it and more."</i><br />
<br />
I like the seventh line from the bottom "but will not Spoil to (sic) much by giving away too."<br />
<br />
I've been taking lots of photographs, trying to improve. I now have a cheap but cheerful zoom lense, which makes it easier to take shots of people. I'm particularly pleased with the touching scene below. It may not be a great photograph, technically, but it warms the cockles of my heart:<br />
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And further along the beach, another heartwarming sight - someone reading a book:<br />
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I used to wait for good weather before taking photos, but Gothic style buildings like this look far better on dark, stormy days. <br />
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This is Pevensey Castle. It used to be by the coast, before the sea disappeared. <br />
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This doorway appears to be the only surviving remnant of a much older building than the one behind it, but I can't find any information on the internet. It's just outside a village with the memorable name of Blackboys. <br />
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This is part of Battle Abbey, built on the sight of the Battle of Hastings. Unless you visit at the height of the tourist season, it's usually mercifully empty.<br />
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Hove Station, where a footbridge offers this striking perspective. <br />
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This medieval ruin reminds me of a Caspar David Friedrich painting. I'd love to come back here at dusk and take some pictures, but I expect the staff might have something to say about it as they close at 5.00. I wonder how tall the walls are.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-27870640758329937612016-03-17T13:22:00.000+00:002016-03-17T15:23:39.723+00:00Table Talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday evening, my wife arrived home with a new tablecloth.<br />
<br />
"I expect you won't like it," she said. "I just wanted something cheery. It reminds me of a French cafe."<br />
<br />
I looked at the garish colours and tried to imagine eating over it. "I'm sorry, but it's utterly hideous."<br />
<br />
"Well, I think it's lovely." The door opened and my younger son entered the room. "Dad doesn't like this new tablecloth. What do you think?" A loaded question.<br />
<br />
My son scrutinised it for a few seconds and I hoped that sanity would prevail. "Oh yes, it's beautiful."<br />
<br />
I was outvoted and looked at the vile object, mocking me with its faux illustrations of food labels. Another nail in the coffin.<br />
<br />
But during the night, one of our cats was sick on it. They have never vomitted on the table before, so I felt vindicated. Later I noticed that the tablecloth had been folded up and put away. <br />
<br />
I felt sorry for my wife (but not sorry enough to take it out again) and resolved to think of something that might cheer her up. We all need treats, however small. <br />
<br />
It was my birthday recently and I treated myself to two Jasper Conran shirts and eight novels. If that sounds self-indulgent, I should add that I still had change from a £20 note, as they'd all been bought in charity shops. <br />
<br />
I love buying paperbacks in charity shops because the selection is completely unpredicatble. During the last month, I've read an ecclectic range of novels including Dead Man Leading by V.S. Pritchett, London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth. I particularly enjoyed the latter, as it seemed so chillingly apposite in light of the Donald Trump candidacy, showing how quickly democracy can be debased.<br />
<br />
There seem to be certain types of people who work in charity shops and I keep seeing their doppelgängers wherever I go: <br />
<ul>
<li>a gay man in his 60s, usually wearing a bright, lambswool sweater</li>
<li>a woman in her 50s who likes to talk</li>
<li>a rough-looking man who is probably serving a community sentence </li>
<li>a silent, terrified-looking girl in her late teens/early 20s</li>
<li>a young man with learning difficulties</li>
<li>an elderly woman who can't work the till </li>
</ul>
They are a strange coalition of the retired, the marginalised and the disenfranchised. Uncelebrated and undervalued. When I saw a customer being rude to a charity shop worker, I wanted to remind her that she was talking to a volunteer. <br />
<br />
I'm still selling books, in between domestic duties and childcare. I have around 7,000 books on sale, which generates a few dozen orders a week. Sadly, the gap between the overheads - postage and rent - and the total sales is narrowing, leaving me with a dilemma. Should I keep going in the hope that I can find a new supplier, or give up the ghost once the profits reach double figures?<br />
<br />
Like Mr Micawber (surely one of the most annoying characters in literature) I'm sure that something will turn up.<br />
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In the meantime, here are a few photos from the last few weeks:<br />
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Lewes had a few misty mornings (as did most places, I believe). Somehow, black and white seemed right for this picture.<br />
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I took my sons to the Bluebell Railway the other day. In a masterstroke of frugality, I discovered that platform tickets were only £3 for adults and £1.50 for children, as opposed to £45.40 for a ride on a train. My younger son said he'd happily forgo the ride for a lolly. My older son said that steam trains were 'gay'.<br />
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While I was admiring the ingenuity of the Victorian engineering, my wife turned to me and said "I hope you're not turning into one of those odd men." <br />
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I must stop now and feed the cats. I've bought them two tins of Lily's Kitchen as a reward for bad behaviour.</div>
Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-58666917599300698412016-02-27T10:04:00.000+00:002016-02-27T11:48:39.475+00:00Home Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It has now been four months since my wife returned to full time work and I became a 'househusband'. Neither of us planned it that way, but as my wife can't drive and the school run is now a 25-mile round trip along country roads, our options were rather limited. <br />
<br />
I decided to embrace my role and Googled the term househusband. One of the first things I saw was a link to a Daily Mail article: '<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3419901/You-never-fancy-man-house-husband-breadwinnner-raised-children-Ursula-husband-swapped-roles-devastating-verdict.html" target="_blank">You Can Never Fancy a Man Who Becomes a House Husband</a></span>.' Apparently, pink marigolds on men are a turn-off, unless you like that sort of thing (there are probably websites).<br />
<br />
At first I had trouble adjusting to the sudden change. I was used to being the breadwinner (albeit a very cheap loaf of Kingsmill sliced white) and felt as if I had somehow let the side down. However, I was hardly idle. On an average morning, I took my sons to their schools, popped over to my office to deal with any book orders, did some food shopping, then drove home and began cleaning the house.<br />
<br />
I valued my wife's work when she stayed at home, so why did I feel at such a loss? Gender conditioning, I suppose.<br />
<br />
In spite of this, I was happy for my wife. She seemed to be doing very well in her new job and came home energised and full of gossip. My anecdotes were rather more mundane: "I cleaned the oven, but I'm not using Mr Muscle again."<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I have started to get a more balanced perspective on the situation and accept that even if my current existence is very dull, it is entirely necessary. Those ovens won't clean themselves.<br />
<br />
There has also been another change during the last month. My mother has suddenly become very frail and is increasingly dependent on me, both practically and emotionally.<br />
<br />
The practical side is easy. I don't mind buying the Werther's Originals or
dealing with the bills from Damart, but the emotional support is more challenging, as my mother can be relentlessly morbid to a point where I leave feeling
thoroughly depressed. However, I know that when someone is virtually
housebound, they need constant visits. <br />
<br />
At least I will no longer
hear about Vera's leg, which my mother would describe in graphic detail
before I pleaded with her to stop. Vera is now in Florida with her
daughter, for a long holiday. "She won't be coming back," my mother
said, with barely-concealed relish. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I can feel my mood
sliding. When that happens, unless it's absolutely pissing down
outside, I go for a walk. Being in the fresh air, smelling the damp
earth and feeling the pale winter sun, clears away the cobwebs and puts
everything in perspective. I don't what I'd do if I lived in Neasden. Perhaps I'd go to Ikea and pretend I lived in one of the rooms. <br />
<br />
These photos were taken during the last few weeks. I particularly like the one of a hat, which is a lost property item in Berwick Church. There's a story behind that picture.<br />
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<br />Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-79050315913896047392016-02-08T23:24:00.000+00:002016-02-10T11:56:16.848+00:00National Savings<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
I am a product of the National Savings Bank.
My parents both worked at its head office in Kew and after a whirlwind 13-year courtship, they decided to get engaged. <br />
<br />
The other day I found some photos of the NSB, taken between the late 1940s and the early 60s, when my parents married and my mother accepted a 'dowry' in lieu of a pension. I told my mother about the pictures but she showed no interest in seeing them. However, she did tell me a few anecdotes.<br />
<br />
I learned that the women were all expected to arrive at work wearing white gloves and that if a pair of shoes hadn't been polished properly, a reprimand would follow. In the early 60s, a young man, who had clearly fallen under the malign influence of the Beatles, arrived looking slightly scruffy and was given a stern talking to. The next day he turned up in a top hat and tails. <br />
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I also learned more about the notorious serial killer John Christie, who worked in the same department as my father. Apparently, Christie had asked my mother's friend Doris out on a date, but after some deliberation she decided to say no. After Christie's arrest and execution, Doris was haunted by the thought of what could have been. <br />
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Serial killers aside, it sounded like a very ordered, regimented world. I had to get my mother to explain the many acronyms she kept mentioning - CAs, COs, HCOs, EOs and HEOs and tried to estimate out how many Clerical Assistants and Clerical Officers there were under under Higher Clerical Officer, before I began to get a sense of how it all worked. <br />
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At lunchtime, everyone would file into the huge staff canteen and the CAs, COs, EOs and HCOs would all sit on separate tables, never fraternising with each other. If a newcomer accidentally sat at the wrong table, they would politely put straight and shown where they would be sitting tomorrow.<br /><br />
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My mother was given special projects, as she had a particular aptitude for numbers. At one point she uncovered a serious case of internal fraud and reported it, but nobody dared to take action. Frustrated by the inertia of her employers, my mother wrote a 'humorous' poem about it for the staff journal. Every copy was seized and the offending poem was scored out, badly, before the journal was recirculated.<br />
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In the early days, the offices were dominated by women that my mother referred to as old biddies. They should have retired, but had kept going while the men were serving in the armed forces. My mother disliked their austere manner and drab clothes and was glad when the office began to fill with younger men. <br />
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But not all of the men were fit for work. Some had been irreparably damaged by the War and struggled to get through the working day. One man had been held a prisoner of war by the Japanese and regularly suffered from bouts of malaria, during which he sometimes thought that he was back in the jungle. Another sat alone in the corner, reeking of whisky, looking broken. <br />
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Life at the Bank was governed by strict rules and regulations, but it wasn't a completely sterile, joyless environment. It had its own library and organised trips up to town to see the latest ballets, concerts and plays (on one occasion, my father saw my ballet dancing mother-in-law on the stage, blissfully aware that their paths would cross 30 years later). <br /><br />My parents were both very happy at the bank and regarded it as a huge improvement on the jobs they began they working lives with: an electrician and an assistant in a chemist's. My father even began to think of himself as middle class. My mother never did.<br />
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My father would have happily have stayed at the National Savings Bank until retirement, but the Government decided to start moving Civil Service jobs away from London and his job ended up in Glasgow. As none of us would have made very good Glaswegians, my father reluctantly moved to another department and ended up doing something far more enjoyable.</div>
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For a generation blighted by two world wars and the poverty of the 1930s, the Civil Service offered an alluring security. If you were working or lower middle class, with no capital or assets to speak of, the job security and attractive pension made it a good career choice.<br />
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But what's this? Miss Clutterbuck is outside without her white gloves on! The strumpet. I bet she didn't last long.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-578377445715821392016-02-04T12:27:00.000+00:002016-02-04T19:33:01.366+00:00Julian Barnes and The Noise of Time, or The Wrong Trousers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first decade of the Soviet Union was an extraordinarily creative period, during which the iconoclasm of the avant garde seemed in perfect harmony with the spirit of the Revolution (never mind the fact that Fred at the 37th Tractor Combine just wanted a nice painting of a dacha with roses around the door. Not some geometric nonsense). <br />
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In music, a 19-year-old called Dmitri Shostakovich made a big impression with a new symphony. It was a graduation piece and while Shostakovich's teacher, Glazunov, approved of the nods to Rimsky Korsakov and Tchaikovsky, he was appalled by the modernism that had crept into his studious young pupil's music.What a racket!<br />
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But this was only the beginning. In his next symphony, Shostakovich completely threw off the shackles of the past and filled his score with dense, polytonal passages, factory sirens and a rousing choral finale praising the October Revolution. This was <b>Soviet</b> art; part of a milieu that included Eisenstein, Malevich and Mayakovsky. <br />
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But then Stalin happened and everything changed. Now the avant garde were accused of being bourgeois and anti-Soviet. What's the point of a painting if the proletariat can't understand what it means? What use is an opera if it can't be whistled by a factory worker? This decadent, degenerate nonsense had to stop.<br />
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Julian Barnes's new novel, The Noise of Time, was published on the 80th anniversary of a notorious newspaper article in Pravda called 'Muddle Instead of Music', written after Stalin had attended a performance of Shostakovich's opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk.
The production was a huge success with the public, but that didn't cut any ice with the Great Leader, who was appalled by what he saw. <br />
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To Stalin and his cronies, both the music and narrative were a disgrace to Soviet art. Where were the folk-inspired melodies extolling the virtues of the latest five-year plan? Why were the authorities portrayed as figures of fun?<br />
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'Muddle Instead of Music' named and shamed Shostakovich, accusing him of writing music that was "coarse, primitive and vulgar". The composer was, it claimed, guilty of writing an anti-Soviet opera that tickled "the tastes of the bourgeois." The article reached the following conclusion:<br />
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<i>"The power of good music to infect the masses has been sacrificed to a
petty-bourgeois, 'formalist' attempt to create originality through cheap
clowning. It is a game of clever ingenuity that may end very badly."</i><br />
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In a climate in which people were being routinely arrested and executed for the most spurious reasons, the final sentence sounded like a death warrant. Shostakovich, already a nervous man, was utterly terrified.<br />
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<i>Shostakovich, looking slightly worried</i></div>
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The Noise of Time takes this incident as its starting point and goes on to examine Shostakovich's troubled relationship with the Soviet authorities and his attempts to appease his masters without completely compromising his integrity as an artist. <br />
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As a fan of Shostakovich, I didn't like the idea of Julian Barnes appropriating the facts of the composer's life for a work of fiction. It can seem like a vain conceit to speak on behalf of the dead. It is also an unnecessary one, when they have left behind a body of work that speaks for itself. Still, better Barnesy than Amis. <br />
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And to a large extent, Barnes has pulled it off, giving us a narrative that is not only rigorously faithful to the facts, but also to the man himself. If you want to have a sense of what it is like to be an artist in a totalitarian regime, you could do a lot worse than read The Noise of Time. <br />
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After the 'Muddle' episode, Shostakovich was now an enemy of of the people and had a packed suitcase ready for the moment the secret police arrived, but the arrest never happened and gradually, the composer realised that he had an opportunity to appease his persecutors. Operas were out - anything involving the written word was a bad idea - so he worked on a new symphony. The result, branded by one journalist "A Soviet artist's reply to just criticism", was a success with both the public and the authorities.<br />
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Julian Barnes makes a lot of the 5th Symphony's deliberately banal, crowd-pleasing ending, but fails to mention the tragic slow movement, which had much of the audience in floods of tears because they felt that the music articulated something that nobody dared to utter. This is important, because it shows that Shostakovich's response was more enigmatic and nuanced than the text implies.<br />
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In addition to the musical omissions, I also felt that The Noise of Time read more like an essay than a novel and its brevity sometimes made it feel like a Cliff Notes guide to
Stalinism. But quibbles aside, I liked the book far more than I thought I would. It succeeds brilliantly at conveying the absurdity and obscenity of Stalinism, but also shows how the thaw under Khrushchev offered a different kind of existential threat.<br />
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The narrative was also punctuated with many memorable anecdotes, the most telling of which was the fact that Stalin's guards always kept a spare pair of trousers handy, as so many terrified film directors and artists soiled themselves in the presence of the Man of Steel. Shostakovich witnessed one of these incidents at a film premier, when Stalin's gruff response to a message he'd been handed was misconstrued by the director. Convinced that he was destined for the gulag or the firing squad, the poor man disgraced himself before passing out.<br />
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I finished the book full of admiration for Julian Barnes, but I still believe that the best account of the Stalinist period is probably the first movement of Shostakovich's Violin Concerto No.1. Written in 1948 and kept in a drawer until two years after Stalin's death, this dark, brooding music is one of the bleakest things I have ever heard, but it is utterly brilliant:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LqNuKGkY7L8" width="420"></iframe>Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-12057229988156971032016-01-20T21:24:00.002+00:002016-01-20T22:16:37.375+00:00Gnomes and DwarvesIt has been an uneventful week. My mother was completely nonplussed by David Bowie's death, complaining that her Daily Mail had too many articles about him:<br />
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"There were 13 pages. 13! I can't think of anything he's done."<br />
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I mentioned <i>The Laughing Gnome</i>, which my mother remembered from Junior Choice, but the rest of Bowie's oeuvre has passed her by. In fairness, she was in her early 40s when David Bowie began to make a name for himself. What little interest in popular music my mother had, ended with Nina and Frederik.<br />
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<i>(After retiring at the peak of his career, Frederik went on to briefly own Burke's peerage, before moving to the Philippines, where his yacht was used to transport cannabis. He died from gunshot wounds in 1994). </i><br />
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I may laugh at my mother's ignorance of popular culture, but the truth is that my parents were far more <i>au fait</i> with the charts than I am, as the day would always begin with Radio Two (I have a distinct memory of my father shaving over the kitchen sink, listening to Tony Orlando and Dawn singing <i>Knock Three Times</i>). <br />
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I can't remember the last time I knew what Number One was.<br />
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A few days later, Alan Rickman died. My mother had never heard of him, while another person thought he was the pop musician who appeared on <i>Grumpy Old Men</i>.<br />
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I despair. <br />
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After a rather odd Christmas, life has returned to normal. My days are shaped around taking and collecting my sons to their respective schools and while the driving can be a little tedious, at least it takes me through some beautiful countryside. I enjoy seeing how much the same landscape can change according to the weather and time of day. <br />
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To make the journey pass more quickly, my younger son and I have started listening to audio plays. We tried a very enjoyable 1950s NBC radio series called <i>X Minus One</i> (thank you to Val for the link) and are now working our way through the BBC adaptation of <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>. I'd forgotten how annoying Gimli the Dwarf was, always droning on about his dull ancestors. <br />
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In between driving, posting book orders and being a housewife, I occasionally stop to take a snap of anything that catches my eye. Here are some things from the last few weeks:<br />
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I will soon have more photos of Lewes than Google Earth.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-66911958069330949962016-01-12T22:33:00.001+00:002016-01-12T22:33:24.564+00:00Chaos TheoryThis evening, my wife returned from her new publishing job and gave me a brief overview of the highlights of her working day. I half listened, until she mentioned that 200 envelopes had been returned to her workplace by the Post Office: <i><br /><br />"They contained catalogues that we'd posted to bookshops. They were sent back because none of those shops exist any more."</i><br /><br />I'd become used to the slow process of attrition that has seen the number of British bookshops halve in seven years, but the image of the 200 returned catalogues really hit home. I wondered what the booksellers who'd worked in those shops were doing now.<br /><br />For their sake, I hope that none of them ended up in the bookshop I visited today: a sorry affair that has crossed the line from eccentricity to neglect, with piles of unsorted stock, shelves that appear on the verge of collapse and an all-pervading smell of body odour and stale tobacco.<br />
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<br />In one section, an elderly man with a respiratory problem rummaged through a pile of Pan paperbacks, pausing only to glare at me and mark his territory with extended elbows. In another, a sparrow-faced woman in her 60s looked nervously at me, as if I was about to perform an indecent act. I tried moving to a different floor, but heard a man chanting "Mmm...umm...hmph...mee..." and made a swift exit.<br /><br />This was bookishness in the worst sense of the word: dysfunctional, misanthropic and obsessive. I wondered what the staff thought of their clientele, before I realised that some of the customers were the booksellers. But experience has taught me that when I find myself repulsed by something, it is often a smokescreen for something I see in myself. Perhaps I still might become the wheezy old man who smells of stale cake and uses his elbows to deter others. <br /><br />It seems perverse that this bookshop has survived while far better ones have gone to the wall, but I suspect that its overheads are fairly low and that the building is owned rather than leased. The stock itself is reasonably good and it seems a pity that so much of it is inaccessible. I saw a lot of dead stock obscuring the more sellable titles.<br />
<br />I can feel a quest coming on. If anyone can recommend a decent secondhand bookshop in the south of England (or beyond, as I want to travel around the UK this year), with a good selection of paperback novels, I'd really appreciate it.Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-44509035687386535622015-12-24T20:04:00.000+00:002015-12-26T21:58:23.621+00:00Mother Dear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My mother will be joining us for Christmas Day, so I'm steeling myself for an afternoon of anecdotes about the illnesses of people I barely know:<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Maureen won't be able to go to Janet and Ken's for Christmas. She's having a tube fitted.</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><i>Doris didn't send a card this year. I wonder if the ulcer's come back. Her cat died last year.</i></li>
</ul>
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<li><i>Irene wants to come for tea, but she can't swallow any more. I'll make a milk jelly.</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><i>He was about your age and he just dropped dead. Nobody expected it. He was coloured.</i></li>
</ul>
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<li><i>Vera was going to go back to Florida to die, but they don't have a Tesco there.</i></li>
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<li><i>I've told Jean that I'm diabetic. She says that I can have Rich Tea biscuits. </i></li>
</ul>
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<li><i>That woman in the hairdresser who has a funny friendship with Lynn - she's been very ill. </i></li>
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</ul>
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<li><i>Norman has a pacemaker, but it's not working. He collapsed during Strictly.</i></li>
</ul>
If it's a good day, I'll be able to steer my mother away from her morbid preoccupation with illness and tell me about what life was like in the 1930s and 40s. They are far more entertaining than the latest progress report about Vera's leg.<br />
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I thought I'd heard all of my mother's anecdotes about the War, but the other day she told me a new one.<br />
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It was 1940 and my mother was reaching the end of a piano lesson. Her teacher had just rapped her on the knuckles for making a mistake when suddenly, an air raid siren sounded. <br />
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<i>"You need to leave now. I have another girl waiting in the hall."<br /><br />"But my mum says I have to stay where I am when a raid's on."<br /><br />"No! You must go home now. Come along."</i><br />
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As the front door of the piano teacher's house slammed shut, the bombs started to fall and my mother ran through the streets, weeping. Behind her, a terraced house took a direct hit, creating a sudden gap in the neat, Victorian row. My mother ran on, wondering if she would ever reach home. She never had another piano lesson after that incident.<br />
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I often ask my mother to repeat the same stories about her childhood, so that I can remember them well enough to pass them on. They are nearly always interesting, even when the subject matter is mundane, simply because they are eye witness accounts of a period that is long gone. I also enjoy the obsolete slang and the way that most of my mother's sentences begin with "<i>Any rate...</i>" <br />
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One of the most magical things I saw recently was a clip posted by a Facebook friend, featuring two Devonshire women of my mother's age: <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="255" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/t9floPXNLjs" width="420"></iframe><br />
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This generation, made up of people whose formative years were in a world without television, won't be around for much longer. Their memories of horse-drawn carts, Sunday best and mangles will disappear into the ether unless we talk to them now. Even if I am losing the will to live tomorrow, assailed by gloomy tales of gammy legs and failing pacemakers, I will remember to be grateful that my mother is still here. I'll miss her when she's gone. <br /><br /><br />P.S. - Christmas Day was a success. The issue of Vera's leg was never raised and the only revelation from my mother concerned the entertainer, <a href="http://www.anita-harris.com/" target="_blank">Anita Harris</a> (link provided for those who have never heard of her):<br /><br /><i>"My brother was obsessed with Anita Harris. If she ever appeared on the telly, he'd be in a bad mood for the rest of the day."</i>Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-20182416173668201642015-12-10T14:56:00.000+00:002015-12-10T19:36:00.310+00:00Acceptance<div style="text-align: center;">
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It's eight years since I worked in a bookshop at Christmas, but even now a split second of 'Let it Snow' makes me flinch like a dog that has been kicked too many times. It's too late to change. Nineteen Christmases in bookselling have reduced my festive spirit to a shrivelled husk. Why did I do it?<br />
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On reflection, my relationship with bookselling has mirrored Elizabeth Kübler-Ross's model for the five stages of grieving:<br />
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1. <b>Denial</b>: <i>This is just a temporary expedient while I find something that is more suited to my talents.</i><br />
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2. <b>Anger</b>: <i>It's been two years now. I'm skint and I still have no idea what to do with my life.</i><br />
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3. <b>Bargaining</b>: <i>While I'm here, I may as well apply for that floor mananger job in Kingston.</i><br />
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4. <b>Depression</b>: <i>I've just turned 30 and I'm still working in a bookshop. What a loser.</i><br />
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5. <b>Acceptance</b>: <i>Actually, there are worse jobs than this. At least I'm a manager now. The pay is better, the work can be interesting and most of my colleagues are lovely people. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>As time went on I began to appreciate my work far more, particularly when I worked for Ottakar's. How many other jobs would have given me the opportunity to discuss bedtime reading with Katie Price, or bemoan the state of the book trade with Jacqueline Wilson while sitting on a moving merry-go-round?<br />
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But the price for these precious moments was a heavy one: Christmas. I'm not just talking about the Phil Spector loop tapes, but also the sheer volume of books that had to be sold in November and December. It was exhausting.<br />
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Most branches of retail sensibly spread their sales across the year. However, in the book trade, 50% of the income is earned during the last ten weeks of the year and much of that money comes from a relatively small selection of bestsellers - usually hardbacks that consist of the following:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Two ghostwritten celebrity memoirs, one of which will be by someone in Eastenders</li>
<li>A sci-fi/fantasy novel by a man called Terry</li>
<li>The new Patricia Cornwell thriller</li>
<li>The Guinness Book of Records</li>
<li>A biography of a very dull sportsperson/yachtswoman/commentator</li>
<li>A quirky, humourous title that has taken everyone by surprise</li>
<li>A Jamie Oliver cookery book</li>
<li>A Nigella Lawson cookery book</li>
<li>A tie-in with a television series on BBC1, usually presented by a man called David</li>
<li>The Booker Prize winner, if it's by an author whose name is pronounceable</li>
<li>A misery memoir of horrific child abuse - Happy Christmas!</li>
<li>A beautiful children's pop-up book, handmade by Bolivian peasants earning 50p an hour</li>
<li>A stocking filler about bodily functions</li>
<li>The Friendship Book<br /> </li>
</ul>
These books will be given as presents and very few people will actually ever read them, but they are the bread and butter of the publishing industry, making the difference between profit and loss.<br />
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As a manager, I knew that my head was on the block. If I ran out of any bestselling titles, it was a big black mark. However, if I ordered too much stock and was still stuck with it on December 27th, I would also be in trouble. <br />
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In addition to the bestellers, there were plenty of other things that could go wrong and at some point in the early hours of the morning, I would often wake up and go through tedious lists in my head:<br />
<ul>
<li>Did we have enough Book Tokens?</li>
<li>Remember to increase the change float for the weekend.</li>
<li>Find out if any of the weekend staff can cover if someone phones in sick.</li>
<li>Don't forget to check that we have enough carrier bags.</li>
<li>Get more of that bestelling pop-up book because it won't be reprinted before Christmas.</li>
<li>Mustn't forget to refresh the window display.</li>
<li>Tell X that they can't block the fire exit with boxes.</li>
<li>Check last year's sales to see how many Jamie Olivers sold in the final week.</li>
<li>Make sure the sale posters have arrived.</li>
<li>Check WH Smith to see if they're selling Y for less than us.</li>
</ul>
What sort of person lies awake at night worrying about carrier bags? But like the nail that lost the kingdom in the famous nursery rhyme, their absence would spell disaster. And if we ran out of change, then harikiri was the only viable option.<br />
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The challenge of having to take five times as much money, unpack five times as many deliveries and have enough staff to cover these tasks (and the extended opening hours) was a daunting prospect, but I learned how to avoid the pitfalls and genuinely enjoyed the challenge and camaraderie.<br />
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I miss that moment on Christmas Eve, after the doors have finally closed, when you know that the madness is over for another year and that in spite of sickness, missing deliveries and dreadful weather, you've pulled it off. After wishing the staff a Happy Christmas, you walk around the empty shop and take stock (not literally, I hasten to add), looking at the books that surprised everyone by becoming bestsellers and those that were supposed to, but didn't. <br />
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Your 16-year-old self would probably be rather disappointed that you've ended up running a shop, but there's not much call for third-rate composers these days and after all, this is a bookshop. So many people would think that having a whole bookshop to yourself is heaven and suddenly, you realise that they're right. Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32570460.post-90237965065758614822015-11-19T13:36:00.001+00:002015-11-19T13:36:47.400+00:00FluxIt's now a month since my wife returned to full time work for the first time since the last century. I've teased her about how much things have changed, pointing out that they don't use floppy disks any more, but in fact she's made the transition with remarkable ease. After sixteen challenging years of motherhood, my wife is more than ready for a change. <br /><br />But there is one new practice that has really bothered my wife: "Why are so many people now ending their emails with <i>Kind Regards</i>? It's nonsense." <br /><br />My days follow a strict routine, beginning with a 25-mile round trip taking my sons to their respective schools. I then drive to work and deal with my book orders, which seem to be slowly diminishing. I usually have lunch at home, as the faint aroma of dead rats doesn't whet my appetite, then I clean the house, do the laundry and cook, before repeating the school run. <br /><br />I'm bored silly by the whole thing, but it will only last for two years,
hopefully. My main aim at the moment is to try not to go potty. <br /><br />It feels as if I have spent the last month indoors, but these Instagram photos prove otherwise:<br />
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I heard yesterday that my old Greek Philosophy lecturer died a few days ago. He taught me two very important things that have served me well. First, he told me how bad my English was - I was educated during a period when good grammar and spelling were regarded as unacceptably elitist and my howlers were never corrected. Second, he taught me about the Heraclitan Doctrine of Flux: everything in the universe is constantly changing and you cannot step into the same river twice.<br /><br />The Doctrine of Flux has been particularly comforting. Whenever I have moments of existential angst during the tedium of the school run, I can console myself with the knowledge that contrary to appearances, I am driving along a different road each time. <br /><br />I was going to go out, but it appears to have started raining again. Perhaps there's some dusting that needs doing.<br /> Steerforthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07627936539372313828noreply@blogger.com12