Yorkshire Pudding

Pastrami

2012-02-01T09:49:00.000-11:00

They use the word "tramping" in New Zealand but I was simply walking, high on the very backbone of England. In the image above you can see the upper valley of the River Derwent. At this point it is really just a moorland stream that burbles its way into Howden Reservoir that then cascades over a dam into the Upper Derwent Reservoir which in turn feeds the next reservoir - Ladybower. These man-made lakes supply most of South Yorkshire's water.

In Sheffield, it was mild and sunny this morning with daffodils poking through too early, unaware that winter's hunger is not yet satisfied. But on Howden Moor the snow was six inches deep. I was wrapped up warm like an Inuit and every step was tiresome. The snow hid hollows and springs, clumps of heather and loose millstone rocks. There was no map to follow and my destination was hidden from view on the moorland plateau above me. I laboured up Horse Stone Naze and then there she was - The Horse Stone - remote and ancient, sculpted by wind and time, frost and rain, revealing millstone layers that were formed before dinosaurs tramped this land - laid down in some ancient shallow seabed, long long ago - way past our imaginings.

And to the east on Crow Edge, I could see The Rocking Stones but if I had also gone up there it would have been dark by the time I got back to the car.

There was absolutely no one else about on those moors this afternoon. If I had fallen and injured myself, there would have been nobody to hear me yelling "Help!" or instigate a dramatic helicopter rescue. I'd have had to crawl into the lee of an outcrop, like the sheep do and curl up in sub-zero temperatures till tomorrow morning. That was just one of the crazy thoughts that flashed across the silver screen inside my head. And I wondered - why did they call it The Horse Stone? It doesn't look like a horse. It looks like a mega-pastrami sandwich - like the sort they serve in delis in New York City... The Pastrami Stone.

Security

2012-01-30T22:44:00.000-11:00

Over the last ten years, I have been on many aeroplanes and have had the somewhat dubious pleasure of visiting a wide range of airports - from Kavala in northern Greece to Knock in northern Ireland and from LAX (Los Angeles), California to Durban, South Africa. During these travels, I have been making mental notes about airport security and have been amazed to find so many variations and so many discrepancies.

Perhaps I am naive, but I have this idea that airport security should follow agreed international standards, enforced through rigorous inspection and licensing. Nobody likes security checks but in a world that has been blighted by inhuman terrorist attacks, travellers have a right to expect that airport security checks will, as far as possible, guarantee their safety.

Regarding our recent trip to New Zealand, we were allowed to take bottles of water on our internal Jetstar flight from Auckland to the South Island. Why? If liquids are a security problem on international flights, why are they allowable on internal flights? At Dubai, I did not have to take my laptop from my carry on bag whereas at virtually every other airport in the world laptops have to be scanned separately. In fact the guy at the X-ray conveyor belt was insistent that the laptop should stay in the bag.

Also at Dubai, when we were "airside", we bought some water for the onward flight to Brisbane only to find security people at the boarding gate insisting that we binned these expensive bottles. Interestingly, there wasn't an equivalent process when we returned to Dubai three weeks later and boarded our connecting plane to Manchester.

At some airports, they make you take off your shoes as a matter of course, at others they don't. Before passing through some X-ray gates you are asked to remove watches and belts with buckles but at others you aren't and yet when you pass through those gates the alarms fail to sound. Why would that be? Are the X-ray gates sometimes purely for show?

Once at Treviso airport near Venice, I accidentally went through security with an umbrella in my hand luggage but it wasn't detected even though the security signage insisted that umbrellas would be confiscated. At the same security check, a bottle of water was removed from my bag but the second bottle of water - at the bottom of my bag - was missed.

Our daughter, Frances, tells me that security was extremely lax at the airport in Birmingham, Alabama even though she was connecting with a transatlantic flight in Atlanta. Her hand luggage was not scanned and the X-ray gate was redundant so she boarded her later flight to Manchester without being screened at all.

I could go on and on about this subject. But finally I'd just like to make a point about water. Generally speaking, travellers are not allowed to take bottles of water "airside". You have to throw your bottles away and then buy new bottles of water in the duty free shopping zone. Invariably, this water is heavily overpriced. At Auckland Airport we paid $4NZ (£2) for a 500ml bottle and once at Shannon Airport in Ireland there was no water for sale anywhere. When travelling by air - especially long distance - it is vital to be well-hydrated. The small amounts of liquid provided by cabin staff during flights are often insufficient. In my view, if we are required to throw water away before passing through security, we should be provided with free or very cheap bottles of water when "airside". Besides, there are surely quick tests that could check the contents of a bottle so that travellers would not be required to needlessly throw their water away.

Dear reader - have you got any tales or thoughts of your own about airport security?

Photography

2012-01-28T15:26:00.000-11:00

I took over a thousand photographs in New Zealand. It was an exceedingly photogenic part of the world. However, my trusty Hewlett Packard digital camera is clearly due for replacement. Apart from anything else, it now has a mysterious tiny chip on the lens which has caused a few irritating flaws in some of my pictures. Besides, at Christmas my best and most unexpected present was a cardboard mock-up of a camera from Shirley and our children. Frances had made it . Puzzled, I prised open the back of the fake camera to discover a large wad of cash - sufficient to pay the lion's share of the cost of a new Nikon or Canon digital SLR.

Finding out about cameras available in the current market is like pursuing a degree course in photographic jargon. I just want a great camera with a lens that has reasonable zoom capacity and the ability to take satisfying close-ups - but the explanatory details never cover such simple requirements. Undoubtedly, there are people in the world who have more significant problems to deal with.

Anyway, I have spent a three or four hours sifting pictures from my NZ collection to add to Google Earth. It can take a while because of the need to find accurate picture locations within the Panoramio mapping facility. While in the "land of the long white cloud", I was drawn to tatty or empty buildings that spoke of earlier times when New Zealand settlers arrived slowly by boat and were then very disconnected from the world they had left behind. Very different from today with air travel, television, telephones and the internet - facilities that in a real sense have made our planet shrink into manageable and sadly less mysterious proportions:

Back

2012-01-26T01:34:00.001-11:00

Pukeko bird

Back to winter in England. We flew from Auckland to Melbourne, Australia where I noticed the tennis star Serena Williams heading for first class on our Emirates flight to Dubai, following her early exit from the Australian Open. That flight was thirteen and a half hours long but made easier to bear by the entertainment console on the back rest of the seat in front. I played the inflight trivia game several times and watched the film "Thor" directed by Kenneth Branagh as well as reading most of "No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy.

Dubai Airport terminal is massive and though "award-winning" is most unpleasant in my view. There are pathetically few lavatories which are greatly oversubscribed and constant teams of attendants from poorer Asian countries are required to maintain them. The airport is supposed to be home to some of the best duty free shopping in the world but my investigations prove that electrical goods, watches and jewellery can be bought more cheaply in British high streets. At the airport, you see all creeds and nationalities as travellers from every continent pass through this vital "hub". We boarded a huge five hundred seater A380 airbus bound for Manchester and were delighted to discover that it was only half full - meaning we could spread out and feel less like New Zealand sheep crammed on to a truck.

Speaking of New Zealand, I think that one of the things we will always remember is the birds that live there - from kiwis to pied stilts and from tuis to unfamiliar hawks pecking away at roadkill - usually brush tailed possums. We would sometimes wake to tuneful birdsong we had never heard before and at Rotorua, as we observed a bubbling vent, a pukeko bird strutted out of the undergrowth. Of course we saw keas on the South Island and a recently deceased yellow hammer by an electric fence. Victorian immigrants - mostly from England - not only brought sheep, cows, cats and dogs with them but also house sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds - presumably to make them feel more at home.

New Zealand was once a land of birds. There were virtually no mammals - just a few bats and seals. That's why flightless birds evolved in the forests - they had no predators until the Maori people arrived. They obliterated the moas and several other species long before Captain Cook's cabin boy, Young Nick, first spotted the headland near Gisborne that was later named after him.

Human beings have done their best to wreck the living aviary that was New Zealand. The destruction goes on. Keith Woodley at the Miranda Shorebird Centre has seen a steady decline in shorebird numbers during his nineteen years in charge there. Meanwhile the government has endorsed a widespread poisoning campaign to reduce brush-tailed possum numbers on the South Island but precious and unique birds like the weka are also tasting the possums' poison - and dying. I dedicate this post to the native birds of New Zealand.

Variable oystercatchers at Whangarei Heads

Weka at Cape Foulwind

Giant moa in Auckland Museum

Taupo

2012-01-22T22:00:00.001-11:00

Great Lake Taupo, New Zealand

Gisborne

2012-01-19T23:54:00.003-11:00

We're now in Gisborne - the far east of the North Island. We're in a veritable mansion called Cedar House and seem to be the only guests here. The owner is a happy clappy lady called Catherine whose philosophy allows us to roam freely around her beautiful old property with its large dimensions and expertly crafted woodwork. Our bathroom with its hardwood floor is gigantic - the premier feature being a large, modern spa bath which Shirley lounged in as I swam in the outdoor pool this evening.

Today we drove up the coast to Tolaga Bay, hiking over to Cook's Cove where on October 28th and 29th, 1769 the "Endeavour" was anchored. Captain Cook's men took on board wood and fresh water while botanist Joseph Banks collected yet more unique plant specimens.

Cook's Cove north of Gisborne

Bus shelter on the road to Tolaga Bay

Shirley's spa bath

Captain Cook 's statue in Gisborne

Livingstone

2012-01-17T21:40:00.000-11:00

Today - at Whakarewarewa, Rotorua

When I was eight years old, a newteacher arrived at my little village primary school in the heart of EastYorkshire. She was tall, slightly exotic in appearance and spoke English in anaccent we had never met before. She was Miss Sanderson and she came from NewZealand.

On several Friday afternoons, sheled singing sessions on her ukulele. The songs she taught us were as unfamiliaras her accent...”Riding home from Bangor on an Easter train/Met a studentfellow, handsome tall and plain/ Quite extensive whiskers, beard, moustache aswell...” But the song that really stuck in my little eight year old mind was "Pokarekare Ana", sometimes known as "The Waters of Lake Rotorua".

That’s where we are tonight –Rotorua - in the geothermal heart of the North Island. Our cedarwood chaletlooks out on Lake Rotorua itself. This morning we visited the WhakarewarewaMaori village, built around an area of significant geothermal activity. Some ofthe pools are so hot that the people cook in them. For forty minutes we watcheda little Maori cultural show in which the performers sang a languorous versionof the song I first heard from the mouth of Miss Sanderson some time in 1961.

Yesterday was a true milestone inthe history of blogging as when Livingstone met Stanley or when McCartney metLennon. I visited the Tauranga mansion of Katherine de Chevalle with its loftyriverside views and there I met the great lady herself. I know that Mr Bragueof Canton, Georgia will be extremely jealous about this but I don't care. Katherine gave Shirleyand I a lovely homemade lunch which we consumed with Katherine’s affabledaughter. The roast kiwi was succulent. Embarrassingly, I managed to drop some of our gracious hostess’sdelicious green tomato chutney upon the tablecloth. Silly me!

Dr Livingstone I presume?

This is only the second time Ihave met with a blogger I have often linked with but I was glad I called in onKatherine. We got on fine in spite of initial and mutual nervousness and I wish we couldhave stayed longer. It was great to see some of Katherine’s portfolio ofartwork – surrounding her investigations into the lives and perspectives ofbees. Thank you Katherine. It was lovely to meet you and visit your characterful home.

Tomorrow we head for Gisborne onthe east coast of the North Island.

Miranda

2012-01-15T20:27:00.000-11:00

Sorry I haven't posted much since arriving in New Zealand. As a mean Yorkshireman, I don't really like paying extra for internet access.

We enjoyed four lovely days at Whangarei, about a hundred miles north of Auckland. It was a human-scale city with spectacular coastal scenery nearby. I swam in the ocean twice but as the water was not bath temperature Shirley only deigned to paddle. We saw two captive brown kiwis at the Kiwi North project. How salutary it is to recognise that these precious birds became endangered just because of Europeans' introduction of dogs and stoats and earlier the Maoris' introduction of the Polynesian brown rat.

Maybe it's just me but I feel a sense of sadness when I think of how New Zealand must have been before human beings ever happened upon these remote islands. It was surely a Garden of Eden with unique flora and fauna. Some of that still survives but much is lost or compromised by the things that man brought here. The towering kauri forests - containing trees five centuries old - must have been a true wonder to behold.

Anyway - here we are at Miranda - the NZ Shorebird Centre. Unfortunately we missed today's high tide with its promised excited conglomeration of shorebirds but in the late afternoon we walked upon the shoreline and saw some interesting birds pecking around in the mud flats - including white-faced herons, godwits and by an electric fence we found the sad corpse of a dainty yellow hammer.

Miranda - a picture by Katherine de Chevalle who we hope to meet tomorrow.

Alive

2012-01-08T23:57:00.001-11:00

The Pudding heart is stillbeating. We have not been pecked to death by kea birds or savaged by warringMaori rugby players with sticky out tongues.

We are on New Zealand’s SouthIsland now. We stayed in Koa Cottage, Little River on the glorious BanksPeninsula that Captain Cook mistakenly believed to be an island. It was namedafter the influential eighteenth century botanist – Joseph Banks. On Saturdaynight, the Earth moved for Shirley when we were abed but it also moved for me in the form of a minor earthquakethat measured 5.2 on the Richter scale.

We drove across the islandyesterday via the breathtaking Arthur’s Pass, stopping off in the NZ village ofSheffield to buy a steak and onion pie from Sheffield’s Famous Pie Shop. I alsonoted the Sheffield Community Hall and the village’s only pub – The SheffieldHotel. The weather was magnificent as we drove through obscenely beautifulmountains with hardly another vehicle in sight.

Annoyingly, just outsideGreymouth I received a ticket from a traffic officer for overtaking another caron double yellow lines. Nothing was coming my way and the battered jalopy Ichose to overtake was crawling along at about 30mph. Bugger! A $150 fine.Should I pay it? That is my current moral dilemma.

Birdling Flats, Banks peninsula

Kea bird at Arthur's Pass

Franz Josef Glacier earlier today

Today we drove southwards throughlush forests and over gushing river plains, watched by snow capped mountains aswe made our way to the Franz Josef Glacier. We walked up to this wondrous spectaclein blazing sunshine and later picknicked on a “scenic reserve” as we headedback up the coast to Greymouth. Another “grand day out”.

Rangitoto

2012-01-03T22:19:00.003-11:00

It wasn't the bluest or sunniest of days on Rangitoto. We walked up a scoria track to the very summit of the island where we stood on the rim of the crater that spewed out this harsh black lava island only six hundred years ago. There were a few old bachs (NZ holiday homes) down near the shore and there were excellent views back to Auckland. It was as Wallace might have said, "a grand day out".

NZ

2012-01-02T22:20:00.001-11:00

Above - the new Sky Bridge at Manchester Airport. Below - a place we were not meant to visit. It's Brisbane, Australia. Look very closely and you will see Helen from "Helsie's Happenings" frolicking barefoot in her garden. The plane was meant to refuel at Bangkok.

And finally, Auckland in New Zealand. Thirteen hours ahead of us timewise. It seems a very sleepy city but characterful too in the sultry sub-tropical warmth. People have so much space here and there's greenery and birdsong and one of the most popular pastimes seems to be waiting to cross roads even when there are no vehicles in sight. Two men were guarding a warehouse full of tens. And the Sky Tower - the tallest building in the southern hemisphere soared above everything like a guiding lighthouse. Tomorrow we hope to take a ferry to the volcanic islet of Rangitoto - assuming we can escape from our hotel room with its dodgy plastic key. We were locked out for over an hour earlier this evening waiting for the staff to figure out a way of getting us in. That's technology for you - sometimes it works - sometimes it laughs in your face.

Diversion

2012-01-01T21:53:00.003-11:00

It was impossible for our flight to touch down as scheduled in Sri Lanka on New Years Day. This was because of tropical stormclouds piling up creating violent meteorological conditions over the Andaman Sea. We had chartered a seaplane to fly us from Colombo to Blogland but in the event we never got there. The pilot ignored my desperate pleas and kept going on and on through day and night, until we arrived in this place:-

Recognise it? We have never been here before so we are going to stick around for a while as I make new onward travel arrangements for Blogland.

Roots

2011-12-30T14:31:00.002-11:00

As we prepare for our reconnaissance mission to Blogland, I look back over an interesting year. Six months working in South East Asia was capped off with a week in Cambodia where I visited the famous and awe-inspiring Angkor temple ruins. Earlier today, I was skimming through the pictures I took there. I liked the idea of those old temples being swallowed up by the surrounding jungle only to be rediscovered many years later.

At Angkor, archaeologists are faced with a wide range of conservation tasks that together seem unachievable. There's never enough money and besides to devote energy and resources to such tasks in a very impoverished country can seem somehow like a luxurious and rather cruel diversion. Added to which, there's always the jungle, waiting, just beyond the ruins to consume, to cloak, to reclaim.

I had seen pictures of Angkor tree roots before I went there so I was very pleased to have the opportunity to snap my own pictures of that photogenic phenomenon - roots and trunks embracing, crushing, supporting the old ruins of a culture that had placed enormous store upon religious devotion. It was a culture that was certain of its foundations - a certainty that was present in millions of hand-carved stone blocks, the endlessly intricate carvings, the management of water and in the very audaciousness of those temple mountain designs.

But what price those certainties when the culture has faded and gone and when the jungle creeps back? The resulting interplay is both tragic and beautiful. It makes you think:-

It's past one o'clock in the morning. Time for bed because tomorrow our bag packing must be finished. Afternoon train to Manchester Airport and then a New Year's Eve flight to the other side of the planet. You might not hear from me for a while but when internet connection allows I'll make another blogpost...from Blogland...where all our dreams will come true.

Peep

2011-12-28T13:50:00.000-11:00

Christians believe that Christmastime is a time to celebrate the birth of The Lamb of God but in my devil worshipping home, we celebrated the arrival of The Lamb of Pudding. There she is above. Her name is Peep - a healthy Merino - born to our darling Beau on Christmas Day. When Beau arrived in October we had no idea that she was already pregnant. In celebration of the new birth, we wrapped tinsel around their sheepish necks as Peep surveyed her new home watched by our wee shepherd - a miniature Santa who illuminates at night. However, I must be honest, unlike the living Beau and Peep, Santa is just a plastic replica with a sixty watt light bulb up his rear end.

Ah-ha, as I type these words I can hear intertwining sounds from the night garden. The deeper "baa-ing" of Beau and the plaintive "mai-ing" of young Peep. Looking out, I see Santa glowing - his light twinkling upon those tinsel collars. Well, I might as well be hanged for a lamb as a sheep!

Modelling

2011-12-27T13:43:00.000-11:00

I never really thought I would ever follow in my son's footsteps and become a male model but after yesterday's post I have been inundated with offers. Reluctantly, I agreed to pose for the front cover of "Vanity Fair" - admittedly for a handsome fee. For Dutch spirit I had to down two cans of strong lager and was, as requested, provided with a handgun as I strongly suspected that Julian - the mincing photographer - was a gay homosexual poof.

The lurex mini-briefs I agreed to model come in various different patterns and colours including leopardskin, rainbow and day-glo orange. Gentlemen - they are sure to drive your partners wild!

I look forward to further modelling opportunities when I hope not to be disguised as Santa. As you can see, my physique with rippling biceps and beefy abs is sure to colour the night-time imaginings of many's the fair damsel. I just can't help it. Some of us have got it and others haven't .

Model

2011-12-26T13:54:00.002-11:00

Okay we have heard about Ian The Laughing Horse Blogger of the Year but this is our Ian, our super son, born in 1984. In his five years at secondary school he never missed a single day but typically the school failed to acknowledge this remarkable achievement with some kind of award or certificate. Ian is a very decent young man and we are so proud of him. He's working in Nottingham at present - managing an independent men's fashionwear store. The pictures are taken from the store's website where Ian and other employees have modelled dozens of items of designer clothing.

In any economic downturn, retail sales are affected but in the current gloom the rise of internet selling brings a further downward pressure to high street profits. It's not easy and that's why Ian is currently working seven days a week. Shops aren't expanding their workforces and those "fortunate" enough to be in work are obliged to give more of themselves in order to fend off wolves waiting in nearby financial alleyways to descend upon the weak.

ADVERTISEMENT:-

If you are a fashion-conscious young man living in Sheffield or Nottingham then please visit "Sa-kis" to get yourself kitted out from exclusive menswear lines or check out the company's website.

I wonder if I should also volunteer to do some modelling for them? It would surely boost sales in these troubled times..

Awards

2011-12-25T13:37:00.000-11:00

The Laughing Horse Blog Awards committee have been meeting at a secret country hotel location this Christmastide to thrash out differing views on who should receive the coveted Blogger of the Year Award for 2011. Of course, last year the proud winner was chicken farmer Earl John Gray of Royal Trelawnyd in North Wales. He continues to produce a very human and honest blog that is amusingly self deprecating as it recounts the ups and downs of his life which is shared with an array of creatures as well as his mysterious minder/partner - Chris. However, committee member and bird lover Bill Oddie objected to Earl Gray's vicious hatred of starlings and effectively vetoed his nomination this year.

The committee yawned through dozens of those dull speciality blogs on mixed crafts, cookery and flower arranging. They also rejected the dozens of wholesome but boastful "family" blogs that have been spawned in the heartlands of America. Bible-bashing blogs were quickly discarded along with blatantly commercial blogs.The committee noted that in 2011, several previously noteworthy blogs ground to a halt with creators perhaps running out of ideas or simply becoming disenchanted with the very process of blogging. Their loss.

Below you can admire this year's designer widget (thank you Jasper Conran!) The committee wishes to stress that only the 2011 Gold, Silver and Bronze medal winners are entitled to display this exclusive award design in their blogs - either in the sidebar or simply in a new post:-

Honourable mentions included Libby, Mountain Thyme, Jenny for "Demob Happy Teacher", Jan for "Cosumne Gal", Katherine for "The Last Visible Dog" and of course Senator R. Brague from Canton, Georgia, USA for the famous "Rhymes With Plague" blog that has been the subject of much scrutiny by the C.I.A. since President Obama was inaugurated.

In third place (Bronze medal winner) the committee have selected Helen of "Helsie's Happenings" (Brisbane, Australia). Her blog is generally cheerful and homely containing numerous original photographs that show off Australia in an engagingly personal manner. Her interest and increasing proficiency in quilting is documented within the blog without ever threatening to take over. She remains unashamedly enthusiastic about blogging and how her blog links with the rest of the world.

In second place (Silver medal winner) the committee opted for Daphne of "My Dad's a Communist" (Leeds, England). Daphne is a previous winner of The Laughing Horse Blogger of the Year Award and though her posts her becoming a little less frequent than before, she continues to write in an engagingly humane style - observing some of the small intricacies and irritations in life that are rarely articulated. Always worth reading.

In first place (Gold medal winner), the committee were happy to recognise the work of a blogger who like the prodigal son was lost but is found again. His blog contains regular features and is often well-illustrated with the creator's own pictures. His memories of his trip to South Africa have all been worth reading about and recently he has been poking fun at the great Yorkshire nation through his original and fantastical tales of life in mythical Cleckhuddrersfax. Even though the majority of committee members are from Yorkshire, they were magnanimous and unanimous in making this year's winner...Ian for "Shooting Parrots" (Manchester, England) WELL DONE IAN!

Eve

2011-12-24T07:37:00.001-11:00

Is it just me? Invariably, I have relished Christmastime. It has been a time for family, for taking stock, for feasting, marking the end of one year and the coming of another one. Usually, I feel optimistic at this time of year as we all flip to a fresh new page. However, as 2011 makes way for 2012, I can't help feeling somehow despondent. The News is imbued with gloom and doom. The economies of the western world are in crisis. So many talented young people can't even get on the first rung of the jobs ladder while many businesses are retracting. Meantime, ignoble politicians continue to live the life of Riley - second homes, business lunches, fat pensions and over-generous expenses - their skins as thick and leathery as leather backed turtles, their egos as inflated as blimps.

I remember all those Christmases of the past. My brothers. My parents. When the children were little. Winters without central heating. Nana Morris and Jock. Figgy pudding and home-made chestnut stuffing. Mince pies and tinsel. The pine forest scent of Christmas trees. Midnight services we attended just to sing carols. That crisp December air. Walking gingerly on iced pavements. Our Lord Emmanuel. Those walks upon Stanage Edge as the turkey slowly roasted back home in the old gas oven. Yes. A time to take stock. To remember and then to move on.

But next year. What lies ahead? The Arab world remains in the turmoil of political change. Hideous military adventures in Afghanistan continue unabated. The natural world keeps screaming for help as the human population mushrooms. Working people are squeezed ever more as cruel whispers spread that those who simply can't find work only have themselves to blame. Through television and other media we are bombarded with a new religion - The Cult of Celebrity - as those of us who are not celebrities struggle through the mud of our countless inadequacies. And there are automated cold callers on the telephone.

Blogland will not come a moment too soon. "There's a place far away they call the promised land..." On New Year's Eve, Shirley and I will be jetting there to check the progress of developments. Cynics please note that we have paid for this trip with our own hard-earned money. I will endeavour to keep you informed about what's happening in the infant nation but please understand that full internet facilities are not yet established.

Wishing you and yours a Happy Christmas and let's hope that 2012 turns out to be better than its angels herald.

Lenticular

2011-12-23T02:19:00.001-11:00

Yesterday the Lord spake, leaving a sign above Yorkshire's Pennine hills in the unusual and rather beautiful shape of a lenticular cloud. By the way, contrary to rumour, Len Ticular was not Yorkshire's wicket keeper in the nineteen twenties! No, clearly this was a sign from the Almighty himself. You can see how the cloud is pointing westwards.

Interpretation is easy. Essentially, Our Father Which Art in Heaven is telling the Manchester blogger Mr Parrots to return to his native environment - the rain-sodden western slopes of the Pennines - a grim Third World dependency known as Lancashire. Mr Parrots has been in hiding in Cleckhuddersfax - a mythical, photogenic and historical Yorkshire market town much visited by American tourists in search of their roots.

Obviously, if Mr Parrots fails to obey the Lord's clear instruction he will probably self-combust or end up as a pillar of salt. The purity of the Yorkshire race must be protected. We are "God's own county" and we cannot afford the risk that Mr Parrots will mate with a Yorkshire beauty - yes, even a parking enforcement officer. On behalf of all trueblood Yorkshire men and women, I urge Mr Parrots to obey God's signal and return to his crumbling mill town for Christmas.

Justice

2011-12-21T14:52:00.001-11:00

Terry and Suarez shake hands before Chelsea's game with Liverpool

This post is inspired by recent news about two top English Premier League footballers. In a Liverpool v Man United match, the brilliant Uruguayan striker - Luis Suarez is alleged to have fired the Spanish term "negrito" at the black French defender Patrice Evra while in a Chelsea versus Queens Park Rangers game, former England captain John Terry is alleged to have called the defender Anton Ferdinand a "black bastard". Suarez, never questioned by the authorities, has been given an eight match ban while Terry's case is now in the hands of the police and may advance to trial in a court of law.

Let me start by saying I abhor any form of racism, just as I abhor any kind of prejudice based on age, class, disability, income, gender or intellectual prowess. In my book we are all equal. The roadsweeper or the film star, the professor or the beggar - I wouldn't look down or up at any of them. They are my equals. But I think that the way that Suarez and Terry have been treated is over the top. Their unpleasant insults happened in the heat of sporting battles and though reprehensible, the official responses they met should have been tempered with rather more common sense.

When I was a boy, I noticed how children had a habit of digging away at other children's differences. Kids who wore glasses were "specky four eyes", red haired kids were "carrot tops", fat kids were "Fatty". Even in adult life, such ribbing based on people's differences is quite commonplace but it's only when the issue of race - especially skin colour - is addressed that hackles of justice are raised. There's a sense that authorities, business and sporting organisations are eager to appear politically correct by stomping on suspected racism like the seventeenth century burghers of Salem, Massachusetts

I have never been inside the heads of either Suarez or Terry to discern whether or not they are truly racist but as footballers they have each grown up alongside talented black players, sat side-by-side with them in dressing rooms, walked out with them onto the pitch, embraced them in goal celebrations. In the heat of battle, unwise things may be said, unwarranted insults voiced. Does such stupidity deserve the weight of so-called justice that has descended on these two players? I think not. Warnings and opportunities to apologise would have been the sensible way forward.

In towns and cities all over the world, ordinary citizens endure a great deal of unpleasantness that never attracts close scrutiny from authorities. Yet here we have two high profile footballers who haven't hit anybody, haven't vandalised anyone's property, haven't caused persistent night-time disturbances or defrauded the taxman but despite that they find themselves pilloried, charged with racism, embroiled in costly legal battles to clear their names. I shake my head. The world has gone mad.

Revamp

2011-12-19T10:58:00.001-11:00

I stuck with the original Blogger interface from June 2005 until now and probably would have continued to work with that familiar friend till they buried me beneath the sod. However, unwelcome things kept happening. Facilities I had been used to kept dropping away. It seemed like the time had come to be converted. So I pressed the necessary keys and tabs and before you knew it the old blogface was gone - along with links to favourite blogs and my visitor counter.

A feeling of panic ensued but was shortlived as I set about picking a new appearance for this humble blog. Some of my former favourite blogs had become stagnant anyway - like abandoned goldrush towns so it was probably time for a clean up. I'm rather proud of the fact that in the last six and half years "Yorkshire Pudding" has been visited over 210,000 times. Blogger's in-built statistical counter didn't appear to go back as far as my old counters had done. 210,000! Once I stood in the old Wembley Stadium when it was filled to capacity. All my blog visitors would fill two stadiums though admittedly many of them would be clones.

Imagine that - three rows of identical Senator Bragues, a whole section of Welsh Jennys, a pressbox filled with identical Lancashire Parrots. What a nightmare!

HTML jiggerypokery is not something I take to very readily. It's for nerds and computer boffins. Nonetheless, I managed to insert a new visitor counter. Lord knows how long it will last before the company that hosts it start asking for money.

One could spend hours fiddling around with design templates, customising features, changing text size and colour but for the time being at least I am rather happy with my new unfussy design. I think posting will be easier now and I hope that you - dear and valued reader also approve of the new design. If you are in the mood to do so, please give me feedback. Thank you.

Farewell

2011-12-18T10:20:00.004-11:00

People who are not football supporters may be puzzled by this post - (just as I am becoming increasingly puzzled about what is happening to the old Blogger interface). Yesterday, Hull City supporters had a last opportunity to visit our club's old ground before it makes way for a housing project. Of course now we have a modern state-of-the-art ampitheatre - the KC Stadium - which is the envy of many other Championship clubs but between 1946 and 2002, home games were played at our beloved temple - Boothferry Park.

I first visited the place with my father in 1964 and over the next three and a half decades saw more matches there than I care to remember. So many highs but probably far more lows.

One of the best days was March 31st 1966 when 45,328 supporters crammed into the ground to see our then Third Division team take on the mighty Chelsea in an FA Cup sixth round replay. It was such an exciting evening and though we lost by three goals to one, the best goal of the game was volleyed in by Chris Simpkin from about thirty yards out past the flailing hands of Peter Bonetti.

And Simpkin was at the ground yesterday - on the crumbling terraces that await the bulldozer - with me, my friend Tony and about four hundred other diehard supporters. It's salutary to think that he scored that wonderful goal more than forty five years ago when I was a young lad in secondary school and the world seemed far less complicated than it does today.

Boothferry Park - The Last Goodbye

Tony at Boothferry Park yesterday

Pointlessness

2011-12-16T10:48:00.007-11:00

Children starve in lawless Somalia while the great Amazonian rainforest shrinks with each passing hour. Glaciers recede to reveal scoured landscapes never seen before as unemployed workers across the western world wonder where their futures lie. But what are numerous members of the English Women's Institute doing? Why, my friend, they are knitting cakes! Yes. Not baking cakes that people can eat but knitting replica cakes and buns!

Since completing her Masters degree, Lady Pudding has discovered extra hours to fill and so she thought she'd give the Women's Institute a try. At the second meeting in a church hall in the city centre, "secret Santa" presents were exchanged and she ended up with a practical guidebook to knitting her own cakes - complete with free patterns and illustrations. Here it is:-

My mother used to be a staunch member of the W.I. in the village where I was born - Nazareth in East Yorkshire. They made jam and chutney and useful things for the home like lampshades and baskets before singing "Jerusalem" and going home. They never knitted bloody cakes! What would you do with a knitted cake once it was finished? Torment children with it? Feed it to knitted teddy bears? Or, most likely, just ram it in a cupboard and forget about it.

What a mad world we live in. Here are some cakes I knitted earlier:-

Dodger

2011-12-15T13:40:00.002-11:00

When I board a train, I am in possession of the appropriate ticket. In this Scotrail scene, a student fare dodger is confronted by a guard who is clearly old enough to be the lad's grandfather. Seeing the difficulty the guard is in, a passenger, 35 year old Alan Pollock from Stirling, gets up to lend a hand and hurls the nineteen year old lad, complete with Tibetan yak breeder's hat, off the train onto Linlithgow station platform.

Most right thinking people would expect "Big Man" Alan Pollock to receive some kind of medal but instead he faces the prospect of a court appearance - potentially charged with assault upon the poor, unfortunate fare dodger who typically refuses to accept that he was in the wrong. What a topsy turvy world we are living in when wrongdoers can gain the upper hand while brave, community-minded citizens like Alan Pollock find themselves accused of wrongdoing.

This is what David from Manchester had to say about the incident in yesterday's "Daily Mail": "Surely this was simply the 'Big Man's' interpretation of Cameron's 'Big Society'. Quite frankly, this kid's Dad would do him more of a favour if he told his son to apologise for his behaviour and then shut up about it." I find myself in agreement with David and The Big Man - Alan Pollock - himself. Instead of spouting off about right and wrong in today's society, more of us should be acting rather than talking and the powers that be should be applauding such courageous action instead of tending to side with so-called "victims" like Sam Main (Tibetan yak breeder).

Marvell

2011-12-14T03:58:00.010-11:00

Recently, as standard bearer of the Yorkshire Freedom Army, I have had to apologise for Jeremy Clarkson and George Bamber. However, today I celebrate the life of another Yorkshireman - the metaphysical poet Andrew Marvell who was born at Winestead in East Yorkshire in 1621. His father was the vicar there and this is the church he presided over. It's called St Germain's:-

Sadly the rectory house where Marvell junior was born was demolished long ago.

Marvell was a pupil at Hull Grammar School but at the age of only twelve he became a student at Cambridge University where he immersed himself in his studies, afterwards becoming an influential figure in English intellectual and political life. He was a well-known political satirist and became Hull's Member of Parliament in turbulent political times but it is chiefly as a poet that we remember him and perhaps his most famous poem is included below.

"To His Coy Mistress" - on the face of it, it is about the seduction of a young woman whose coyness had clearly frustrated the poet's baser instincts. However, it is also about man alone in a universe where the presence or absence of God seems immaterial. We are all victims of time and if we don't seize the day it will have passed us by. Here physicality and spirituality are woven together. Though written in the middle of the seventeenth century, this poem has a universal theme that should easily touch those modern day readers who are prepared to sit quietly for a few open-minded minutes and discover for themselves why Marvell remains so highly regarded:-

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Following the fatal attack of a malaria-like fever called tertian ague, Marvell was buried at St Giles in the Field in London in 1678, many miles from the quiet and rather remote Yorkshire hamlet where his life began. Thankfully, for every Jeremy Clarkson there is an Andrew Marvell.

Continuation

2011-12-13T14:25:00.007-11:00

Another sunny December morning and another ramble where Yorkshire and Derbyshire meet. And for once you can enlarge all of these pictures by clicking on them.

Above: Looking to Callow Bank and Stanage from Winyard's Nick

Mother Cap - a millstone tor

The old packhorse bridge over Burbage Brook

View of Carl Wark and Higger Tor

Longshaw

2011-12-12T05:44:00.009-11:00

One of northern England's loveliest and mildest autumns ever gave way to the creeping greyness of another dreary December. Drizzle. Short days. Nature drawing itself inwards. Gloves and hats and pasty faces. Someone coughing at the bus stop. These are not the sort of days when you want to be out and about enjoying the countryside.

However and even so and nonetheless, the weather forecast promised sunshine this morning and it dutifully arrived to banish the gloom - if only for one day. So I was out again for a couple of hours roaming around the Longshaw Estate to the south west of Sheffield.

I remember when Ian was a cub scout, he spent a weekend with his troop at a ramshackle old house on the moors. In those days, the isolated stone lodge - a former gamekeeper's cottage - had no modern conveniences and the boys slept in their sleeping bags on the old floorboards with a roaring log fire in the grate as howling winds whistled outside. Since then, the house - White Edge Lodge - has been repaired and refurbished by the National Trust and is available for rent as a holiday cottage. This is it:-

And here are two other pictures I took today on the Longshaw Estate:-

Beyond this gate you can see the shape of Carl Wark - a mysterious Iron Age hill fort that may have its true origins in the Neolithic period. There are structures up there built way back in the mists of time though most archaeologists agree it was never a human settlement as such - possibly just a fortified refuge - perhaps with some religious/ritualistic significance. I was going to go up there today but the gentle stream in the valley had become a torrent and I didn't fancy being washed down to Grindleford. Another time I think.

I don't think the picture above will enlarge - one of the quirks of posting pictures via Blogger but when I transferred it from my camera to the computer screen I said "Wow!". It was surely the best photograph I snapped today. It was taken from the Longshaw Estate looking to the north west and The Dark Peak where you can just make out a dusting of snow on those faraway hills.

Surprisingly more winter sunshine is expected tomorrow before we return to the greyness.

Bamber

2011-12-11T05:19:00.006-11:00

Recently, I was obliged to acknowledge my embarrassment when admitting that loutish BBC presenter Jeremy Clarkson was born a Yorkshireman. Now an unfortunate discovery leads me to make a further shameful confession - namely, that double yellow lines were invented by another Yorkshireman.

His name was George Bamber (1822-1903), a sheep farmer from Masham in the North Riding of the county. On busy market days, he became fed up with the inconvenience caused by visitors' vehicles so he took the law into his own hands and painted parallel double yellow lines by the roadside near his farm entrance. The idea came from the identification markings he applied to his sheep - also double yellows. Soon the idea was imitated by the local council and spread to surrounding villages. Fines became applicable and apparently Bamber always took a percentage cut. As they say, the rest is history.

I discovered this after checking the internet for the meaning of single yellow lines. Shirley and I have just returned from a little Christmas shopping trip to the city centre and we had hellish trouble getting parked. Eventually, I dropped her off near "TKMaxx" before continuing my hunt for a space. Even on a Sunday, parking stormtroopers were out gleefully slapping tickets on the windscreens of drivers who mistakenly believe that there are absolutely no parking restrictions on Sundays. Finally, I found a space on a single yellow line but adjacent to it there was no little sign to advise on particular restrictions so I simply chanced it. Returning to the car, I was uncertain if the Nazis might have got me but this time I was lucky.

Two stormtroopers were sheltering from the grey December drizzle in an office doorway. As I walked by, I heard them humming "Lied der Deutschen". If only they knew that I was the one who had "disappeared" their colleagues last year. Wonder what Afghanistan is like in wintertime?

Back home I confirmed what I believed was true - that where there are single yellows there should also be an explanatory sign. My guess is that Sheffield's stormtroopers have deliberately removed them to assist in their victimisation of unwary drivers. That George Bamber has got a lot to answer for and once again, on behalf of this great county, I'd just like to say sorry for all those miles and miles of double yellow lines.

Sayings

2011-12-10T03:37:00.006-11:00

Gather round lads and lasses. Robert! Stop pulling Jenny's pigtails. Oh nice to see you Mr Rhodes! Glad you could join us! Oh and that's Miss Blawat with you. Why's your hair ruffled girl and why are you blushing like a beetroot? Now settle down. Today's lesson is all about sayings.

I have written two common English sayings on the blackboard. Can we all read them together please.... "As happy as Larry...As mad as a hatter... " Thank you. Now does anybody know the origin of either of these sayings. Yes? Thank you Libby. Go ahead.

"Well sir. The first one - As happy as Larry. I understand it entered the language from Australia. The first known printed use of the phrase happened in 1875 when used by a New Zealand writer called Meredith - 'We would be as happy as Larry if not for the rats'. One strong theory is that the saying relates to a successful Australian boxer called Larry Foley who retired unbeaten in the 1870's claiming a massive purse of £1000 for his very last fight. Who wouldn't have been happy about that?"

Thank you Libby. I have heard that theory myself but the saying could have also emerged from the term "larrikin" - an early nineteenth century antipodean loafer or young hooligan who would always be hell-raising with his chums, enjoying a life without responsibility. Even so I think you deserve a gold star for your answer Libby... Now the other phrase - "As mad as a hatter."

Okay Robert. Your hand was up first. No, stop that groaning the rest of you! Just ignore them Robert. Please go on.

"Well Mr Pudding sir. According to my homework investigations - it appears that the first printed use of the phrase was in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine of 1829. The most popular theory is that hatmakers used to use mercury in certain manufacturing procedures and over a period of time the mercury fumes often impacted on hatmakers' brains making them prone to trembling fits and other unusual behaviours. Some investigators claim that the term may have grown out of an earlier saying - "As mad an adder" - the only poisonous snake native to Britain - the venom of which could severely affect the mental state of its victims."

Thank you Robert. A gold star for you too. Now get out your exercise books everybody and invent two new phrases or sayings of your own in the hope that they might also enter our great language. Explain what they might mean. For example - given this week's news from Europe we could introduce the term - "to do a Cameron" - meaning either to walk off the pitch when the going gets too tough or to act hastily just to please others without thinking of the dire consequences of your actions. Now unless there are any questions please get on quietly while I read my newspaper.

Connection

2011-12-09T00:40:00.004-11:00

I could weep when I think about what is happening to pubs in England. So many great pubs have closed forever whilst others morph into samey chainpubs under banners like "Wetherspoons", "Ember Inns" etcetera. My own local, which once buzzed with customers every night of the week is becoming like a morgue some nights. Time was that I would avoid it on a Friday night because it felt like entering a rugby scrum but nowadays there are seats aplenty and last Saturday night there was just me and Bert in the taproom for the last half hour.

Last night I was with Big Dave in Dronfield which is a dormitory town on the southern edge of Sheffield. We had a delicious curry at "The Mint Leaf" before driving to a lovely little back street pub in Coal Aston called "The Cross Daggers". How delightful it was! Warm, clean and cosy with a welcoming landlord and well-kept beer. There was a framed "roll of honour" on the wall to those villagers who gave their lives in "The European War" which we of course now know as The First World War.

There was no jukebox music in "The Cross Daggers" - just the hum of conversation and occasional laughter. At ten o'clock the landlord - Anthony - brought round a big tray of fresh bread rolls lathered with dripping. They were free and, in spite of the earlier curry, I just had to do a taste test. When Big Dave and I got up to leave, Anthony and his wife wished us a safe journey - "Thanks for coming lads!" This was just how a good local pub should be. The pub of one's dreams.

Meantime, as the traditional English pub declines, out on the high streets and in the suburbs the coffee shop keeps marching on - "Starbucks", "Costa", "Caffe Nero" etc.. Though I never venture into these places, they seem to be becoming an important feature of the British social scene. Only the other day, Starbucks announced that they were planning to open another three hundred outlets in Britain over the next five years.

I wonder - is there a direct link between the death of the pub and the blossoming of coffee shops? What is it telling us about the way we live? The coffee shop is of the daytime but historically the pub was primarily of the nighttime. The coffee shop is unisex and welcomes children but the pub was/is primarily a masculine environment. Though one might get a caffeine buzz in a coffee shop, you won't wander out in a drunken haze with liver damage and an urge to fight. Coffee shops are mainly corporate and predictable in character but the traditional pub was/is more idiosyncratic - more quirky. I wonder what the connection is between this decline and this growth - I can't quite put my finger on it.

Merkozy

2011-12-07T12:31:00.000-11:00

Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy, political leaders of Germany and France respectively are always meeting up these days. You see them on television greeting each other and there's plenty of bonhomie in the air when these two are around. Heaven knows what their respective spouses make of these love-ins. Certainly Merkel's husband should watch out as Sarkozy is already on his third wife and could be on the look-out for a fourth. Though we see the two of them meeting we never hear what they're saying to each other. Beowulf, a deaf friend of mine is an expert linguist and lip reader. He has kindly transposed snippets of their dialogue into plain English. Hence:-

SARKOZY German wine is like urine in comparison with ours.

MERKEL Rubbish! You can't beat a good hock.

MERKEL One two three!

SARKOZY I love your face, in the right place.

MERKEL I love your mind

SARKOZY That's very kind... You're the lady, you're the lady that I love.

MERKEL You're the fella, you're the fella that rocks me.

MERKEL Wanna cement our international relations after this meeting?

SARKOZY I'd love to explore your eurozone.

MERKEL Hang on. Who's that creeping up behind me?

SARKOZY Don't worry my little fraulein, it's only that irritating English salesperson - Thatchmeron!

Progress

2011-12-06T03:31:00.003-11:00

Blogland construction update. I am happy to announce that house construction in Blogland is proceeding apace. Roughly half of the dwellings are now completed. The Development Committee asked the construction team if they could "dress" the Aspin Residence to give immigrants a sense of what to expect when they arrive. This is where Dame Jenny of Wrexham and her Welsh beau - Lord Keith will dwell. Their property enjoys beach views and provides bijou traditional accommodation with modern conveniences.

One of the hydro-electric facilities is already finished by the fast-flowing Daphne Stream in the interior and it is now successfully providing our construction team with power and lighting. The twelve giant blades for the Brague Memorial Wind Farm were shipped in from Madras, India just yesterday. Even as I write, a team of coolies are carrying them from the wharf to the other side of the island which is rather rocky and inhospitable. The Development Committee selected this location for the wind farm to avoid visual or aural displeasure to residents.

A team of Burmese peasants have dug out the hole for the communal swimming pool which, when completed, will be easily accessible to the entire Blogland community and should be something of a social hub with its palm-shaded jacuzzis, Caribbean-style cocktail bar, stylish fitness suite, rustic bamboo loungers and landscaped tropical gardens. Unfortunately, ladies will not be allowed to wear one-piece swimming costumes by the pool - only bikinis, the dimensions and design of which will be subject to close inspection by the National Bikini Inspector - an onerous part-time role which I have agreed to take on myself. Well somebody's got to do it.

Pandas

2011-12-05T00:42:00.000-11:00

Oi! What you looking at? Can't a giant panda enjoy a few bamboo shoots without being clicked by cameramen causing pandemonium? I had enough of that back in Chengdu, China. By the way, I'm Yang Guang. Just arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland with a gorgeous chick who goes by the name of Tian Tian. Nice to meet you everybody.

I overheard some of the "experts" who brought us over here and they're expecting us to mate. Well that's perfectly fine with me. It will interrupt my continuous bamboo feasting but hey, I won't beat about the bush - a daddy panda's got to do what a daddy panda's got to do. Mind you, I won't pander to her whims. I'll drive her to a remote country layby in my Fiat Panda and if she resists my charms she'll get a black eye... or perhaps a pair of black eyes. You've always got to show the girl pandas who's boss. Burrp! This bamboo - it's always repeating on me. Maybe I should try cockaleekie soup instead.

PANDA FACTS

Pandas are in the carnivore family and, for the most part, have the digestive system of a carnivore. Long ago, for reasons scientists do not understand (perhaps because they could not compete well for food with other carnivores), pandas adapted to a vegetarian diet.

Pandas only digest about 20% of what they eat while cattle digest 60%. Therefore, pandas must eat a lot to get the nourishment they need. Pandas consume 15 to 30 kilograms (33 to 66 pounds) of food per day. They eat for 10 to 16 hours per day and cover over one kilometer a day while eating. When they are not eating, pandas often conserve energy by sleeping.

Crossways

2011-12-04T06:31:00.006-11:00

When I visited my Uncle Jack's grave in Norton-on-Derwent just after Remembrance Sunday, I was surprised to see that someone had placed a little wooden cross there only a few days beforehand. Here it is:-

It recalls the fact that at the age of twenty three, Jack (Alec) died aboard a Blenheim bomber out of RAF Debden which came down on the night of November 16th 1940. I know I have written about this before. In ploughed fields, near the Essex hamlet of Ramsey Tyrrells, he died with two other young men.

But who had put the cross there? Returning from my little pilgrimage, I posted a photo of Uncle Jack's grave on the Geograph website and thought little more about it but then out of the blue there came an email message from a blood relative I never knew existed. Not only had he spotted the grave picture but he was responsible for placing the little cross upon Jack's grave.

My grandfather had a younger brother called Tom who was the father of my newly acquired relative - John. Turns out that John, rather co-incidentally, spent many years teaching in the Bradford area but is now retired. Oddly, he doesn't have his own home computer but logs in during his weekly visits to the public library in Ilkley. I have sent him some family photos and he has promised to send me a list of the people who attended Uncle Jack's funeral in 1940. Would you agree that the internet has a habit of opening doors and windows, enhancing our lives.

Departed

2011-12-03T14:16:00.000-11:00

Song for The Departed

I thought I heard you last night

As this wind-pommeled house

Creaked

Yes, before I was submerged in sleep

I thought I heard you.

How faint your voices were

As if from far away

Remembered

Only dimly like your faces.

Oh, how faint they seemed.

Life pulses like oceans

But its foreverness is

Untrue.

I could only sense the darkness

Though my hands reached out for you.

Money

2011-12-02T03:29:00.003-11:00

The Blogland Development Commitee have asked me to seek prospective residents' views about Proposal 17b, namely:-

17b In principle, money will be outlawed in favour of a communal system of exchange in which hours of work and acts of kindness towards others will earn credit notes - though the age, fitness and skill-levels of residents will be factored into reward calculations. Electricity will be produced free of charge by strategically placed hydro-electric generators and a small "farm" of wind generators. Regarding food provision, the country aims to be 90% self-sufficient by 2013. Other necessary products, including imported Tetley's bitter, "Vosene" 2in1 shampoo and "Marmite", will be available free of charge from the co-operative store. It is hoped and expected that residents will quickly develop a more communal way of living with open doors and minds, leaving behind the isolationism of western living in which financial wealth has been key to determining social status and indeed social division.

Any thoughts about the presence or absence of money in Blogland will be much appreciated before the Development Committee's proposals reach the ratification stage. It should be pointed out that any servants with dependent families living on the Burmese mainland will have their salaries paid directly into foreign bank or post office accounts.

Ashamed

2011-12-01T05:44:00.003-11:00

I am ashamed to admit that Jeremy Clarkson is a Yorkshireman. Yesterday, live on BBC's early evening "One Show", he said of public sector strikers: "I'd have them all shot. I would take them outside and execute them in front of their families." This may have been Clarkson's Gerald Ratner moment. I sincerely hope so.

Remember Ratner, owner of a chain of successful high street jewellers? It was at a meeting of the Institute of Managers in 1991 that he said of the stock in his shops: "People say 'How can you sell it for such a low price?' I say, 'Because it's total crap!' ".

In that moment his business was lost. Sales figures plummeted. Ordinary people with humble aspirations felt somehow insulted by Ratner's arrogant assertion, as if they were just pawns in his money-making enterprise. They voted with their feet and within a few short months Ratner's Jewellers disappeared from our high streets.

Opinionated and insensitive Clarkson has been making a comfortable living courtesy of the BBC which is of course funded by the British people. I have never liked him and never watch his inane "Top Gear" programme which glorifies the car industry, speed and schoolboy prankery. For some reason, the boorish presenter has developed a cult following - mainly of other men who similarly dislike playing by the rules even as they live their nine-to-five lives in obscure suburbia.

No. Clarkson's not for me and yesterday he may have gone a bridge too far in deriding working people who form the backbone of this great country - people who work for the public good - school cleaners, environmental health officers, nursing auxiliaries, care workers, firemen, police officers and the like. Unsung people who work hard week after week, often in trying circumstances while Clarkson okays his latest Christmas DVD or test drives the latest Ferrari. Why the hell shouldn't they, in a democratic society, tell the government where to stick their unfair proposals for the public sector?

I wish there was some way that Clarkson could have his Yorkshireman status rescinded. He looks and sounds like a southern old Etonian softie. People like him reveal the true character of hardened Tory voters, behind their masks and weasel words. He doesn't deserve his job with the BBC. Let him go elsewhere - perhaps to News International or better still to downtown Tehran. You've gone too far this time Jezza!

LATEST: Apparently Clarkson has this evening made a grudging apology for his reprehensible remark - no doubt seeking to avoid being sacked whilst privately defending his ignorant point of view.

Protest

2011-11-30T02:54:00.007-11:00

All across Great Britain and Northern Ireland, public service workers are on strike today. About two million of them - from police officers to nursery nurses and from refuse collectors to court officials. They are protesting about government attacks on their conditions of service, including plans to fiddle with agreed pension arrangements. Essentially, the government want to make public service workers work longer, pay more in contributions and receive smaller pensions than promised. Should the workers just lie down and allow themselves to be trampled upon? I think not.

Of course, as a former public service worker myself, I took early retirement and opted for an actuarially reduced pension and a lump sum. The package is pretty meagre and with rising prices it has already suffered erosion but when I add it to Shirley's income, we are still okay compared with most people. What many folk don't seem to realise is that public workers pay for their pensions throughout their working lives. Looking back on my last full-time salary slips I note that in August 2009, £239 was deducted as a pension payment and that was in addition to tax and national insurance payments. Making allowance for inflation, over thirty two years I paid in the equivalent of £92,000 and this overlooks any interest gained through investment. The idea that teachers and other public service workers currently enjoy lucrative pension handouts at the nation's expense is as offensive as it is ludicrous.

I was motivated to join today's huge rally in Barkers Pool, on the steps of Sheffield City Hall. There were striking firemen there, police officers, administrators, refuse workers, teachers, nursery nurses, doctors, social workers, road repairmen, dinner ladies - united against the unfairness of government proposals. Some might say: "What's the point? What will it achieve?" but there were probably similar voices when William Wilberforce pushed through anti-slavery laws or when Chartists like Samuel Holberry first petitioned and fought with their lives for employment rights that are now taken for granted.

Samuel Holberry's grave, Sheffield General Cemetery

Windy

2011-11-27T10:14:00.006-11:00

No - not windy in the sense that I had eaten a brussel sprout and baked bean curry, but windy in the other sense where an invisible force buffets you to a point where it nearly knocks you off your feet. That is how it was this afternoon as I rambled up on Derwent Edge in the Peak District.

Parking near Cutthroat Bridge, I followed the public right of way for a mile across heather clad moorland up to Whinstone Lee Fields. Here the wind was channelled and intensified to a point where I couldn't even hold my camera steady as my woollen Hull City AFC ski hat was whipped off my head. However, the view down to Ladybower reservoir was gorgeous:-

On Derwent Edge, the wind was piercing my ear cavities. Though the weatherman had promised a blue sky day with strong winds, there were grey clouds about - hurrying ever eastwards. One moment the millstone outcrop known as The Wheel Stones was in shadow and the next moment it was highlighted theatrically by late November sunshine:-

Onwards I strode along the windswept edge until I found my main goal: The Salt Cellar. Such a curious natural carving in millstone grit - shaped by millennia of strong winds and bitter winters. My picture fails to make it clear that The Salt Cellar is about twelve feet tall:

When walking on the moors of Derbyshire and South Yorkshire, ramblers will often disturb resting grouse. With their curious intermittent cries, they rise in panic from the heather and I have never managed to photograph that wing-flapping moment but today, before I returned to the car, I spotted this bold red grouse up wind of me:-

But all too soon he was gone like a feathered kite, riding the invisible gale.

Identity

2011-11-25T08:53:00.003-11:00

Any infant nation needs to quickly define its identity. Blogland already has its own distinctive flag and yesterday afternoon the Executive met to decide upon a national anthem. We hit upon "Island of Dreams" which was a hit for The Springfields in 1963. You may have heard of their famous girl singer - Dusty Springfield - otherwise known as Mary O'Brien.

Our happy anthem will be sung at formal gatherings in Blogland. I suspect that the first line will have special resonance for Welsh poultry farmers. To remind yourself of how it goes, please click on the YouTube clip and sing along with Dusty. Soon you'll be singing it round a campfire on the beach as moonlight sparkles upon silvered Andaman waves where Thuza's fishing boat will glide like a shadow puppet to the bobbing jetty in Keith Bay.

I wandered the streets and the gay crowded places
Trying to forget you but somehow it seems
My thoughts ever stray to our last sweet embraces
Over the sea on the Island of Dreams

High in the sky is the bird on the wing
Please carry me with you
Far far away from the mad rushing crowd
Please carry me with you

Again I would wander where memories enfold me
There on the beautiful Island of Dreams
Far far away on the Island of Dreams

Servants

2011-11-24T13:20:00.006-11:00

Thuza - allocated to Jan (Cosumne Gal)

In Blogland, our agents are beginning to recruit servants in preparation for the first influx of bloggers next year. Mostly they are Mergui islanders. Obviously, there will be several general servants who will be engaged in basic maintenance tasks such as clearing the bush, meeting boats at the new jetty in Keith Bay, shinning up coconut palms to gather fresh nuts and running the national laundry.

However, in addition to the general servants, residents will be entitled to their own personal servant allocation. Mostly these servants will reside beneath the cabins and chalets that are currently under construction. Personally, I shall not require my own servant as I plan to be self-sufficient but I guess some bloggers will require support. Here's a list of typical tasks that servants may perform:

Cooking
Cleaning
Fishing
Massage
Bed Making
Fanning
Driving golf buggy
Re-thatching roofs
Washing Up
Cutting toenails
Bowling cricket balls
Application of sun protection cream and after-sun cream
Emptying commodes
Annihilation of spiders, rodents and stinging insects
Campfire song and dance

Residents in waiting need to state their servant requirements - age, male or female, and number. Note that no resident will be allowed more than three servants and all servants must be treated with the utmost kindness, respect and good humour. They may be servants but they are still our equals.

Nanda - allocated to Ian - Shooting Parrots

Graduation

2011-11-23T00:46:00.002-11:00

A blog is literally a "web log". That's where we got the term "blog" from. In the paper-only world which we all recall, people wrote diaries or "logs" that they kept in drawers. They were mainly private records - reflecting the progression of a life. Sometimes that's how I feel about this blog. Though it is in the public domain, I sometimes use it like those private diaries of the past - to capture significant moments in my life and the lives of my nearest and dearest. And yesterday certainly was a "significant moment".

On The City Hall stage stood Lord Professor Robert Winston - Chancellor of Sheffield Hallam University - and scientist of international repute - waiting to shake the hands of graduates in the field of Health and Well Being. And one of them was my Shirley - from good Lincolnshire farming stock. She grew up in a home that was rich in kindness and common sense but absent of books. Historically, no one in her family had ever achieved anything of note in the world of academia. There was a sense that school was something you tolerated before real life began.

But yesterday, her academic achievement was recognised - Master of Science in Advanced Professional Development - a hard won victory after six years of intermittent study whilst still working full-time. It culminated in a hefty dissertation in which she reflected on what is known about how young adults with diabetes deal with their condition. This dovetailed with her own experience of supporting young diabetes sufferers in the health centre where she works.

It was great that our hard-working children could be there in the city hall to witness the ceremony. We had a great curry together afterwards in "The House of Spice" and later a get-together with friends and colleagues in "The Three Cranes" public house in the city centre.

As we drove home, Shirley received a text message in which our Frances said how much she had enjoyed the day and how proud she was of her mum. That brought tears to Shirley's eyes and for a minute or two she couldn't speak - I had to wait till we got home to read the message. Days come and days go but some days live forever in your memory. Yesterday was one of those... Now back to the tiles.

Kitchen

2011-11-21T01:04:00.009-11:00

Matching laminate wall means retiling is inevitable

You can see Beau grazing on the lawn

Kitchen dilapidation?

"Stars in Their Eyes": This week Yorkshire Pudding is... Bob the Builder! Well, perhaps not. Maybe Terry the Tile Remover.

Her majesty has decreed that we shall have new work surfaces (counters) in the kitchen. The others were only put there a short time ago (thirteen years to be precise) and seem perfectly serviceable to me. But the project is about to commence and a fellow called Gary (are all tradesmen called Gary?) will be here nice and early on Thursday morning to perform his skilful duties - ripping out the old surfaces and inserting the new.

Lady Pudding had not anticipated that the kitchen makeover would involve the removal of existing tiles. If I had been able to acquire a couple of boxes of our current tiles then full removal would not have been necessary but as the guy in the tile shop said, "You've no chance mate!" (How dare he call me "mate" when I'm obviously a "sir"!)

So instead of wasting time tapping away at this keyboard, I suppose I should really be showering and finding my safety googles ready to get chipping away at tiles that I imagine will have been welded immovably to the walls. Though magazine kitchen makeovers always look very easy - moving magically from "Before" to "After" - in real life such transformation is usually accompanied by blood, sweat and tears and exasperated cries - "Oh God! Why am I doing this?" etc.. We'll see.

Meantime, she who must be obeyed will be in Sheffield City Hall tomorrow afternoon, receiving her masters degree. Ian and Frances have booked days off to be there. It is a magnificent achievement. Shirley has always been an excellent nurse - dealing compassionately and effectively with many thousands of poorly people over the years but she was never what you might call "academic". For her nursing is essentially a practical job - a bit like renewing kitchen work surfaces. The fact that she has been able to advance through the necessary academic hoops as a distant learner and part time student these last six years verges on the remarkable and it is certainly one of the best achievements of her life. We will all feel very proud tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps she deserves her kitchen makeover.

Inoculation

2011-11-18T12:05:00.005-11:00

Bloggers who will soon join the first wave of emigration to Blogland must appreciate that they will enjoy a lovely tropical climate soothed by sea breezes. Personally, I will be having no travel vaccinations at all. I am of the view that there's more to life than guarding against every possible danger that might come our way. However, I do appreciate that some bloggers will wish to comply with travel health advice. Click on Kylie the Blogland chicken below to access that advice but please remember that though mainland Burma suffers from the detrimental effects of mosquitoes, in Blogland there are absolutely no mosquitoes so any conditions related to mosquitoes such as malaria and Japanese encephalitis should be overlooked.

Meanwhile, you will be pleased to learn that construction work is proceeding nicely. The palm trunk frame of the meeting house is already up and brush has been cleared from all of the thirty four residential sites that have been earmarked for building. A floating jetty now reaches out into Keith Bay - rather like the one below that I spotted on the island of Koh Rang in eastern Thailand:-

Residents in waiting will be glad to know that yesterday evening I personally phoned Johnny Depp to tell him he's not wanted. His response was so foul-mouthed that I had to put the phone down but not before I had yelled back at him - "You're just a big spoilt kid and your films are crap too!" Apparently, a few other well-known celebrities have made enquiries about Blogland residency but most of them don't even blog! A few unreserved residential plots still remain so if you're interested please apply through Visitor Comments below.

Homage

2011-11-17T13:57:00.003-11:00

"They fly with a swallow's swiftness

And fight with an eagle's heart..."

Visited for the very first time today in Norton-on-Derwent - in the very heart of Yorkshire - the grave of the grandparents I never met. They died in my birth year. My grandfather - Philip - died only a month before I was born. But before they were interred, their youngest son - an uncle I also never met - was buried here - Uncle Jack. He was only twenty three, a radio operator in the RAF. He died seventy one years ago aboard a Blenheim bomber that plunged to earth in Essex, two hundred and fifty miles from home. Jack, Margaret and Philip - I wish you sweet dreams and if there were a God, I'd say God bless!

Badgercide

2011-11-16T09:48:00.005-11:00

Some parts of England boast more badgers than Yorkshire can claim. There must have been more than a forty five year gap between my two sightings of live badgers in this illustrious county. I saw my first badgers when I was around twelve in a remote wood about a mile from the village where I grew up. It was dusk and they emerged almost magically from their ancient sett in a clearing.

My second badger sighting happened one night, two weeks ago, when my friend Mike and his wife Jill were driving me home. It was waddling along the pavement and at first I thought it was a dog but as we drew level with it I realised it was a badger. It scurried down somebody's driveway. Mike and Jill admitted they had never even seen a badger before.

Non-English visitors to this blog may not be aware that a debate has been sizzling in this country about the very existence of badgers. Some farmers claim, with unsubstantiated evidence, that badgers carry tuberculosis and have fatally infected hundreds, perhaps thousands of cows and bullocks. They are pushing for a widespread badger cull even though the badgers were here long before farmers came along. The Tory government, under our odious millionaire prime minister - David William Donald Cameron, are very much drawn to this brutally unscientific position.

One of our local MP's called Dennis McShane has spoken out against this murderous movement, saying: "There are tensions between any animals in their natural environment and farmers seeking to maximise profit. But David Cameron has given in to big landowners who want to create mono-agro-economies. Ministers have unleashed Badgercide to please their landowning and agro-industry friends." Personally, I think Mr McShane is right.

I was born in the countryside and worked on farms when I was a boy but I believe in badgers as much as I believe in tigers, blue whales and polar bears. They are precious and deserve our care - not bullets, traps and poisons. I say - no to the culling of badgers and yes to improving domestic animal husbandry. Up The Badgers!

BADGER TRUST LINK

Silhouettes

2011-11-15T08:16:00.002-11:00

Earlier today, in defiance of our gloomy weather forecast, honeyed sunshine seeped through a grey cloud blanket and illuminated the Peak District National Park which is right on Sheffield's doorstep. I walked on Higger Tor's rocky plateau from where Bronze and then Iron Age people once looked out. Today I spotted three walkers, silhouetted against more distant hills and to the left of them birds - perhaps crows - danced in the air above Hathersage Moor. I think this picture, which I am rather proud of, will enlarge if you click on it.

Pilgrims

2011-11-14T05:05:00.004-11:00

When we the founding fathers and mothers of Blogland, set out like those pilgrims aboard "The Mayflower" to create our new nation, there are many things about Sheffield and its surrounding countryside that I confess I shall miss. Like the Ox Stones on nearby Burbage Moor:-

And the view northwards from Brown Edge where in previous centuries they quarried thousands of gritstone roofing slates, long before thin slates began to be imported from the mines of North Wales:-

And the isolated high reservoir above Redmires, near Oaking Clough Plantation where the curlew calls under cirrus skies:-

Yes indeed, I shall miss many things and I am sure that other pioneers will be able to make their own goodbye lists but what is life for if not for adventure and to seek something finer than we have known? Blogland waits for us, its palm-fringed shoreline reflected in a glistening turquoise sea. Where butterflies dance between hibiscus blooms and mysterious pathways lead us under vines into the very heart of the jungle. It is not too late to join us.

Flag

2011-11-13T00:28:00.004-11:00

Above you can see the winning design for Blogland's official flag. Thank you to Master Humphrey Pudding, aged eleven of Sheffield, England. It will fly over the meeting house and residents may wish to purchase clothing items or memorabilia that celebrate the birth of our alernative nation - for example:-

Several residential plots have already been reserved by bloggers who will be the mothers and fathers of our new Blogland nation but it's not too late to get your name down and join us! I can exclusively reveal that two well-known celebrity bloggers have asked be part of our special community. How'd you like Johnny Depp living next door to you? Yes that's right folks - Johnny Depp! Should we let him in?

Leave all your troubles behind. Forget the world economic crisis and the price of petrol. Forget the cold, work pressures and home maintenance issues. Forget the predictable drudgery of your current life and sign up for our Blogland adventure - a once in a lifetime opportunity!

Short letters of application may still be created via the "comments" facility. Click in the bottom right of this post where you can see the term "Visitor Comments". Don't miss out! Join us!

Blogland

2011-11-12T13:30:00.000-11:00

On Lampi Island (Blogland)

Bloggers who feel disenchanted with the state of the world today will be happy to learn that a large, sunny and fertile island has now been purchased by our board, funded by generous benefactors. It is in the Andaman Sea, in the Mergui Archipelago to be precise, off the far south of mainland Burma (Myanmar). A few native Moken fishermen and their families who live there have accepted healthy relocation packages and will soon be moved to the mainland. Shortly thereafter, contractors will move in to prepare the island for what is expected to be a large influx of bloggers determined to build an alternative society. The island was previously known as Lampi but as from today it has been rechristened Blogland.

As a member of the organising committee, my place on the island is already secure but other bloggers will need to apply if they are to be granted residency. Obviously, places are limited and once the new society is established, immigration will be tightly controlled.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to be part of something new and beautiful - Blogland - where dreams will undoubtedly come true. To be considered for residency please apply via my "Comments" box, stating your name, status, current place of residence, special skills and why you think you would be a good addition to the Blogland community.

Moken woman - soon to be relocated.

Remembrance

2011-11-11T00:01:00.000-11:00

This is Matthew Thornton, aged twenty eight, of the 4th Yorkshire Battalion. He was from Barnsley and died two days ago in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Blown to bits by an IED. He was the 385th British soldier to die there during the present military adventure that has also seen the premature deaths of 1648 young Americans. Can anybody tell me why?

On the eleventh day of the eleventh month we remember them all. Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn. But how many more young men must die before the so-called "leaders" on both sides realise that the route to peace in Afghanistan is not via the IED or the bullet but through difficult discussion, hard won understanding and painful compromise? Haven't we learnt anything?

Jimmy

2011-11-09T02:49:00.002-11:00

James Wilson Vincent Savile (1926-2011)

I guess that overseas visitors to this blog may never have even heard of Jimmy Savile. In my view, he was a very special man whose funeral is taking place in the city of Leeds even as I write these words.

Most British people will remember him as a flamboyant disc jockey - the first and last presenter of our iconic TV music programme - "Top of the Pops" but he was more than that, much more.

These are some of the things that Jimmy Savile was: a Yorkshireman, a coal miner, a professional wrestler, a marathon runner, a loyal friend, a proud uncle, a radio presenter, a TV quiz show host, a hospital porter at the Leeds General Infirmary, a counsellor to psychotic murderers in Broadmoor, a massive fund raiser for the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville Hospital, an honorary member of the Royal Marines, a member of MENSA, a lifelong committed Christian, a smoker of big fat Cuban cigars, a generous sponsor of university medical students in Leeds, a nightclub entrepreneur... The list is almost endless. It would be difficult to calculate the millions of pounds that he raised for a range of charities.

I am proud to say that I met him when I was sixteen - at a gathering for the National Association of Youth Clubs in St James's Palace, London. Typically, this was another organisation that Jimmy supported though I should point out that the palace wasn't named after him! He was real eccentric, a showman, a "one off" but underneath it all he had a heart of gold. No wonder the people of Leeds are lining the streets in his honour at this very minute.

Owzabout that then?

Ratification

2011-11-08T01:54:00.010-11:00

When we ultra-civilised members of the blogging community form our own gated and perfect world, residents must sign up to our code of conduct. I provided six opening rules in my last post and here are a further eight, adapted from the the comments of John Gray (Going Gently), Ian (Shooting Parrots) and Daphne (My Dad's a Communist):-

No spitting in public places or in full view of other citizens. If you must spit, do it in private.
If you do not possess a disabled drivers' badge, you most definitely must not park in any bays that are clearly reserved for disabled fellow citizens as that could be injurious to their well-being.
If you must masticate chewing gum, dispose of it sensibly and hygienically. Wrap it in paper and toss it in the nearest waste-bin.
If you are a parent, make sure that you exercise good control of your children in public. Allowing them to scream and run around like little animals is socially unacceptable.
If you are a cyclist, do not ride your bike on the pavement or disregard traffic lights.
If attending the cinema or theatre, get there early, ready for the start of the performance and do not speak or eat noisily during the show.
Stop what you are doing when a funeral cortège passes.
Do as you would be done by (Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself)

These additional rules were all ratified by the standards committee, chaired by Senator R. Brague at the inaugural conference of the "Blogland Development Corporation" where it was revealed that billionaire benefactors have already pledged enormous sums of money to help us to establish our dream world. Further rules will be considered if you have other suggestions.

Manners

2011-11-07T05:46:00.003-11:00

In some ways, I admit that I am a bit old-fashioned because in everyday life I believe in the practice of good manners. I am grateful that my parents instilled good manners in me and I in turn (with a bit of help from Lady Pudding) sought to instil similar good manners in my children. We often reap what we sow and I am pleased to say that the respectful way our now grown-up children deal with other people demonstrates that our efforts certainly did not fall on stony ground.

In my former life as a teacher, I was often appalled by the poor manners of my flock. You'd see teachers struggling down corridors with their arms full of books trying to get through fire doors as the wildebeest horde rushed through, not one of them stopping helpfully to hold the door back. You'd say, "Please give the sheets out Johnny" and instead of "Certainly sir. No problem", you'd be more likely to hear: "Why can't somebody else do it?" or "Do I have to?". You'd give spare pens to penless "students" and they'd often not bother to say "thank you" or even remember to return them.

In ordinary life, I come across supermarket checkout personnel who happily hold private conversations across their conveyor belts as customers stand idly by like invisible people. I sometimes hear unbridled swearing on buses and on aeroplanes seats may be reclined on to your lap with no sign of a simple "Do you mind" from the ignoramus in front.

Flytippers, urban graffiti "artists", tailgaters on motorways, pub customers who won't wait their turn to be served, queue jumpers at bus stops, owners of pavement fouling canines - there are a lot of bad manners around.

As this blog attracts some youthful readers, I thought it might be helpful if we older, more mature, exceedingly well-mannered and fine, upstanding members of our respective communities drew up some guidelines to assist in the promotion of good manners. I'll start the ball rolling with half a dozen rules:-

1) If somebody gives you something - unless it's a sexually transmitted disease or a smack in the mouth - say "thank you".

2) If making a request of any description, supplement it with the simple word "please".

3) Look people in the eye when you are talking to them.

4) If you accidentally drop a piece of litter, pick it up and drop it in the nearest bin.

5) If you own a mobile phone, make sure that it is switched off during meetings, in the theatre or cinema, when travelling on public transport or when attending ceremonies such as funerals.

6) Help older people by holding doors open for them, giving up your seat to them on crowded public transport vehicles or - in the case of known neighbours - simply asking them if there's anything you can do for them.

Please suggest some other rules for those who clearly find the acquisition of good manners extremely challenging.

Miasma

2011-11-06T07:23:00.011-11:00

Below, a Bangkok flood evacuee with a parrot on her head. Click here if you might consider making a charitable donation to one of the Thai flood relief funds:-

"Two weeks ago, when the floodwaters first came, they were as clear as crystal. You could see every detail on the roads, the blades of grass on the lawns, even the patterns on some newly liberated carp fish that escaped from a neighbour's pond. Now the water is jet black, a miasma of oily swirls, rubbish and debris, all stinking of rot."

- Jetjaras Na Ranong (Bangkok) Nov 6th 2011

Above, the iconic Buddha's head at Wat Mahahtat, Ayutthaya now re-emerging from the floodwaters and below, when Shirley and I viewed it in April:-

Inundation

2011-11-05T00:32:00.004-11:00

The now fetid floodwaters of Greater Bangkok are creeping closer to the city's very heart. Over 450 people have already died in modern Thailand's worst ever inundation. I have been following developments closely through the website of "The Bangkok Post" - the squabbling of politicians, their false promises, the hopeless planning for disaster and the inexorable progress of the water, polluted with stinking sewage and debris claiming new neighbourhoods every day. Who knows when the water will leave? Perhaps weeks from now.

The school where I taught is closed for the time being and most ex-pat members of staff have fled the city, staying in distant coastal hotels. Poor Mr Jonathan came off a rented motorbike and broke his collarbone when he should have been teaching adverbs. One of the city's airports is awash and so is the magnificent Grand Palace complex.

This morning I saw a photograph of some familiar territory - Phahon Yothin Road, taken from the pedestrian walkway near Union Mall. To the right you can make out the Tesco Lotus store where I often walked to buy provisions, passing the Elephant Building which you can see in the right rear of the photo. Although the floodwater isn't terribly deep here, it is getting deeper all the time. In many northern neighbourhoods the water is six feet deep.

People are resilient and two or three days of flooding would be easy enough to bear but some towns and villages in Thailand have already been flooded for weeks. Everything is disrupted - work, education, clean water supplies, transport, electricity, the sewage system. Bangkok is hurting so bad and when these waters finally recede the country will be faced with enormous challenges if it is to steady itself. Undoubtedly, the death toll will grow and more squabbling between self-interested politicians will happen.

Puzzled

2011-11-04T05:10:00.004-11:00

You must have seen the sign above. It's often in the rear windscreen of the car in front. But why is it there and how are other drivers meant to react to it?

It could be there as a proud announcement to the world as in: "We've got a baby and he/she is the apple of our eye and because we are so proud of our little baby we wanted to share our good news with the rest of the world!"

Or perhaps it's about fertility, as in: "We know that there are people out there who are incapable of having children but we don't belong in that category because we are normal and clearly fertile - as proved by the little person in the back!"

Or maybe there's a road safety message, as in: "We know that you suckers love to tailgate but whilst following us please adjust your driving habits and keep well back or you will be risking the life of our newly born little cherub!"

And when it says "on board", does it mean on a dartboard? A cheeseboard? How has the poor baby been secured to the board? What did it do wrong?

As you can tell, it puzzles me. Does the driver want me to smash into the back of his/her vehicle and dispose of the aforementioned baby? Am I meant to honk my horn as if to say "Congratulations! You're the first people in this city ever to travel with a baby on board! Whoopee!"

Do those who display these signs really imagine that the rest of us habitually drive around like lunatics smashing into vehicles that do not display "baby on board" signs? Do they really expect us to drive more carefully?

I have thought of an alternative car window sign. How about "No Baby on Board!" or better still "Making a Baby on Board!" And please don't get me going about that other dumb sticker you often see in rear windows: "A Dog is for Life Not Just for Christmas". What the hell is that about?

Once

2011-11-03T02:38:00.012-11:00

The old caravan at Ford (1958)

It's funny how urban life can be. Sometimes years can pass by without getting to know the neighbours. For both Shirley and I, growing up in small rural communities, life was never like that. You knew everybody and if you wished to live anonymously, there was no hiding place. Maybe nowadays, things have changed in England's villages. There are more commuters, more in-comers, more ways of opting out of village life.

It must have been the winter of 1992 when I saw an old couple edging nervously down our frosty pavement. I had noticed them before. They lived five doors up in the corner house. Previously, I had never spoken to them but that morning, noticing their difficulty, I greeted them and asked them if I could help. Did they need a lift somewhere?

They almost snapped my hand off and I duly drove them to the local post office and home again. They were ever so grateful.

That was the beginning. In the next five or six years we got to know them very well. She was called Doris and he was Ken, Ken Bradbury. They had married in their early forties and had no children. They were the sweetest old couple imaginable and though they were not short of a few quid, they lived a simple, rather frugal existence in the semi they had occupied for almost forty years.

It was like walking into a museum. No television, no microwave, no refrigerator, no fitted carpets, no central heating. Instead there was a piano, an old radio hi-fi in a long teak cabinet, linoleum on the floors and ancient floral paper on the walls. Their memories were like precious jewels that they examined regularly. They were hardly living in the here and now. Ken's printing business at Attercliffe. Folk dancing weekends. Doris's leadership of a brownie group. Ken's World War Two experiences with the British army in Italy. The old caravan that they visited at weekends in the hamlet of Ford in Derbyshire. Hiking with their friends. Their beloved niece Josie who had gone to live in New Zealand and of course, Kathleen the other niece who had Down's syndrome. It was a treasure chest of happy memories.

Our children came to know Doris and Ken like substitute grandparents. We were there for both of them at the end of their lives because they had no living relatives in England. Separately, they both suffered strokes which ultimately put them both into residential accommodation. First Ken and then Doris. I visited them in hospitals and broke the news to Doris when Ken died.

I planned his funeral with her. She was blessed with the ability to make flowing poetic verse and we decided that one of her verses would appear on Ken's gravestone. Two years later, Doris also died and I arranged her funeral too - in the same plot as her Ken.

Then I had to prepare their house for sale. Shirley and I sorted through their things before the house clearance people arrived. It was as if we were disposing not only of the evidence of two lives that were lived but of a different way of life - letters, sheet music, reams of poetic verse, brownie publications turning brown at the edges, diaries, knitting patterns, gardening magazines.

Their joint will instructed that the entire estate should be left to Josie in New Zealand but £500 were left to both Ian and Frances and £2000 to me and Shirley. It was a kind and unexpected parting gift from a lovely old couple who enriched our lives with their simplicity, their decency and their gratitude for the help we gave them. Occasionally, I still visit their grave and I reflect on all that happened after I had simply offered them a lift that frosty morning back in 1992. Doris and Ken Bradbury - remembered and thank you.

Paxton

2011-11-02T08:49:00.008-11:00

Some songs stick in your mind without you being conscious of allowing them to be stored there. For me, one of those songs is "The Last Thing on My Mind" by Tom Paxton. He was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1937 and was 74 on Sunday. A genuine troubadour, Paxton has sung of industrial strikes, social injustices and threats to the environment as well as of fatherhood, family life and romantic love. Here is at the age of twenty nine:-

And here he is with the legendary Irish folk artiste, Liam Clancy who died in December 2009. I'm not sure when this concert happened but I'd judge some time in the mid-nineteen nineties, thirty years after the first clip:-

In the very early sixties when Bob Dylan made his legendary journey from Minnesota to the coffee houses of Greenwich Village, Tom Paxton was already performing there. Some say that he was the real father of that "new folk music" and at first the young Dylan was very much in his shadow - perhaps taking note, becoming increasingly aware of the endless possibilities of self-penned folk song.

Are you going away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
Well, I could have loved you better
Didn't mean to be unkind, you know
That was the last thing on my mind

Love

2011-11-01T02:09:00.006-11:00

A Yorkshire Love Story

An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom and with even greater effort, gripping the banister rail with both hands, he crawled downstairs.

With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally dozens of his favourite scones.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted Yorkshire wife of sixty years, ensuring that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table...when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a wooden spoon ....

"Bugger off!" she said. "They're for the funeral!"

(Thanks to Sofia for sending me this)

Update

2011-10-31T00:44:00.001-11:00

It is over a year since I got rid of that lorry load of parking enforcement officers - or as I prefer to call them - Nazis! How time flies! For those who may not recall, through the summer of 2010 I was busily kidnapping Nazis and accommodating them in the underhouse/workshop area beneath Pudding Towers. Stupidly, I had not planned what to do with them after capturing these odious creatures but was saved by a brilliant brainwave. Ultimately, they were transported to Afghanistan in the back of a "Buxton Mineral Water" lorry.

Truck driver Terry handed them over to the Taliban in the city of Kandahar. After suffering some initial physical abuse, the parking enforcement officers were assigned to a secret training camp on the mountainous border with Pakistan. There they lived in dank caves feeding on small portions of rice and little rodents that inhabited the adjacent undergrowth. Huddling together in the Asian darkness, they sang some of their favourite songs to stave off cold and hunger - such as "I Should Be So Lucky" by Kylie Minogue and "Happiness" by Ken Dodd. The hills of Helmand echoed with their caterwauling tunelessness.

The recent picture at the top of this post shows some of the Sheffield parking enforcement officers in full Taliban disguise going on a cross country run along precipitous paths. And as they run, they sing this yomping song:-

We are Nazis, we don't care

We'll put tickets anywhere

Now we're in Afghanistan

Fighting for the Taliban!

The photo was e-mailed out of the country by Randy and Peggy-Sue Lieberwiener from Canton, Georgia, USA who are currently on a hiking holiday in scenic Waziristan and the surrounding area. In a recent message home, Peggy-Sue said "...there are literally no other tourists around. It's so cool mom. The people are soooo friendly. Today we were given a present to bring home to Canton. The awesome tribal leader who gave us it insisted that we shouldn't open it till we get home. I think it's something electrical as there's a little red wire poking out! Sorry to hear that Mr Brague was arrested last week. He seemed like such a nice guy. Anyway - must go - we're exploring some bat caves today..."

Meanwhile, it seems the parking enforcement officer insurgents will soon be infiltrating NATO defences, placing bright yellow notices on NATO tanks and gun emplacements to raise much needed funds for the Taliban cause which includes these key political aims: (a) to get Simon Cowell to turn on the Christmas lights in downtown Kandahar (b) to ensure that Afghanistan retains its medieval culture and (c) to upgrade Afghan mens' fashion from this:-

To this:-

If I hear any more about the Nazis, I mean the parking enforcement officers, I'll let you know.

Mushrooms

2011-10-30T05:29:00.009-11:00

On Friday morning I parked in lovely Whirlowdale Park on the south western edge of Sheffield - before you get to Dore and the nearby moors of the Peak District. I was there to join a foraging expedition led by Dr Patrick Harding - arguably the country's leading authority on mushrooms and toadstools. A genuine mycologist.

There were about twenty people in the group. I had expected we would be wandering through the nearby woodland but really, in the allotted two hours, we just did a short circle of the park, stopping occasionally as the entertaining Dr Harding talked knowledgeably about the various mushrooms we encountered. At the age of sixty eight, his passion for mushrooms remains as excitable as it must have been when he was a boy. It was infectious - as if every mushroom we came across was a precious jewel in Nature's crown.

He spoke about the famous "fly agaric" which he insisted is not poisonous. It is an hallucinogenic mushroom that Scandinavians, especially Lapps, used like alcohol to escape briefly from everyday reality. It gave the effect of flying and may have helped to spawn some parts of our Santa Claus mythology.

At the end of the walk, Dr Harding had books for sale. I bought one called "Mushroom Miscellany" which is an informative personal account of the world of mushrooms, including, legends, stories, myths and rumours. Early on in the book, Dr Harding tells us that there are some 2000 known wild flowering plants in the British Isles but some 14,000 known species of fungi.

At this time of year, mushrooms are nosing through the soil all over the place. Once again we have Earthtongue under our rotary washing line and on recent country walks I came across these fine mushroom specimens:-

Here's Patrick Harding looking like a hippy Father Christmas in his thirties:-

And here he is today - a distinguished scientist - still enthralled by his subject:-

Dr Harding isn't only passionate and knowledgeable about mushrooms - he also knows a great deal about trees and country plants. He is aware of many past uses of plants in cooking and medicine and is clearly cynical about the homogenised, corporate and plastic-packaged world we seem to have inherited. He is amused and appalled by the fact that most people couldn't tell the difference between a beech tree and a larch or a sycamore and an oak. By the way, he stressed that woodland mushrooms are associated with particular trees so that what you find beneath a beech for example will generally be different from what you might find beneath an oak. Fascinating. And if you ever read this Patrick - thank you! A breath of fresh air.

Stanedge

2011-10-28T22:29:00.004-11:00

Like thousands of others visitors to Stanage Edge, I have often noticed a large windswept building about half a mile due east of the edge on a vast tract of open moorland - a good distance from any public footpaths. I referred to it earlier this week. It is Stanedge Lodge. The private moors around it make ideal grouse shooting country and it's clear that past occupants of the lodge were intent on enjoying that upper class "sport". There are several grouse "butts" and more than a hundred large flat stones were specially hollowed to allow rainwater to gather for the grouse. Apparently, the birds find the acidic water that gathers naturally in peaty hollows undrinkable.

Yorkshire has enjoyed some fantastic weather this October but Thursday was an unsettled day with cloud and rain so I toddled off to the local studies room of the city's Central Library - intent on finding out more about Stanedge Lodge. I was there for two hours but came away little wiser than before. It's almost as if the history of the place is concealed behind a veil of secrecy.

I studied an ordnance survey map of the area dated 1931. Then the large pine plantation due east of the lodge didn't exist so the property would have been even more exposed although the nearby small deciduous Broadshaw plantation was mapped.

In "Sheffield Topic" (August 1982) - a magazine that is no longer published - I discovered that the lodge had been up for sale for £50,000 and that it boasted seven bedrooms and seven acres of land but had no mains electricity. The article claimed that the lodge used to be called Lumley Hall and part of the building dated from the eighteenth century. There was also this remark - "the history of the property seems somewhat patchy".

"Westside" is a free magazine that is only distributed within Sheffield's wealthiest suburbs. In the December 1990 edition, there were a few black and white interior pictures of the lodge showing its new entrepreneurial owner a Mr Hardy in the snooker room. It seems he had been in the process of setting up an exclusive clay pigeon shooting facility called The Redmires Sporting Club and there were plans to turn the lodge into a country hotel. There were tantalising references to "visiting royalty" and antique graffiti and the reporter called the place an "18th century shooting lodge".

If the lodge was built in the eighteenth century, the building process would have been as monumentally difficult as erecting a small pyramid and just getting up to that isolated location on horseback, in carriages or on foot would have made for an extremely long and arduous journey.

So, as I say, I am not much wiser about Stanedge Lodge. I will keep my eyes and ears open to discover more and perhaps I'll make a more determined visit to the local studies library or pose a couple of questions in the online Sheffield History Forum. Funny how such questions can get under your skin and gnaw away at you like ticks. This was Stanedge Lodge on the horizon - viewed from a remote moorland reservoir yesterday afternoon:-

Population

2011-10-27T10:00:00.003-11:00

As we all know, the world's population is increasing at an alarming rate. I came across an interesting tool on the BBC website that enables you to discover what position you came in the living human race on the day you were born.

For instance, on the day my father was born in August 1914 he became the 1,794, 229, 969th person on the planet. There were far less than two billion people on Earth at that time. I was born around forty years later but I was the 2,687,150,676th person - way past two and a half billion people then. In 1984 our son Ian came into the world and he became the 4,788,241,610th living person on the planet. You can see that in thirty years, the world's population had grown by a massive two billion.

Find out your position in the human race on the day you were born. I hope the link works - click on the crowd below to, hopefully, go to the BBC's calculator:-

Another thing I have found out is that when my dad was born 42 million people were living in Great Britain. When I was born there were 50 million and when our Ian was born there were 58 million. Now we are well on track for 70 million in the early 2020's. What I'd like to know is what is causing all these extra babies to be born? It's mystifying.

Stanage

2011-10-26T11:56:00.005-11:00

This is what Wikipedia has to say about Stanage Edge:-

Stanage Edge, or simply Stanage (from "stone edge") is a gritstone escarpment in the English Peak District, famous as a location for climbing. The northern part of the edge forms the border between the High Peak of Derbyshire and Sheffield in South Yorkshire. Its highest point is High Neb at 458 metres (1,503 ft) above sea level. Areas of Stanage were quarried in the past to produce grindstones, and some can still be seen on the hillside—carved, but never removed.

Today - October 26th - was again a really beautiful autumnal day. Visibility was marvellous. I tried - but ultimately failed - to find a neolithic stone circle on Bamford Moor about eight miles west of our house. But in the meantime I took several photos of the landscape.

Here's Overstones Farm, nestling beneath the millstone edge:-

And here's an ancient cairn - some thousands of years old - on Bamford Moor - looking west to Stanage:-

Yesterday, I was behaving like a fugitive on the run as I found my way through a pine plantation immediately east of Stanage Edge to take this picture of windswept Stanedge Lodge. It was a private hunting lodge, built in the mid nineteenth century and it is the highest inhabited dwelling within Sheffield's city boundaries. There seem to be very few photos of this substantial building and because I can find so little information about it on the internet, I plan to discover more at the city library in the next few days. I have discovered that one or two incongruous businesses now list Stanedge Lodge as their "office" address. Very peculiar -especially when you remember its isolation and its rough access track that leads through the pine woods up on to inhospitable heather moorland.

Oughtibridge

2011-10-25T00:53:00.000-11:00

The sign on the building above is not as you might think an instruction, it is in fact a pub sign. Yes this is another Sheffield pub - situated in the outlying suburb of Oughtibridge. There are various stories about how, historically, the pub got its unusual name but mostly they are to do with a lascivious nineteenth century landlady called Nora Bone who had a novel way of getting outstanding bills settled. Apparently, the village lamplighter often heard her yelling those words from an upstairs room.

Nowadays the pub's name figures naturally in everyday conversation in Oughtibridge. Here are some overheard snippets:-

"I stopped off at The Cock for a quick one."
"The Cock was full to overflowing on Bank Holiday Monday!"
"She worked at The Cock for years!"
"Oh look! There's a seagull on top of The Cock!"
"Have you ever been round the back of The Cock?"
"The Cock needs a new cleaner"

What's in a name? This uncharacteristic post was written by my alter ego - the controversial and exceedingly vulgar Yorkshire comedian - Royston Vasey - otherwise known as Roy "Chubby" Brown:-

Pearls

2011-10-24T12:34:00.004-11:00

On October 24th 1981, Shirley and I were married at St Martin's Church, Owston Ferry in Lincolnshire. Where those thirty years went I cannot say. That day was so very happy. A simple wedding in the countryside surrounded by our families and friends. Some of those dear people have left us but others have arrived - most notably our two wonderful children. Life goes on.

This evening we had a lovely meal in a new Thai restaurant on Ecclesall Road called "Patoo" but before our delicious platter of mixed starters arrived, I gave Shirley this necklace made from iridescent "black" pearls on our Pearl Anniversary. She wasn't expecting it but fortunately she was delighted with it and, though I say it myself, it suits her very well:-

Happiness

2011-10-23T12:32:00.004-11:00

Written by American songwriter, Bill Anderson, Ken Dodd released "Happiness" in July 1964. It reached Number 31 in the British hit parade. Dodd was born in 1927 and has spent an entire lifetime in entertainment. In spite of old age and health problems, his performing days are still not over.

Dodd has brought happiness, however momentarily, to millions. The song champions the gift of happiness that of course all of us experience from time to time but like the ocean tide that is referred to in the song, it ebbs and flows. Although a few people we meet are of a consistently happy disposition, most of us have our ups and downs. Happiness can be very slippery. You might try to hang on to it but because of events, changing seasons or other factors that are difficult to pin down, happiness can steal away.

SING ALONG WITH KEN EVERYBODY:-

Happiness, happiness, the greatest gift that I possess
I thank the Lord I've been blessed
With more than my share of happiness

To me this world is a wonderful place
And I'm the luckiest human in the whole human race
I've got no silver and I've got no gold
But I've got happiness in my soul

Happiness to me is an ocean tide
Or a sunset fading on a mountain side
A big old heaven full of stars up above
When I'm in the arms of the one I love

Happiness, happiness, the greatest gift that I possess
I thank the Lord that I've been blessed
With more than my share of happiness

Happiness is a field of grain
Turning its face to the falling rain
I can see it in the sunshine, I breathe it in the air
Happiness happiness everywhere

A wise old man told me one time

Happiness is a frame of mind
When you go to measuring my success
Don't count my money count my happiness

Happiness, happiness, the greatest gift that I possess
I thank the Lord I've been blessed
With more than my share of happiness

Happiness, happiness, the greatest gift that I possess
I thank the Lord I've been blessed
With more than my share of happiness

Pubs

2011-10-22T07:48:00.006-11:00

The very symbol of English civilisation is not parliament, the monarchy or even the works of Mr Shakespeare himself, no it is the public house or pub for short. This bastion of our culture is threatened by corporatism, competition from supermarkets, the smoking ban, excessive alcohol taxes and the impact of home entertainment in the form of DVDs, home computers, LED and HD television. Many pubs have already died. Some have been demolished. Some have become curry restaurants or have suffered the indignity of being turned into apartments.

In my world travels, I have found no social facility or venue that is as democratic, welcoming and pressure-releasing as the English pub. Other countries have tried to imitate it but it never seems to work out the same. A pub is something other than a glorified restaurant. It is a meeting place. A place to relax, to laugh, to read a newspaper quietly, to get completely sozzled if you wish. A place for quizzes and darts, a home from home.

Sheffield and its environs can boast any number of wonderful pubs. Expelled former residents like Mr Gray and Mr Booth should seek out their hankies now.

Here's "The Yorkshire Terrier" at Brinsworth:-

A marvellous and thriving real ale pub at Nether Green - "The Rising Sun":-
Sheffield's foremost Irish pub, "The Dog and Partridge" on Trippet Lane:-
CAMRA 's regular national pub of the year, "The Kelham Island Tavern":-

And finally, here's "The Norfolk Arms" at Ringinglow. Sadly this is one that has succumbed to the "gastro-pub" plague and is not the pub it once was. The round house you can see on the left was once a tollhouse for travellers and herdsmen moving over the hills from South Yorkshire into Derbyshire and onwards to the mysterious land of nightmares they call Lancashire:-

Power

2011-10-21T07:45:00.004-11:00

Is it just me? Why do we have so many different power providers in Britain - each with its own range of complicated payment schemes? And where is the evidence that all of this "competition" is good for consumers?

For the last year, Shirley and I have been paying £84 a month for all the gas and electricity we consume in our moderate semi-detached home in the suburbs. We have never been in the red. In fact, our payments to "E-on" have normally been comfortably "in credit". Then suddenly, out of the blue, "E-on" tell us that their calculations have led them to conclude that our monthly payments must rise to £137 - a full £53 more than before. That is a 63% increase!

I telephoned the "E-on" monster which said that our previous "scheme" had ended in September. I said, "Well why didn't you let us know and advise us of a more economical "scheme" to replace the previous one?" But the "E-on" monster wasn't really listening. The call-centre woman just kept following her on-screen script which makes no allowances for over-heated Yorkshire puddings or rational questioning.

So I did what our illustrious government advised. I switched, after investigating the other beasts at the waterhole of power. Time for me to brush down my old sporran - we are moving over to Scottish Power! Yes Scottish Power - even though none of our electricity or gas will be piped down from Scotland. And isn't that a funny thing? All these power "providers" are not really providers at all. They're just glorified debt collectors!

Our ancestors lived in woods by water sources. There were no planning authorities. You could grow your own crops, pick your own berries, hunt your own rabbits. You made your own fire and your own light. These things were fundamental. Now we seem beholden to great gods of power for the energy we need. They sponsor football matches and power boat races. They give us Tesco points but in the end we - the general public - are just cash cows to them, held to ransom by monstrous organisations that are more interested in graphs, spreadsheets and the insatiable greed of their shareholders than in the basic rights of ordinary citizens. Power really does corrupt.

Poem

2011-10-20T11:55:00.003-11:00

There's a man I know whose life is ruled by habits and the clock. He was married in the mid-seventies when he and his wife bought a house very similar to ours but just round the corner. They had three children who have all now flown the nest. Sadly, his wife died of breast cancer two years ago. Now he lives in what was once a family home filled with the busyness of everyday life. Ruling over all of it was his wife who kept him in line as much as the children. He lives alone, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of that rich past life. Retired from work with, most days, only the four walls and the radio to keep him company. I wrote this poem with him in mind.

A Widower

We lived within these walls -

Janet , our babies

And me.

I can still hear echoes -

The ringing of the phone,

Those late for school mornings,

Birthdays and bonfires,

Laughter and tears -

We lived it all.

That’s her favourite perfume.

That’s her side of the wardrobe.

That’s a letter from outpatients.

That’s the bed

Where we made

Our children in the dead of night

Like breathing air.

That’s Sally’s room.

That’s Paul and Jeffrey’s.

This is the fridge

Yes it’s almost bare.

This is her hairbrush

With strands of her hair.

And that, that was Janet’s chair -

But I can never sit there

I sit by the phone.

It makes me feel

Somehow less alone.

And sometimes they ring

The children I mean

Bulletins from their new lives

And places they have been

Later with silence re-released

I stare at our mantelpiece

That day in April, 1974

Standing in confetti

By the very same church door.

Water

2011-10-19T12:09:00.004-11:00

I took this (clickable) photograph earlier today. It is of the Upper Derwent Reservoir ten miles west of Sheffield. Up ahead you can see Howden Dam which was constructed a hundred years ago. The men who built it lived in a temporary village called "Tin Town". It housed almost a thousand people and had its own church, school, grocery shop, pub and hospital. Today you'd need to be an archaeologist to recognise that there was once a village there. It must have been a hellish place to live in wintertime in spite of the natural beauty of the area.

During the second world war the RAF tested Barnes Wallis's bouncing bombs in this valley before attacking important dams in Germany. Here's another picture I took today:-

Idiots

2011-10-18T06:56:00.004-11:00

Over in my home city - Hull, a bunch of primary school teachers have just found themselves in hot water for indiscreet communication on Facebook. These people are meant to be serving a deprived school in east Hull to the best of their ability. However, via the infamous social networking site they made unforgivable condescending remarks about the poverty and limited horizons of their pupils. I guess they thought that this banter was funny.

Here's a sense of what they were saying. I have copied this from "The Hull Daily Mail" website:-

During the conversation, "Nyanza Roberts" replied: "by town, do you mean top end of holderness road?

"That's bout as far anyone in east Hull goes.

"No wonder everyone is thick....inbreeding must damage brain development."

"Debbie Johnson" then said: "You're really on one today mrs... !! Xx."

"Nyanza Roberts" replied: "Haha, I'm actually in a good mood.

"If anyone reading this is offended, then get a grip."

Another teacher, "Jane Johnson", then said: "Massive queue of Westcott year 5/6 kids in poundland! x".

Copies of the conversation were pinned to lampposts and trees in the school's neighbourhood. The banality of what was said and how it was said makes me shudder. Professional people are not saints and given the pressures of work in the modern world, everybody needs to let off steam from time to time but Facebook is not the place to do it.

Parents reading letters of apology from the school

There have been plenty of examples of serious work problems even sackings caused by unwise Facebook comments. Those presumably well-educated teachers at Westcott Primary should have been wise enough not to let their guard down so publicly. However, what is more reprehensible is the sense that when all is said and done these young teachers look down on their pupils and the community they serve, forgetting that without these people they wouldn't be in receipt of comfortable teachers' salaries.

From now on, how can they hold their heads up high at parents meetings or even in front of their classes? Idiots!

Voice

2011-10-17T12:02:00.007-11:00

Dad in wartime - probably Egypt 1943

I hadn't heard my father's voice since September 1979. I was the last member of our family to see him alive. He was lying in a curtained hospital bed in Hull having suffered his second major heart attack that summer. He stretched out his yellowy tongue and then pleaded for whisky which seemed extremely odd as he was never a drinking man. I kissed him and later that night he left us.

Recently, my younger brother encountered a few old cassette tapes. He transferred some of the contents to CD and then voila - there he was - my old man speaking to me from over thirty years back. His voice was clear but what struck me so vividly was his pronounced North Yorkshire accent. I had completely forgotten that he spoke that way. He was talking about his postwar working life as a village primary school teacher. He spoke of his very first school memories. He was almost five years old and in Norton near Malton in the very heart of Yorkshire he could recall the playground celebrations that marked the end of World War One.

If Dad were alive today, he'd be ninety seven years old. Neither Shirley nor our children ever knew him which is a real shame. In his youth he was a rugby player, a cricketer, a rower, a piano player and a singer but as he grew older he became a water colourist, a photographer, a local National Union of Teachers leader, an advisor, a parish councillor, a church warden, an activist in the campaign to create a village recreation ground and the president of our village cricket club. Dad had oodles of energy.

His funeral in late September 1979 caused the village church to overflow with mourners and well-wishers. I remember trying to sing "The Lord's My Shepherd" in his honour but my voice could only quaver and, clinging to the hymn book, my hands shook uncontrollably. The words were in any case blurred by tears. In the last couple of years of his life, I had grown ever closer to Dad. He became my friend. I think he saw a lot of himself in me and was immensely proud that I had chosen to join the teaching profession, following in his footsteps.

To hear his voice after all this time was like listening to a ghost. Since he died, I doubt that even one day has gone by without me thinking of him. I would never put him on a pedestal but I would say that he was a good man, a good father and husband who tried to make the most of his life and didn't deserve to die at only sixty five.

Dad circa 1965 with three of his sons - me on right.

Flooding

2011-10-16T04:40:00.006-11:00

Thailand is currently experiencing its worst flooding in living memory. The ancient capital of Ayutthaya is inundated. Above you can see Buddhist monks in their familiar saffron robes wading down the main street. Heaven knows what damage will have been done to the various irreplaceable archaeological wonders that Shirley and I saw there in March.

One evening, lower down the Chao Praya river in the Bangkok suburb of Nontaburi, we enjoyed a lovely meal with the owners of my lodging house - Sataporn and Thida. The beautiful and newly built house overlooked the river which is wide and deep even in the driest of seasons. I remember asking Sataporn about the possibility of flooding. He pointed out that before erecting his designer house, he had had a sort of concrete tank wall built that was a full metre above the usual flood level. The house sat within the bounds of that concrete wall and Sataporn was quietly confident they'd never be in trouble. However, given recent news from Bangkok I rather suspect his confidence will have been unfounded.

A bizarre news titbit I spotted earlier today was Primeminister Yingluck's announcement that a fleet of a thousand boats would sit upon the river with engines churning to assist water drainage when the high tide from the Gulf of Thailand met the river's floodwaters.

Much of Thailand is low-lying and when you fly over it you see fishponds, paddy fields, lakes and drainage ditches glinting in the sunshine. A lot of this retained water is partly down to regular heavy tropical rainfall but the main river network connects with the mountains of Burma and the Tibetan plateau.

At least three hundred people have died in the current floods - many through electrocution. Factory production has ground to a halt in various locations and tragically much of the nation's vital rice crop will have been ruined. Thailand is usually the world's number one rice exporter but perhaps not this year.

Calling my Bangkok reporter - Mr Booth! Mr Booth! Come in please. How do things look from your perspective?

On Sunday - Bangkok motor boats fighting the floodwaters

Unthank

2011-10-15T08:31:00.008-11:00

As regular visitors may remember, I am on a mission to photograph all of Sheffield and its environs - every square kilometre. In yesterday afternoon's lovely autumn sunshine, I found myself walking near the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Unthank.

Setting off towards the woods on a public right of way that skirts a cow pasture, I stopped to take this picture of Unthank Hall Farm:-

No sooner had I taken the picture than a voice emerged from the other side of the field. It was a woman with a bucket.

"Excuse me. What are you doing?"

"I'm going for a walk on a public path!" I replied. "What are you doing?"

"Me? I live here! What are you taking pictures for?"

"Because I want to. Okay?" I yelled back.

Then I continued with my walk. I am very aware of country people's sensitivities and I have come across other country dwellers who clearly appear to resent ramblers. I went into Meekfield Wood and out the other side to another chocolate box lid hamlet called Moorhall. I thought of Earl John Gray of "Going Gently" when I snapped this picture:-

But I think the best picture I took was of a lonesome hawthorn tree in Meek Fields looking back to Moorhall:-

After an hour I got back to the car in Unthank. A mucky old 4x4 vehicle was nosing out of a driveway. The driver got out - a rotund fellow in his forties. Let's call him Farmer Giles. Here's the conversation that followed:-

FARMER GILES Excuse me. What are you taking photos for?

ME Because I want to. I like taking photos of the countryside.

FARMER GILES My wife tells me you took a picture of my brother's farm.

ME You mean that old farm across the fields up there?

FARMER GILES Yes that one.

ME That's right. I did take a photo of it.

FARMER GILES Well my brother wouldn't like it.

ME. Well that's tough. I'm a law abiding citizen out on a country walk and I fancied taking a few photos. As far as I know there's no law against that.

FARMER GILES Where are you from?

ME I am from Sheffield as it happens. Where are you from?

FARMER GILES Me? I'm from here! (raising his voice) What are you asking that for?

ME I was just being polite. I've told you where I'm from so I just thought I'd keep the conversation going.

FARMER GILES Well don't come here again taking photos of our village.

ME This is a free country and I'll come as often as I want.

FARMER'S WIFE (Getting out of vehicle) We've had some burglaries here.

ME Well I can assure you that I am not a burglar. I'm just somebody who loves the countryside minding my own business, taking a few innocent photos.

FARMER GILES How'd you like people taking pictures of your house?
ME I wouldn't mind in the least and besides the picture I took of that farm must have been from fifty metres away. I don't know what your problem is.

FARMER GILES (Getting back in the 4x4) Well don't take pictures of our houses again!

ME See you mate! (The mucky vehicle zooms off down the lane)

I was quite proud of myself for staying cool and sticking to my guns. Perhaps I should send the script to the creators of BBC Radio 4's long-running tale of country life - "The Archers". I can see now why "Unthank" is so called and why the path to the woods seemed so untrodden.

Mockery

2011-10-14T00:52:00.000-11:00

Above, you can see a doctored image of me recently produced by the talented New Zealand artist Ms Katherine De Chevalle. This faraway lady continues to doubt that my Beau is a real sheep. I deduce that the purpose of the doctored image is to turn me into the laughing stock of the blogosphere. Well go ahead everybody - laugh! I can take it because I believe in Beau. She's real. You can touch her. Many people out there believe in something called "God" yet you can't touch him or see him. He doesn't eat your grass. In contrast, even as I write these words I can see my Beau munching on the lawn. So who is more real - Beau or God?

Although she is bashful about her achievements on and off the rugby field, I have discovered that Katherine was once New Zealand's top hooker. Below you can see her racing to the try line whilst receiving the close attention of England's Fanny Winterbottom and Doris Scraggs. Unfortunately, after receiving a serious head injury, Katherine had to turn her attention away from rugby to her other great passion - art. I am sure you will agree that the sheep picture above showcases the richness of her talent.

Inspiration

2011-10-13T08:41:00.004-11:00

My new animal friend, Beau, seems to have inspired a veritable epidemic of poetry. For those who do not investigate "comments" boxes and also to simply showcase the poetic talents of my intellectual visitors, I have done some copying and pasting. So here we go:-

Anna at Hypercryptical:-

Oh Kind Sir

Oh Kind Sir
I do thee entreat
that you listen to my earnest bleat
that you should get to know me better
(before you see me as a sweater
or a woolly rug beneath your feet}
and I guess that my hunch is,
that if I become your Sunday lunches
that you will find it hard to sleep,
feel guilty when you’re counting sheep
when you know I love you bunches.

I feel you have the right to know
just how much I love you so
and I think that you ought’a
(if you wish to take this lamb to slaughter)
consider that I am your best friend -
Beau.

Ian at "Shooting Parrots" quoting Ellis Parker Butler:-

The Sheep

The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
And is both singular and plural—
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.”

Katherine at "The Last Visible Dog":-

YP's Sheep

From where I stand the sheep stands still
As stones against the stony hill.

The stones are gray
And so are they.

And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.

Two mingled flocks -
The sheep, the rocks.

And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.

Never pellets can this sheep excrete
'cos this one's made of paint'd 'crete.

Robert at "Rhymes With Plague":-

When thou art old

When thou art old and lying in thy bed
And thinking of the dumb things thou hast said
Wilt thou recall those halcyon days of old
When thou didst on thy friends these posts unfold?
O Yorkshire lad, they trusted thou wast true
Who gave to them each day a piece of ewe.

As you can see from the above, poetry is not dead! It is alive and well and living in the blogosphere. I dedicate this post to my faithful companion Beau without whom this outpouring of spontaneous linguistic dexterity would not have happened. And to those who hesitate to craft poems, I hope this post inspires you to sharpen your quills, dip deep into the inkwell of life and release the poetic spirits that lurk inside us all.

Ode

2011-10-11T08:59:00.003-11:00

Ode to Beau

Quietly, so quietly you gorge upon our grass.

Silently, so silently the daylight hours pass.

I woke to hear you just past dawn

Sheepishly munching on our lawn.

Like tiny waves your fleece it curls

Tight and springy with lanolin whirls

Your voice is deep and reassuring

Your wise brown eyes are so alluring.

Oh Beau , I’ve spent my whole life counting sheep

Jumping over gates to send me to sleep.

I never thought in my wildest dreams,

My fantasies and hair-brained schemes

That I’d ever receive a genuine sheep -

A real life Merino for me to keep!

Folk wonder why I called you Beau -

I shake my head 'cos I don't know.

Beau

2011-10-10T03:57:00.004-11:00

What is that munching on our lawn this drizzly autumnal day? Why it's my new pet sheep - Beau! Our son Ian purchased her from a sheep dealer in Nottingham and she travelled back to Sheffield in the back of our hatchback yesterday afternoon. I woke this morning to "Baaaa! Baaaa!" I wish Beau was part of a flock. She looks very lonesome doesn't she? But investigations demonstrated that we don't have enough grass to support more than one hungry sheep.

I am a regular reader of "Going Gently" in which Earl John Gray, the tea baron, often recounts the ups and downs of caring for an assortment of animals on his country estate in North Wales. Now with the arrival of Beau, I think I have joined his league though I am not about to make Beau my "partner". She will instead be my lawn mower. She was purchased secretly by Shirley, Ian and Frances to celebrate my recent eighty second birthday.

Earlier, regular garden visitor Stanley, the alpha male ginger cat from up the street, came strolling down the little path between our dwarf box trees and stopped in his tracks when he saw Beau grazing. Beau sneered at him and Stanley ran off. Territorial rights modified.

I guess there'll be a few more posts about Beau before she becomes several Sunday lunches, a few lamb saags and a fireside rug. In the meantime I hope to find great pleasure looking after my new girlfriend. Now where did I put my wellington boots? Welcome Beau! Daddy's coming!

Partner

2011-10-09T12:22:00.002-11:00

Tonto with his partner.

"Partner". It used to be a word reserved for solicitors and The Lone Ranger. Then somewhere along the line its usage changed so that gradually "partner" became a term you could use to describe your live-in lover, your boyfriend or girlfriend.

I first heard the word being used in this new way about twelve years ago by a whirlwind science teacher called Mark Kelly. He was from the Isle of Man. Several times he'd drop "my partner" into conversation without the accompaniment of a personal pronoun. "My partner likes cheese on toast" or "My partner does all the washing and ironing". Naturally, I concluded that he was gay because in my previous experience of life and language, young men had always referred to their lovers as their "girlfriends".

To me the word "partner" implies a businesslike relationship, as if embarked on some kind of a mission together. I don't like it. I still prefer "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" for unmarried couples. "Lover" would also be better. Like tattoos and the consumption of pizza, language can be like a virus that spreads so that gradually the term "partner" has become an unquestioned fixture in common usage.

Over the last ten years several other irritating words have followed the example of "partner" to gain acceptable footholds in common usage. Two other examples that occur to me off the cuff are "gifted" and "stand-out". The wealthy entrepreneur gifted an art gallery to the city of his birth. Why not simply "gave" or "donated"? And Rooney was the stand out player of the tournament. Why not: Rooney was the most outstanding player?

The English language is forever evolving with new words being embraced or introduced from other languages. I think that that is wonderful and it's partly what makes the language so rich and fascinating. Ultimately, I guess I will have to give in to "partner", "gifted" and "stand out" but I swear that I personally will never use those words in the irksome ways described above.

Pierces

2011-10-08T04:38:00.006-11:00

Until a month or so ago, I had never even heard of The Pierces. Then my old friend Tony told me he'd like to come over to Sheffield to watch this unfamiliar band and would Shirley and I like to join him and Fiona? He even promised to send us a CD that would showcase the band's music. So last night we rolled back the years and went into The Leadmill - perhaps Sheffield's most famous live music venue. It hadn't changed. We had been there frequently in the early eighties.

The Pierces are essentially two American sisters and their backing musicians. Catherine is the younger sister and Allison is the older. They hail from Birmingham, Alabama and have apparently been knocking on the door of musical stardom for at least ten years. Their music is very polished. Some of the self-penned songs are uplifting and memorable - like "You'll Be Mine", "Glorious" and "Kissing You Goodbye". The best characteristic of their performance was the sisters' wonderful intertwining harmonies - honed since childhood and best exemplified in their haunting unaccompanied rendition of Paul Simon's "Kathy's Song" written in 1965:-

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.

And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.

Yes, "To England where my heart lies".

It was nice to be entertained. To forget the troubles of the world. To

enjoy live music again - just like I used to. Thank you to The Pierces

and good luck on the rest of your UK tour. Here's a taster:-

Seventeen

2011-10-06T12:00:00.006-11:00

When I was seventeen, they made me stand on the school stage at nine o'clock one morning to recite this poem to the assembled pupils and teachers of Beverley Grammar School in East Yorkshire. I read it clear and I read it true and I still remember all those faces in front of me - a little bit spellbound both by the poem and by my delivery of it. I have always felt comfortable standing on stages like that - an adrenalin rush -and that particular morning I felt quite passionate about the poem I had been asked to convey. It seemed to have something meaningful to say about the dispossessed and the outsiders - even though they were not really represented in that school hall.

REFUGEE BLUES by W.H. Auden

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

Othello

2011-10-05T07:42:00.003-11:00

Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me:--but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.

Today it was time for an injection of culture at Sheffield's Crucible Theatre. The current production of Shakespeare's "Othello" has been vaunted on BBC radio and TV and by several theatre critics. I arrived early hoping to buy a "return" ticket and was offered a great seat seven rows from the front.

The production starred Dominic West as Iago, Clarke Peters as Othello and Lily James as Desdemona. For a girl who was still in drama school a year ago, Lily James was superb - imbuing her role with an overlapping sense of purity and gullibility that Shakespeare clearly intended. West was very good but arguably too domineering and I thought Peters made a rather puzzling Othello. His diction was often fuzzy - especially so when he raged. I was pleased to see that the reviewer from "The Guardian" agreed with me saying his enunciation "tips too often into indistinction".

I liked the fact that the set was simple and that the costumery was conservatively Elizabethan. In Shakespeare the words should speak for themselves without self-indulgent and rather bizarre stage effects and costume ideas chosen by madcap directors.

I first read "Othello" at the age of sixteen. I studied it again at university and then as a teacher I taught it a couple of times to A level classes. I am very familiar with the play's ideas and its language. Essentially it's about jealousy and the successful way in which the scheming Iago wreaks cruel revenge upon Othello for missing out on promotion.

The quotation at the top of this post comes from the last act of the play when Othello first extinguishes a lamp before proceeding to suffocate his wife. I have always remembered those lines. If I ever get to the promised land - the old people's residential home - you'll probably find me rocking in my chair reciting those words over and over till the Almighty puts out my light.

Yorkie

2011-10-04T08:41:00.008-11:00

Another blogger - who goes by the strange pseudonym - Shooting Parrots, keeps referring to me as "Yorkie". That's rather like a footman in Buckingham Palace calling the Duke of Edinburgh Phil. Anyway, I thought I would pause to focus on the name "Yorkie". Is Mr Parrots thinking of the chunky chocolate bar reputedly enjoyed by English lorry drivers:-

Don't you just love that strapline - "Not for Girls!" with the accompanying and somewhat politically incorrect warning logo. Or was Mr Parrots thinking about the Yorkshire Terrier breed of dogs - often familiary referred to as "Yorkies". Here's a young one:-

Awww! And here's another on his way to a fancy dress party:-

One of my private investigators tracked down the aforementioned Mr Parrots and spotted him wearing this T-shirt:-

This mug was seen in his kitchen window as Mrs Parrots turned the mangle in their wash-house:-

Economy

2011-10-03T11:50:00.003-11:00

There are some things that I know about but other things are as distant from my way of thinking as the planet Pluto. One of those things is "The Economy". It figures a lot in national and international news and gradually it has seeped its way into ordinary people's perceptions of life in the early years of this twenty first century.

"The Economy" makes my eyes glaze over - my mind goes walkabout. Wall Street? The Bank of England? The Hang Seng Index? I look at the television and see traders waving papers or beavering away at computers. Every day the BBC tells us about share prices and currency fluctuations. But all of this means nothing to me.

Greece to me is its rich classical legacy, the moussaka and retsina, a bouzouki playing evocatively across the harbour in Mykonos, a sunlit beach and clear azure waters. But now it seems we are meant to fret about whether or not Greece will "default". Are the Greeks playing tennis? Who initially lent Greece the money and if the country's structures were so damned suspect, who the hell allowed them into the Eurozone in the first place? Why did they have the Olympics as recently as 2004? I just don't get it.

"The Economy" is the monstrous child of human society. Men made it and gave it succour. If it rises and falls like a Frankenstein beast then that is surely down to the men (and a few women) who ride upon its back and the highly paid politicians we all elected to deal with the damned thing. It is their job to tame the beast and make it serve us better. I don't know. As I say, "The Economy" is a mystery to me. I never learnt about it in school and those who claim to know about it seem to speak an entirely different language.

The world appears significantly different from how it looked five years ago. Then "The Economy" was well-tethered. It ate its oats and responded to our commands but now it's bucking and there's horse-shit everywhere. Protesters marching on Brooklyn Bridge. Riots in the streets of London. Greece squeezed like an empty tube of toothpaste. Millions unemployed. Pension pots squandered. Bankers' bonus culture booming. Where's it all going to end? I wish I understood. I wish I knew what "The Economy" really means.

Antiquity

2011-10-02T12:20:00.005-11:00

Woke this morning to cloud cover. I guess that summer really has breathed her last breath now. The weather forecast supports that opinion with familiar depressions lining up in the Atlantic. Taking good pictures is so much easier in good light but even so I went out this afternoon with camera in one hand and in the other an Ordnance Survey sheet I'd copied from the internet.

I was looking for the ancient stone circle you can see near the bottom right hand corner of the above map. I knew it would be hard to locate amidst the moorland grasses, heather and gorse and I wasn't expecting anything even remotely monumental - just squat stones arranged by our predecessors - probably more than two thousand years ago.

In those pre-Christian times, the population of the entire United Kingdom would have been far fewer than half a million. There would have been woodland almost everywhere except on exposed moorlands. Nights and winters would have both been very long and the business of simply surviving would have been extremely taxing. People would have been much more in tune with the earth, the rhythm of the seasons and how the stars are arranged in the sky.

Why did they build their stone circles? Communal gathering places? Primitive pagan churches? Astrological maps? Nobody really knows for sure but around the Peak District there are plenty and there are many other archaeological pointers to those far distant times.

After locating the stone circle, I walked half a mile to the north west to another interesting moorland site - Lady's Cross. Why it has that name, I have no idea. A cross or monolith has stood on this site for at least a thousand years. Again why it was put there, nobody is really sure. Was it a parish boundary marker or a guidepost for moorland travellers? I suspect that it was once a place of pagan significance and that as the centuries passed, its original purpose was forgotten and new meanings were applied - just as the cross itself was altered.

I often wonder about those people of the faraway past and what their world was like. Modern society likes to think that as time has passed, humanity has progressed and of course in many ways it has but I can't help feeling that somewhere along the line we lost some of life's best treasures. Being in those atmospheric, mysterious places makes you feel closer to those who went before. Walking where they walked. Breathing where they breathed.

At the stone circle:-

Lady's Cross:-

Rambling

2011-09-30T09:33:00.008-11:00

"I'm a rover and seldom sober, I'm a rover of high degree"

We have just had the hottest September day ever recorded in Yorkshire - and it was the last day of the month - not the first. So once again I was rambling. This time to the north west of the city in the vicinity of Bradfield which is actually two villages a few hundred yards apart. Down in the valley there's Low Bradfield, nestling beneath Agden Reservoir and up on the hill there's High Bradfield with its picturesque church, its sturdy stone dwellings and "The Old Horns Inn".

I realise that some non-English (alien) visitors have enjoyed seeing my last two batches of local photos so at the risk of boring other visitors senseless, I have another photographic offering for you. Today I was like Heathcliff, tramping the moors, at one with the elements which were incredibly benign, putting Heathcliff's troubled soul at rest... "A half-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite divested of roughness..."

After three hours of rambling I returned to our coach and ventured in to "The Old Horns" where I purchased a simple luncheon of broiled rabbit, a thick wedge of Wensleydale cheese and a slab of warm farm bread. In the murky candlelight, I recognised the inn's young landlord - yon Edgar Linton from Thrushcross Grange - still as pale and bony as a skellington. What Cathy spied in him only the Almighty knows. For my part, I would have whipped him and left him to weep in the company of yon wretched whelps. But I quaffed my glass of bitter Farmers' Ale and continued on my journey across the naked moors back to Wuthering Heights.

Oaks Farm across Damflask Reservoir:-

View to the cricket pavilion in Low Bradfield:-

Window of an abandoned farm in Coumes Woods:-

View into Bradfield Dale from Cliffe House Farm:-

Returning to High Bradfield:-

Roving

2011-09-29T07:12:00.008-11:00

It's daft to stay inside on sunny days like today so I was out again rambling in the lovely countryside that surrounds Sheffield. I tootled over to the suburb of Totley and parked up - not far from the place where Totley Teacher Training College once stood. Now it's an estate of rabbit hutch houses - "little boxes, little boxes and they all look just the same".

Five minutes over the fields and I came to this stile which leads into Gillfield Wood which I have recently worked out is the most southerly point in the Kingdom of Yorkshire. Beyond that narrow woodland, there be dragons - in other words - Derbyshire:-

I walked up Mickley Lane - no footpath so I had to keep close to the verge to avoid being winged by passing vehicles. I was sweating when I reached Mickley. Then onwards to Rod Moor and near Upper Birkitt farm a horse called Mr Ed came over to speak with me:-

Passing Dore and Totley golf club, I noticed groups of men whacking little white balls down fairways:-

Along narrow paths and bridleways emerging into the dormitory village of Dronfield Woodhouse:-

At Birchinlee Farm, I noticed a mobile phone mast beyond a huge pile of barrel-shaped black plastic buoys containing tons of winter fodder. Then there was this tumbledown, deserted farmhouse:-

Two and a half hours after starting my ramble, I passed through Holmesfield Park Wood where sunlight dripped gorgeously through the leaf canopy:-

Past peaceful Woodthorpe Hall Farm where a silver haired grandfather was teaching his grandson how to harrow ploughed fields, then down into the hollow and back through Gillfield Wood to the heartland - Yorkshire.

Nearby

2011-09-28T00:59:00.001-11:00

How lovely the weather this week - summer's last breath. I planned to go walking on the moors to the west of Sheffield - Houndkirk Moor, Burbage and Rud Hill. And the sky was sky blue and the light was as clear as Venetian crystal. I saw many things. Noisy grouse scooting off from their quiet resting places, toadstools in woods, a woman on a horse, truanting schoolboys on mountain bikes, a weasel poking its head out of a drystone wall. It was wonderful and it felt good to be alive. Here are some images I captured. Firstly, a boggy moorland pool with a view to the Redmires reservoirs:-

Bejewelled cobweb beneath Burbage Rocks:-

Eighteenth century milestone on Houndkirk Road:-

It took me less than ten minutes to get there by car. How lucky we Sheffielders are with the Peak District National Park right there on our doorstep. Why would anybody want to live in London or New York City or Gay Paris? To be out on those sunlit moors, why it makes you feel blessed.

Mornay

2011-09-27T12:14:00.000-11:00

As regular visitors to this blog will realise, in the culinary sphere, I am Yorkshire's answer to Jamie Oliver . For your delectation, I wish to share a recipe I have recently devised for a delicious fish mornay. If you try it, you will not be disappointed my friends.

Ingredients:-

Bag of frozen cod or frozen haddock pieces from Lidl or Aldi.
Jug of milk
Large handful of plain flour.
Big knob of butter
Some butter wrapper paper.
Salt and pepper.
Half a lemon.
Some small broccoli florets.
Couple of leaves plucked from a bay tree at midnight by a weeping orphan.
Large handful of grated cheese - preferably strong cheese - if you have some blue cheese in the fridge grate some of that in with your strong Cheddar.
Bread crumbs grated from any loaf you have handy.
Silver foil.

Method:-

Drag large, shallow, ceramic, oven-proof casserole dish from back of kitchen cupboard and brush out the dust and dead spiders.
Grease it with the butter paper.
Arrange frozen fish in the dish and season with the salt and pepper.
Squeeze lemon juice over the fish.
Cook broccoli for a few minutes in your microwave and then arrange neatly around the pieces of fish.
Make the cheese sauce. Melt butter in pan. Chuck in the flour and stir continuously till bubbling. Pour in the milk and continue to stir till you see the sauce thickening. Then chuck in most of your cheese and stir till integrated.
When happy with your sauce pour it all over the fish and small broccoli florets.
Greedily spoon up remaining sauce from your pan and eat when nobody else is looking.
Sprinkle your breadcrumbs and remaining grated cheese over the saucy surface.
Seal the shallow dish with foil and ram the thing in the top of your hot oven to cook for twenty five minutes.
Remove the foil and give the surface chance to crisp up for ten minutes.

Get it out of the oven and spoon on to plates with mashed or jacket potato and maybe peas or green beans. Make sure you get more than anybody else. Then gobble it down and sigh, "Mmmm... Who needs Jamie Oliver when you've got Yorkshire Pudding!"

Pondering

2011-09-26T00:11:00.004-11:00

Now, what shall I blog about today? Perhaps I could post a recipe for perfect Yorkshire puddings or a bare-your-heart kind of poem . Maybe I could clear out the dormant blog links in my side margin and bid farewell to those former cyber chums. What happened to them anyway? Was there a massive blog pile up in cyberspace or did they all simultaneously join aerobic classes?

With the Labour party conference starting in Liverpool, perhaps I could write about the Miliband brothers and how David Miliband would have made a much better leader than his bumbling eggheaded brother who got to the top courtesy of a cruel act of fratricide and a bunch of vague and breakable promises he made to the trade unions. Anyway, Ed will probably find the wheels missing from his limousine when he returns to the multistorey near Albert Dock.

What about former neighbours Doris and Ken? How long have they been in their grave now?

Perhaps I should blog about our lovely daughter Frances who is twenty three years old today! How the years pass. She was born during the Seoul Olympics. Intelligent, determined and reliable, I often think of her as a chip off the old block. But like me she can also be exceedingly silly!

She has a day off work and soon I am going to drive her back to Leeds - the car over-laden again. We are going to stop for lunch at "The British Oak" near the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. I think the Labour conference should adopt a new policy that would certainly be a massive vote winner. In addition to statutory holidays every worker should be allowed to have a day off on his/her birthday. Three day weekends would also be a massive vote winner.

Of course I could simply blog about our delightfully unpredictable English weather and how this week is already providing us with the beginnings of an "Indian summer". By Thursday we should all be basking in temperatures of 24/25 degrees celsius or is that only in London and the Home Counties upon which the majority of our meterorological experts seem to focus? One Nation? You must be kidding!

I could hark back to the musical legends of my youth - Leonard Cohen, Donovan, Free, Joni Mitchell, The Nice and of course the lord of them all Mr Robert Zimmerman from Hibbing, Minnesota - Bob Dylan. Once, they meant so much to me but now music is resigned to the cobwebbed attic of my existence.

Oh dear, what shall I blog about as I wait for our little princess to finally leave the bathroom and get her stuff together for the trip back to Leeds? I guess it's just one of those days. I don't know if I am coming or going. I think I'd better just leave it for today.

Judgement

2011-09-25T00:43:00.004-11:00

Over six thousand photographs were submitted to "Geograph" during the week for which I won the honour of selecting the "photo of the week". Fortunately, one of the project's moderators had whittled the large number of eligible pictures down to manageable shortlist of forty five. There were numerous wonderful photos amongst them including these two superb pictures taken in the English Lake District:-

They came very close to winning but in the end I plumped for an action photograph taken in unpromising light conditions by a fairly new member of the mapping project who had never won before. The fact that he lives in Scotland and that the picture was even snapped in that heathen bagpipe-ridden land were negatives that I overlooked in making my judgement:-

I recognise the difficulty in taking a picture like that and I also notice the headlights with their reflections in the flooded road. The photographer called this picture, "Remnants of Katia" after the hurricane of that name that was recently exported to these sceptred isles by our American cousins. Grey squirrels, "Dairylea" slices, the atomic bomb, "Whoppas", Dan Brown and now hurricanes. What's next I wonder?

Plensa

2011-09-24T02:13:00.005-11:00

Courtesy of fellow Sheffield blogger - Lois at "Three Legged Cat", I was back at the Yorkshire Sculpture park last evening. I was there to witness a lecture by the Spanish sculptor, Jaume Plensa.

He came on the little stage wearing his hallmark black suit and shirt with his salt and pepper beard grizzled like an old mariner's. He is fifty five years and three months old as he informed the assembled audience at one point. Holding a slide clicker, his talk was linked to various images of his work which can be found in several major American cities, including Chicago:-

And New York City:-

As well as the less cosmopolitan St Helens, near Liverpool where this giant head sits atop a former slagheap:-

There are other works by Plensa in Japan, Switzerland, Sweden and of course his home country - Spain.

He is passionate about his art and keen to create pieces that touch the general populace - not just the highbrow elite. At the end of his lecture, questions were thrown at him by members of the audience. For example:-

HIGHBROW AUDIENCE MEMBER 1 (not me!): You have worked with a range of materials from marble to steel, water and concrete. I wonder Jaume, which material do you prefer working with and are there other materials you hope to work with in the future?

JAUME PLENSA The main material I like to work with is ideas. The materials pick themselves and are simply containers for my ideas.

HIGHBROW AUDIENCE MEMBER 2 (still not me!) What made you choose to become a sculptor rather than a butcher, a baker or a candlestick-maker?

JAUME PLENSA When I was a boy I wanted to be a doctor - maybe a surgeon. I guess that is kind of like a butcher...about understanding what it is to be human.

ME What is your favourite potato crisp flavour?

JAUME PLENSA Definitely salt and vinegar.

Later some members of the audience approached Plensa for autographs but I hurried off to Leeds to pick up our darling daughter who, I discovered, had fallen asleep in her new flat on Thursday evening , leaving a pan of pasta bubbling on the hob for about three hours. Needless to say, there was still an odour of pasta smoke in the air. I think she has learnt a new commandment: "Thou shalt not begin cooking and then lie down after boozy staff nights out!"

Thank you to Lois for the ticket.

Poem

2011-09-22T12:48:00.005-11:00

Hours passed.

They seemed like days -

Waiting for you

On that forgotten corner in unforgiving rain

Spotted by the streetlight's glow.

Days passed.

They seemed like years -

Aching for you

As if you'd be my missing jigsaw piece

Making sense of everything.

Years passed.

They seemed like moments -

Reaching for you

Like a trawlerman drowning at sea

Wondering where you were.