First

In the entire calendar, this day, August 1st is more significant to me than July 4th (American Independence Day), April 23rd (St George's Day/ England's National Day) or December 25th when some baby or other was allegedly born in a smelly stable in faraway Bethlehem. Yes folks - it's YORKSHIRE DAY!

If you feel like getting out your bongos, your kazoos, your trumpets and your beat boxes then please do and play them with joyous delight as we celebrate all things Yorkshire. For this is a county of 5.6 million souls - slightly bigger than the population of Scotland but so often air-brushed and actively sidelined by successive London-based governments and the general British media. Where are the Yorkshire voices beyond that odious stereotypical soap opera - "Emmerdale"?

Let us celebrate flat caps and whippets, the chalky coves of Flamborough Head, The Bronte Parsonage, John Smiths Brewery, Sam Smiths Brewery, York Minster, rhubarb, parkin, Ted Hughes, Andrew Marvell, Amy Johnson, David Hockney, the curving spit of Spurn Head that guards the mouth of The Humber, the rolling Yorkshire Wolds, The Three Peaks, The Arctic Monkeys, The Human League, Joe Cocker, the coal industry that Thatcher butchered, Harold Wilson, Hull City A.F.C., Sheffield - the birthplace of modern football, Dame Judi Dench and Sir Patrick Stewart, Kevin Keegan and The Chuckle Brothers, William Wilberforce and of course the great Captain James Cook. And let us celebrate our many prehistoric sites, stainless steel and cat's eyes, the spring mousetrap and the first commercial steam railway in the world. And we give thanks for neighbourliness, kindness, common sense, hard work, bluntness and having the most beautiful no-nonsense women in the world and Wensleydale cheese, Yorkshire chutney, our public footpaths and of course, it goes without saying, the mighty Yorkshire Pudding that rises golden above all of us like a mighty pagan god.

Back in 2018, I wrote a poem to mark Yorkshire Day and I shall share it again with you today...

Yorkshire Day

August the first is Yorkshire Day!
Our hearts lift up, we shout hooray!
From Flamborough Head to the Pennine Chain
We cheer our county once again
Dear blogging friends, for what it’s worth
There’s nowhere better on this Earth.
You can keep your Sydney and L.A. too
Your South Sea isles and your Timbuctoo
I would rather walk a Yorkshire street
With Yorkshire ground beneath my feet.
From Middlesbrough to Malham Cove
Our county is a treasure trove
Of coastal path and rolling dale
And foaming pints of Yorkshire ale
Where people use their common sense
No empty words or proud pretence
A land of graft and imagination
Surely The Lord’s very best creation
So drink and feast and dance away
August the first is Yorkshire Day!

P.S. We do NOT give thanks for The Yorkshire Ripper!

Influencer

The term "influencer" is bandied about a lot these days. In fact this blogpost has been inspired by the senior influencer Crozier Magnon who currently resides in a luxury residence in south west France - paid for by his work as an influencer.

Apparently, the main point of being an influencer is to boost sales of particular products or services. Many influencers have become stinking rich in this social-mediaed, smartphoned western world. They are courted by profit-hungry businesses, forging mutually beneficial relationships.

With all of this in mind, I have taken the decision to become an influencer myself. However, rather than taking the usual social media path, filled with persuasive hints and cunning imagery, I have decided that my style of influencing will be somewhat different.

As an influencer, I will be rather like a mafia godfather. Some will perhaps come to see me as an intimidator rather than an influencer.

I will employ gangs of thuggish young men who will appear at your door to promote the week's highlighted product  or service. And if you say you are not buying you will be thrown to the floor in a judo-style move with your arm thrust up your back. Let me tell you, you'll soon change your mind and make the required purchase.

Here online and within the dark web, I may decide to uncover your most zealously guarded secrets and use that knowledge to drain your savings. And if you try to report me to the police, I will simply switch identities. Yorkshire Pudding will become Bakewell Pudding or Steak and Kidney Pudding or Chocolate Pudding. The alternatives are endless.

I must say, I am looking forward to starting my second and much more lucrative career as an influencer. In fact, I have already received a commission from "Bonkers" chocolate biscuits, sales of which are bound to shoot up like bamboo shoots in Mrs Moon's sub-tropical garden or the beanstalk that young Jack grew.

1974

 June 29th 1974

Cape Clear Island, County Cork, Ireland

"There is a castle on the rocky promontory of an island which lies at the very edge of Europe. Years of gales and human neglect have caused its walls to crumble, so that instead of towering nobly above its mother rock it has, like a chameleon, taken on an appearance which does not clash with the cliff faces and the rocky islets that surround it.

Ah, but despite the decline, this ancient fortress has not yet revealed the rich history which the surrounding geology jealously watched being formed. Still, still midst the coastal rock plants, standing there ever so still you can sense worlds that have gone, a pirate called O'Driscoll, on those eroding stairs of stone, his footsteps padding, a tankard of stolen Spanish wine in his right fist. He stops on the parapet., hacking his throat clear. He looks out through the dark night to the ocean and his eyes stumble upon the distant lights of two of his wooden ships returning from the Americas.

On that very same horizon, two centuries later it is the blue and white spinnaker of a French yacht which reveals itself to the island. 

But what if that, that man of the sea with lice in his scalp and food detritus in his ragged beard could see his proud castle as it is today. Perhaps standing with me in the soft clifftop grasses, his shell of hardness and vulgarity might fracture and at last words would rise up from his buried heart, "I didn't know. I didn't know".

And we would walk along the clifftop, watching mewling seabirds glide to their ledges and he would stare at it all, leaning over the edge, seeking his reflection in the waves below... and having failed to find it renounce his days of plunder and piracy, finally seeing like me  a world of waiting and wondering - not rushing to fulfil a fool's dreams."

⦿

That long ago summer I was twenty years old, exploring Ireland on my 
own with a rucksack on my back and a few pounds in my pocket. I used
 a little notebook as my journal and rediscovered it earlier this week. 

The castle in question was Dun an Oir or Fort of Gold but known 

locally as O'Driscoll's Castle.

Sheaffeld

The Sheaf from Cutler's Walk

Most English place names have evolved through history, emerging from times when spelling expectations were not as clearcut as they are today. When I was in Uttoxeter recently, I learnt that through the centuries the little Staffordshire town's name had gone through no less than seventy nine changes from Wotocheshede in 1086 to Utoc Cestre and Utcester just before standardised spellings became the fashion.

This city, Sheffield, also knew  name or spelling changes through time. I used one of the older versions as the title of this blogpost - Sheaffeld.

One of the city's five little rivers is the River Sheaf. It travels for little more than seven miles from its source to its confluence with the much larger River Don. Historically, those seven miles marked a section of the border between the ancient kingdoms of Northumbria and Mercia that predated the very notion of a united country called England.

In Old English the term "sheaf" or "scēað" meant a boundary. "Feld" that later became "field" meant an open area of land or pasture. So you can see that way back in history when a small settlement grew in what is now our city centre Sheaffeld was a logical and rather simple choice. It was not fanciful.

Cutler's Walk

Today I walked down by The River Sheaf. For three or four centuries it drove a handful of waterwheels and industrial premises grew up along its banks - mostly connected with metal working - including the manufacture of cutlery, wire and farm implements.

But I was mostly there to see a muralist at work by Cutler's Walk  which narrowly weaves its way by the The Sheaf and the main Midland railway line. And there she was up a ladder hard at work - Zoe Genders. She has been commissioned to create a 200 square metre mural which is likely to see her working into early September.

Zoe Genders at work today

I stopped to talk to her and it was interesting to hear that she views her creations as ephemeral. They are just here for a while and she expects taggers and teenage scrawlers to come along with spoiling additions. That's all part of the reality of being an urban muralist.

I wished her well and promised that I would return in September to see the finished work.

To tell you the truth, Zoe's abstract graphical shapes and lines and blocks of colour are not my favourite style of street art but it is what she does and she seemed happy in her work.

⦿

This morning at 4.30am, the Irish singer-songwriter and musician Glen Hansard died in a tragic motorcycle accident in County Dublin, Ireland. When I first heard this news, a sharp intake of breath was necessary. I hope they play "Falling Slowly" at his funeral. He leaves behind his Finnish wife Maire and their beloved three year old son. So sad. He was only 56.

664

664 - the number of pages in "Lisey's Story" by Stephen King. I finished it this afternoon sitting at our garden table but I had also read sections sitting on the Derby train, sitting on the Jet2 aeroplane to and from Majorca and sitting by the swimming pool at our Majorcan villa. It has been a long time since I read a book of that length.

Stephen King has said several times that "Lisey's Story" is the novel he is proudest of. It is dedicated to his wife Tabatha and contains various echoes of his real life. For example it is set in Maine. The married couple at its centre are a very successful novelist and his wife - Scott and Lisa (Lisey) Landon. And like King himself, Scott grew up in difficult circumstances with one sibling - an older brother.

But what did I think of this book?

My reaction is mixed. There were some gripping well-told episodes and the construction of the narrative was masterful but there were aspects of the book that left me squirming - including the invention of  new words such as "smucking" to replace the casual swear word it rhymes with. Why?

Around half way through the novel, readers are introduced to a strange nether world known as "Boo'ya Moon" where strange beings exist in the night forest. But in the daytime, it is a land of sweet floral aromas where the dead and the living sit quietly by a lake. There the moon is always full. It is possible to cross between the real world and Boo'ya Moon as Lisey does a few times.

Instinctively, I find it very difficult to get along with or accept this kind of fantasising. Maybe it is a weakness in me but I am a big fan of realism and credibility and cannot get off on such flights of fancy. It's probably the reason why I was bored with "Lord of the Rings" and as for "Harry Potter" - totally yawn-worthy in my opinion. I can't see what all the fuss was about.

I am glad I read "Lisey's Story". It is only the second Stephen King novel I have ever read - the other was "Misery". I can't see me reading any more of his novels. After all there are so many great books out there in the world, shouting, "Read me!" and I am already in possession of several promising (and shorter!)  books that still remain to be consumed. 

Here's a small taste of "Lisey's Story". Through it, you can easily deduce what happened to Scott Landon a third of the way through the novel. But was he really gone?....

“Sometimes she'd go a whole day without thinking of him or missing him. Why not? She had quite a full life, and really, he'd often been hard to deal with and hard to live with. A project, the Yankee old-timers like her very own Dad might have said. And then sometimes a day would come, a gray one (or a sunny one) when she missed him so fiercely she felt empty, not a woman at all anymore but just a dead tree filled with cold November blow. She felt like that now, felt like hollering his name and hollering him home, and her heart turned sick with the thought of the years ahead and she wondered what good love was if it came to this, to even ten seconds of feeling like this.”

⦿

And here are three more holiday pictures taken by my lovely daughter, Frances with the aid of her smartphone. It appears that those damnable devices are useful for some things...

Traveller

Traveller's comment on my "Report" blogpost... "Sounds lovely, welcome home. Hope we get more photos in the next few posts".

Traveller's wish is my command even though I did not take many pictures during our week on Majorca/Mallorca. But anyway, here we go...

Are you able to read this engraved padlock? It was affixed to a safety fence at the Mirador or viewpoint on Cap da Formentor. Stupidly I had neglected to have any padlocks engraved ahead of our visit. Declaring your emotional ties on a padlock is such a unique and special thing to do. What is more it is very thoughtful to share those declarations with complete strangers.  Below, the view showing the spectacular northern coastline.

This goat at Cala  San Vicenze beach was obviously the toilet attendant...

Our property had once been a rather humble farmhouse. There was much evidence of this including the "well" you can see pictured below. If you shouted into a hole in the rusty padlocked lid you could hear your echo in a deep underground tank where rainwater would have been collected in wintertime. See the terracotta piping to the right. This came down from the tiled roof. The children enjoyed hearing their voices bounce back and of course there was a troll down there who sounded suspiciously like Old Grandpa.

In the garden there was a big old stone surrounded by little trees. I suspect it may have had some ancient significance but it might have simply been a place to tether beasts of burden in days before motor vehicles.

This was a typical street scene in Pollensa, looking to Església de Nostra Senyora dels Àngels.

Back at our villa, I noticed a tenacious tree on a sunbaked stony ridge, perhaps a mile away from where we were. Can you see it, bang in the middle?

Standing on the very same spot, I zoomed in with my Lumix bridge camera - the one I almost lost at Derby railway station...

Finally, please meet The Beaver. This was my family's friendly inflatable holiday companion. Shirley had picked her up for free at the Age Concern charity shop but I was the one who who had to blow air into The Beaver's secret nozzles. In my humble opinion, everybody should  ride The Beaver at least once in their lives so we left her there for others to ride upon. I imagine that she is still smiling.

"I'm a happy beaver"

Legend

 

Most people who read this blogpost will never have heard of Phil Brown but to me he is a living legend. Back in 2008, he was the Hull City manager who led my beloved Tigers up to The Premier League for the very first time. Hell, that was eighteen years ago. Hull City had been in existence since 1904.

During his professional  playing career, he made 652 appearances as a defender for Hartlepool United, Halifax Town, Bolton Wanderers and Blackpool, scoring 46 goals. He never achieved any international recognition. Currently, he is often heard on BBC Radio 5 Live - debating football or commentating.

On Saturday afternoon my son Ian clocked him by the luggage carousels at Birmingham Airport. He was wearing pink shorts, a green Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat. I plucked up the courage to go over to talk to him...

⦿

"Hello, Phil. May I shake your hand?"

"Do I know you?"

"I'm just a lifelong Hull City fan. And I wanted to thank you for what happened back in 2008. It was one of the happiest days of my life."

"It was a very special day that's for sure."

"I discovered what tears of joy really mean."

"You won't the only one. I cried them too."

"How do you think The Tigers will do next season?"

"I think they are in with a good chance of staying up. There is togetherness and everybody seems to be pulling in the same direction. I hear they have got some imaginative signings lined up."

"Yes. There seems to be a good team spirit and Sergej Jakirović seems like a capable manager."
"I agree."
"So where have you been on your holidays?"
"We've been to Malta. It was bloody hot. Around forty degrees  in the afternoon. Where did you go?"
"Oh we've been to Majorca and it was very hot there too... Anyway, I don't want to detain you any longer. I just wanted to say thank you for May 24th, 2008. I will never forget it and it has been a real honour to meet you sir."
"Well, that's very kind of you to say so."
(They shake hands for a second time)

Report

On Carrer del Calvari, Pollensa

Our Majorcan villa, just outside the ancient town of Pollensa, was almost perfect. All four bedrooms had effective air-conditioning units which were pretty essential in that sultry heat. And the outdoor area with a lovely deep swimming pool served us well - even though the three children required responsible supervision.

Our Phoebe

My son-in-law Stewart was the barbecue king and every night we had salad and barbecued meat with a dollop of carbohydrates plus wine and beer. Of course my son Ian didn't have the meat - he had beans or a tofu alternative.

There were two or three days at the villa when I got up, put my swimming shorts on and dived in the pool and I didn't shower, get dressed or comb my hair all day. This made a nice change.

Ian and Zach at Playa Formentor

We visited Playa Formentor which Shirley and I had taken Ian to in 1986. At that time we stayed in The Hotel Cala San Vicenze where there is a little sandy cove. Interestingly, forty years later - on our second morning Ian ran there - around ten kilometers before diving into the sea and swimming out for half a mile.

Happy busker in Pollensa

The flights were on time and we didn't have any costly prangs with our two hire cars. The children were happy and healthy and I didn't watch any television or learn what was happening in the world beyond our former Majorcan farmhouse. 

Picnic time

And - oh - I met a famous person at Birmingham Airport but more about that in the next gripping episode of "Yorkshire Pudding"...

Majorca

 

Yo! I got you there with my last blogpost didn't I? "The End"? What on earth did that curmudgeonly old Yorkshire bloke mean?

Well let me start be reassuring you that I was only playing. A few out there will be disappointed when I reassure you that this blog is not over. It will continue when I get back from our holiday in Majorca, Spain.

At this very minute we should be safely ensconced in our rural villa north of Pollensa following a flight from Birmingham and a late night hire car drive to the north of the island. When I say "we", I mean all of us - me and Shirley, Ian and Zach, Frances, Stewart, Phoebe and Margot. A proper family break at the start of the school holidays here in England.

The last time I was in Majorca, Ian was eighteen months old. Forty years ago. He won't remember a thing but I remember it was a lovely holiday in the Easter period when the sunshine was comfortable, not angry as I expect it will sometimes feel during this week away.

Fortunately our villa has a swimming pool and I expect to spend a good amount of time in there. With three little children and simply to save money, I further expect that we will mostly eat in the villa but One lunchtime Shirley and I will treat everybody to a happy family meal that we will remember fondly in the dark days of winter.

This was a "scheduled post". I won't be blogging again until Saturday the 25th.

End

 

Extras

Dr Johnson memorial in Uttoxeter

Now I have had time to edit the pictures I bagged on Wednesday, I want to share another bunch with you. I know that some overseas visitors to this blog rather enjoy seeing images of Ye Olde Englande caught in the camera of a native citizen. To remind you... I went to Uttoxeter in east Staffordshire and then plodded four miles to the  village of Marchington before turning north to Marchington Woodlands, Hollingbury Hall and back to Uttoxeter, risking my life on the narrow verges of busy Highwood Road before paved footpaths thankfully reappeared.

One of the genuine delights of my retirement has been to walk in unfamiliar territory, taking photographs and seeing sights that confirm to me I am lucky to live here - in a land of beauty and history where almost everybody I meet is kind and friendly. I say this in all honesty.

The River Dove - border between Staffordshire and Derbyshire

Marchington Hall - dates back to 1690

St Peter's Church, Marchington

Church Farm, Marchington Woodlands

Two sheep near Brook House Farm

Cyclist passing the gates of Hollingsbury Hall

Back in Uttoxeter. Can you see the sheep?

$5.6m

At long last I am delighted to inform you that the former chairman of the US version of "The Apprentice" has finally paid up a portion of the money he owed Elizabeth Jean Carroll. Back in 2023, a district court in the USA had instructed him to pay over $5 million in damages for defamation and sexual abuse. With interest that figure rose to $5.6million.

In essence, the matter related to an afternoon in the mid-nineties when the orange reality TV star with the golden mane assaulted Ms Carroll in a changing room in the Bergdorf Goodman department store in New York City. This crime was compounded by his repeated lies and cynical attempts to smear his victim. He said, “She’s accusing me of rape, a woman that I have no idea who she is. It came out of the blue." He also referred to her as "a nut job" which is of course rather rich coming from him!

As months and years passed, the elderly rogue sought to use every legal appeal avenue in existence to overturn the court ruling but in the end all of his efforts were in vain. Even The Supreme Court that usually dances to his tune could find no substantive merit in his endless appealing.

As the money finally came through, E. Jean Carroll wrote, "The Eagle has landed" - a reference to the first moon landing. After all of the effort and expenditure, the mission was finally successful.

The former "Apprentice" host has a big appetite for pursuing people through the courts but when it happens to him he always kicks back. Perhaps he believes that he should be above the law

$5.6million is loose change to a guy who made many millions through shady cryptocurrency deals. However, there remains an outstanding judgement against him. Still in relation to E.Jean Carroll, he is similarly appealing against an $83 million lawsuit judgement that also involved defamation.

Through the legal system, Elizabeth Jean Carroll's intentions were never about making money. It was all about principles and justice. In fact, at one stage, she declared that she would give away any funds that were awarded to her.

In my estimation, she has been extremely brave to stand in the full glare of publicity while challenging a very powerful, extraordinarily vindictive man who has a penchant for using the law as an arsenal to get what he wants - come what may. Let us hope that in the course of time she also secures the $83 million already awarded to her before the appeals rigmarole began all over again.

Repeat

Action! Camera! Take Two!

Remember last week when my little trip to Uttoxeter in Staffordshire went all wrong? Well I bought a new railway ticket for today and everything worked out just fine and dandy. The trains were on time and I did not stupidly mislay my camera.

As soon as I arrived at Uttoxeter station. I was off walking, using the Ordnance Survey maps I printed off for last week. Eighty minutes later I was in the delightful village of Marchington.

Miss Tiggywinkle in Marchington

Dodge van in Marchington

It had everything. Some lovely private houses, two churches, a village hall, a small primary school, two pubs, a recreation ground and a lot of history. In another life I could have happily dwelt there with my family, lost in the middle of England.

It was a long circular walk and it was clear to me that some of the public footpaths I had chosen were rarely trodden. Finding my way was more than a little challenging because of that but I made it!

The trains home were punctual with no bing-bongs to drive me mad and I was home in time to watch England lose to Argentina by two goals to one in their World Cup semi-final. 

About this, I have to say two things. Firstly, we lost to the better team and secondly - after Anthony Gordon had put England ahead, that was the time for our manager to drive home our advantage with attacking substitutions. In my opinion, he screwed up by instead strengthening our defence when he should have been going for the  jugular.

We should take some pride in the realisation that our lads made it to the semi-finals when 44 other teams in the World Cup tournament failed to do that. Even so, I still feel rather sad tonight.

A distant view of St Peter's Church - Marchington Woodland

Clarification

On Saturday I referred to my now defunct shower radio. Ever since then I have hardly slept a wink for I have in effect been traumatised by what I can only call a commenters' "pile on".

Why did I need a shower radio? How much time do you spend under the shower? Have you not heard of water conservation? "I am so quick in the shower that there would be no time to listen to a radio" and "I could not hear a shower radio above the noise of my super-duper  Australian shower".

These comments have hurt me so deeply that I seriously considered hanging up my blogging boots. However, instead, I have decided to simply clarify matters with a more detailed explanation of my shower radio usage.

Take today - just as an example. Downstairs, dressed in my silk ruby dressing gown, I consumed my chosen breakfast with a pint of tea, read a chapter of my current book and mooched around the internet for half an hour.

Then I mounted the stairs.

First thing I did was to grab my new portable radio and switch it on. Then it was hooked on to the bathroom window handle. Next I sat down on the porcelain throne to do what I have started to describe as a "donald". I think you will be able to guess what this means. All the time I am listening to the Naga Munchetty Show on Radio 5 Live. She is interviewing Amy Wallace who was Virginia Giuffre's ghost writer for "Nobody's Girl".

Off the throne, the horrible donald was flushed away and it was time to turn the shower on but before that I took some sharp scissors and clipped my sprouting nasal hair with the aid of the mirror on our bathroom cabinet door. Now the shower was running.

I am in there, quickly washing my hair and soaping my crevices. It does not take long  and then I rinse the soap and the shampoo away before commencing another task - wet shaving. I always do this in the shower. Sensitive gel is applied to my ugly face and, helped  by a circular shaving mirror, I carefully shave away my bristles with an old Gillette GII razor that I have been using for what - almost fifty years. (Of course the blades are replaced occasionally!)

By now the interview has finished and it's the Radio 5 Live News. Superhuman peacemaker Trump has stopped his unnecessary war with Iran yet again. Andy Burnham has been endorsed by pretty much every Labour MP to become Britain's next prime minister. We look forward to tomorrow's game with Argentina but how and why did Ann Widdecombe die?

I step out of the shower and dry my body. Hair first. I have never used a hair drier in my entire life. A bath towel does the job. I usually comb my hair before I have dried my toes. This morning I noticed that some nail clipping was necessary - especially as I am visiting an NHS podiatrist  on Thursday afternoon.

Next on the menu it's tooth brushing. I rinse my mouth and close one of the bathroom windows then I take the shower radio into our bedroom - still listening. 

Time to put on my fashionable Homer Simpson underpants before applying foot cream and underarm deodorant. Oh - and I remembered to spray "Forest Fresh" aftershave on my newly shaved visage.

The bed needs making and I fluff up the duvet and the pillows  before getting dressed. You can imagine that all of this took eighteen minutes. Plenty of time to listen to the radio and absorb some interesting stuff. I switch off the radio before heading downstairs.

So there we have it and I make no apology to circling hyenas here in the blogosphere. Please don't upset me any more by criticising my use of a shower radio. After all - I am like my preferred shaving gel - sensitive!

Quiztime

Well quizzers, we haven't had a quiz on this blog for many days. The last one appeared on June 14th - a whole month ago. So it's nigh time for me  to get my thinking cap on. Just over two years ago, we all enjoyed a delightful quiz about the human body and the moment for another one has at last arrived. No matter where we reside - from Melbourne to Florence SC and from Ludwigsburg to West Hampstead, we all have bodies so we should naturally know a lot about this user-friendly subject. As usual, the answers will be given in the comments section.

⦿

1) When you open your mouth you can see a dangly bit of flesh hanging down at the entrance to your throat but what is it called?

(a) Your vulva  (b) Your tonsil (c)  Your uvula (d) Your larynx

2) How many bones are there in a "normal" adult human body?

(a) 206 bones (b) 1026 bones (c) 2206 bones (d) 602.5 bones

3) Worldwide, around what percentage of people are left-handed?

(a) 2%  (b) 5%  (c) 10% (d) 14.5%

4) What's the glowing red thing?

(a) appendix (b) pancreas (c) kidney (d) gall bladder

5) In the average adult human body how many miles of nerves are there?

(a) 4.5 miles (b) 14.5 miles (c) 24 miles (d) 45 miles

6) People sometimes have MRI scans but what do the initials MRI stand for?

(a) Medical Research Inquiry (b) Magnetic Resonance Imaging
(c) Maximum Radiation Investigation (d) Multicellular Report Imagery

7) Varicella is the medical name for a common infectious disease that usually goes by another name. To which disease am I referring?

(a) German measles (b) Scarlet fever (c) Chickenpox (d) Mumps

8) Roughly how many sperm cells does an average man produce in his lifetime?

(a) 2.5 million  (b) one hundred million (c) one billion (d) one trillion

9) What is the function of the pineal gland?

(a) it regulates the sleep-wake cycle (b) it regulates blood sugar levels 

(c)  it controls the body's calcium and phosphorus levels  (d) it produces stress hormones (like cortisol and adrenaline) and regulates blood pressure.

10) If you stay awake for 24 hours, how many times will you blink?

(a) about 2800 times  (b) about 28,800 times

(c) about 88,200 times (d) about 280,000 times

⦿

That's all folks! How did you do?