Stating the bleedin' obvious

Is it a leaf falling in autumn?  Is it a CGI confection?  Are those raindrops reflected in a window or fairy lights on a tree at Christmas?  It looks to be a cityscape but can we be sure?  It is certainly an arresting and attractive image, but of what exactly?
Anyway, just imagine for a moment this lovely street scene suddenly being filled with gangs of young people, feckless and footloose,  uninhibited by any sense of moral decency and clearly looking to exhibit anti-social behaviour whenever they get the chance to do so.  Gangs are a curse on British society, Prime Minister Cameron has averred, and a principal cause of the proliferation of gang culture is poor parenting.  In a groundbreaking report soon to be published, the solution to troublesome gangs is declared to be, wait for it, 'better parenting'.  Exactly how 'better parenting' is to be achieved presumably lies in the small print of the report.  I can't wait.  I'll wager it does not involve increased investment in schools, community education, social services, youth employment, or similar.  Perhaps Cameron will look to the Womens' Institute to run 'better parenting' classes as part of their contribution to his 'big society',  He could offer them all British Empire Medals as a reward.

Tick-tock!

There is a proposal that the UK moves to Central European Time for a 3 year trial period.  Apparently it will save lives, boost the economy, and benefit tourism. The first benefit I understand, the second I doubt, the last I think is really dumb.  Whoever planned a holiday anywhere according to what time-zone they were going to be in?  A more serious stumbling block is the requirement for the devolved assemblies to agree to the proposal and in Scotland we have serious reservations.  I say 'we' meaning the nation as represented by parliament and the media.  My personal view is that it really won't make a significant difference to the way I live, or at least we can surely cope with darker mornings in winter, but at least when we go on holiday to mainland Europe we won't have to adjust our body clocks and watches.

A tawdry addition to a tawdry system

So the British Empire Medal is to be resurrected despite John Major's attempt to bury it as an outdated relic of our bad old class conscious society that once stratified individuals (and communities) according to their perceived value and status. (The reality is of course that Britain may be relatively less 'class conscious', but check out the private school system, dippy Prince Charlie's veto of parliamentary legislation affecting his Duchy, a system of elite universities centred around the Oxbridge colleges, the House of Lords, not speaking to the Queen until spoken to, the makeup of the current Cabinet, and so so and so forth.)  A medal intended to serve as as a a 'gong' for  those who lacked the necessary rank to attain an MBE or Knighthood will be reborn to reward members of Cameron's 'Big Society'.  And the depressing thing is that many people will welcome this tawdry addition to our tawdry 'honours system'. But how less relevant to the woes - economic, social, political - that beset Britain in 2011 could it be to create yet more flummery, another little bit of political patronage to seduce the naive and unwary and bind them to a vision of Britain that is one part medieval feudalism, one part Victorian fantasy and invention, and one part communal delusion.  If Cameron genuinely wanted to reward deserving members of his Big Society why not just toss them a Knighthood or a seat in the House of Lords, a serious and hearty reward for services rendered, rather than this ' vile little scrap of nothingness from the master's table'.  
Oh, and 'what could be less relevant' when Britain is mired in unemployment, high inflation, falling living standards, savage public sector cuts, and etc?  What about the startling news that the law on royal primogeniture is about to be changed to allow the oldest child, regardless of gender, to become monarch.  Whoopee!  Another big step forward for common sense and female enfranchisement.  Mary Beard excoriates this absolute bloody nonsense far better than I could, so check out her blog 'A Don's Life'.

Realpolitik

Thoughts on the death of Gaddhafi?  Criticism of the manner of his death, following the extrajudicial murder of Osama Bin Laden by the Americans, strikes me as a tad hypocritical.  It is also clearly something for the Libyans to decide and the weight of comment from within the country seems to be in broad agreement that his death is a cause of great joy and celebration, followed by an overwhelming feeling of relief and 'now let's get on with the rest of our lives and rebuild our nation from scratch'.  A lot of media comment in the West is decidedly pessimistic about the future for Libya and often cite the spectre of civil war or the establishment of 'an Islamic state ruled by Sharia law'.  However, if that is what the Libyans decide they want then it is clearly nobody's business but their own.  I suspect they won't but even if they do decide on an Islamic state western governments will quickly accommodate themselves to it.  After all, they've done it for years with Saudi Arabia.  And there's all that oil and gas of course to help the Americans and French and British overcome their inhibitions.  All those lucrative business contracts to win.  All those principles to abandon in the interests of realpolitik.  After all, they did it for years with that crackpot dictator Gaddhafi.

Counting calories to no purpose

Great to learn courtesy of Radio Four's Food Programme that too much emphasis is placed on 'counting calories' when people talk about the importance of balanced diets and a healthy lifestyle.  All of this prompted by the surreal comment from the Chief Medical Officer of Health that people in Britain need to eat several billion fewer calories a year in order to combat 'the obesity epidemic', which is itself a questionable concept and shockingly unscientific.  Far more important is the division between those people who cook their own food and those who 'eat out' or buy ready meals and convenience food from supermarkets.  The latter being more likely to develop health issues directly related to their diet.  Interesting discussion too about the meaning of the word calorie, its etymology, and the vagueness and imprecision of much of the language used even by professional nutritionists.

A Kodak moment with trees

I was surprised to discover that my family have a habit of photographing trees.  I have an aunt who lives in Weybridge who photographs nothing else.  I've tried to draw and paint them, but fail miserably due to a basic lack of skill with brush or pencil.  Give me a camera and it's a different story, as the current example hopefully shows.  It's a tree (species unknown) on the road behind our house in Scotland.

Looking back over several years of holiday photographs the number of trees (and rocks) I have photographed is without number.  I just can't work out why.  Is it their shape, their colour, how they appear in the landscape, the texture of the bark?  Is it simply that I like photographing trees?  I'm not sure. I am sure that my wife would know what kind of tree it is.  It's another one of the Mysteries of Maried Life that she knows far more about trees and plants and birds than I do.  And I have tried to learn.  I've watched the David Attenborough opus.  I've bought the Collins Field guides to Birds, Trees, Wild Flowers and Mushrooms.  All to no end.  I can rarely manage to match up one with the other - what I've seen in books and what I come across on my countryside rambles.

Body language in Cordoba

It's a caption competition.  What are the three people in this bar outside the old city walls of Cordoba saying to each other or, more pertinently, thinking? The slick and slightly older waiter is flirting with the pretty young woman while taking their order for cold drinks.  The boyfriend is trying to be serious and authoritative but feels that his machismo is being challenged and doesn't like it.  Just look at his body language. The young woman is delightful and clearly enjoying the banter even if it discomfits her paramour.  A few moments later, with the waiter gone, she takes his hand and leans across to kiss him.  Sweet!

Whitewashing the dead in Olvera

A cemetery in southern Spain in the town of Olvera as seen from the castle next door.  We were the first visitors of the day and the helpful young curator manning the ticket office and souvenir shop unlocked the front door for us and explained how to get out again once we'd had a good look round. It was a hot morning in early October, the sky was a brilliant blue, and we had great fun clambering around the medieval castle taking photographs of this and that.  It was the kind of castle that gives castles a good name with proper crenallations, thick walls, guard towers, arrow slots to peer through, timbered floors, and a stunning view from the rooftop of the keep. There was even the narrowest of spiral staircases with slippery stone steps to corkscrew up and then down again.  But this scene intrigued me.  A team of four women, and all of the civic cleansing and maintenance semed to be done by women in Andalucia, were whitewashing the walls of the tombs in the local town cemetary.

The cycling vampire bite

As a child I went to the beach for my holidays but I have no strong memories of building sandcastles or going swimming in the sea.  There are family photographs showing me with donkeys, my sister, a captain's cap, bucket and spade, candy floss, sagging swimming trunks, and other essential seaside regalia.  I suspect I must have enjoyed the seaside back then, even if it was only the North Sea that I was dipping my pre-pubescent toes into.  Since my formative teenage years however I have strong memories of actively disliking the sand (when required to sit and have picnics on it) and the sea (when required to immerse any part of my body in it).  I did once experiment sunbathing on a beach somewhere in southern France when my own children were younger, but this may have been as much to do with the casual nudism on display as anything else.  Nowadays I am more than happy to stroll along any beach, even to paddle in the warmth of the Mediterranean.  I have even paddled in the Volga river of all places.  But a beach holiday is not for me, nor for my wife, and we prefer what I suppose you might call 'activity holidays' to sunbathing or sitting reading on a beach or beside a pool.

The phrase 'activity holiday' is loosely defined however.  We eschew skiing, surfing, horse-riding and the like.  Walking is our thing, cycling too.  Or pottering around towns and cities looking at anything that might be interesting, sitting in cafes, wandering through shops and markets, eating outside, going to music concerts, visiting art galleries, castles, occasionally churches.  Just putzing in other words - and sometimes doing nothing more than sitting and watching the world go by.  My wife will occasionally draw or paint and I will take zillions of photographs.  She will also swim when possible, a form of exercise I have long since abandoned due to the necessity of getting wet and cold and wrinkly.
Our walking can be anything up to 20 km a day, more than long enough for a middle-aged couple, especially since it usually involve hills to ascend and descend, or gorges to descend into and then clamber out of again.  We are great fans of the Spanish system of senderos and the French equivalent of petit and grand randonnees.  The Americans too in their National Park system make it easy for amateur hikers like us to navigate our way around some of the great natural landscapes the US has to offer, as illustrated below in an alpine meadow in Yosemite.  (Holiday tip: avoid Florida and try out the beautiful South-Western states.) 
This is our kind of activity holiday and largely avoids the danger of being eaten by sharks, as sadly has happened recently in Australia.  Or breaking anything coming down the piste on skis.  Or falling off a truculent quadruped and breaking or bruising something valuable if horse-riding.  But I did almost get attacked by a snake in Andalusia recently, saved only by its last-minute decision to slither off into the undergrowth instead.  And I still have two bloodied scars on my shin for all the world looking like a vampire bite, but in reality the result of a minor cycling accident.  I should also mention that our hike through the Yosemite alpine meadow resulted in a string of painful mosquito bites across my back due to my failure to apply any bug repellent.  On the upside, the park cafeteria does excellent hotdogs and French-fries.

The idiot tax

Not so far from the truth these days, although having been to Vegas and gambled (and lost) my entire $5 stake, I'm not sure I have the right temperament for gambling.  I once bought a lottery ticket in the days when our village shop was still open.  I didn't win.  The following week I decided to try again but decided en route to the village shop to put my £1 towards buying a pint of beer in the pub next door.  At least that way I would get something for my money.  Several friends argue that a few pounds a week for the price of a dream is worth the price of a ticket, especially since at least some of the cash goes to 'good causes' (which is questionable in itself).  I prefer an earlier comment by Alan Coren that the National Lottery is in fact 'an idiot tax', a comment that sounds as if it might have come from his daughter Victoria, doyen of Only Connect my new favourite tv quiz show on BBC2 (second only to Judge Judy, ITV2).  These are both good examples of tv shows that depend entirely on their hostess for their success. Victoria Coren has a waspish comic touch that is quietly hilarious.  Highly recommended. As for my retirement plans, which are no longer a distant prospect, perhaps I should consider going part-time, say three days a week.  Strangely I have always fancied working in Tesco as a complete change after retiring professionally but the employees I encounter there are seldom happy with their lot.  But then who is these days?  Living in the south of Spain would be my preferred option - if only I won the lottery.  Therein lies my quandary: I will not buy a ticket and contribute to 'the idiot tax'.  A perfect example of wanting to eat my cake without paying for the ingredients necessary to make it in the first place. 

Walking in the rain

I now feel guilty about borrowing this image for my blog.  It's by Jane Ferguson and was chosen to illustrate my theme about 'walking in the rain '(not surprisingly).  But should the artist be compensated for her work being used?  No profit accrues from my blog.  Hardly anyone reads them anyway.  Is this justification for 'borrowing' someones creative efforts without recompense?  Possibly.  Hope so anyway. I'm not sure my older son would agree.

Anyway, walking in the rain and whether I should make the effort to put on my waterproofs and head out for a stroll in the cold but fresh air is today's pressing question.  Arguments for: good exercise, haven't had  a decent walk in a few days, it's good to get out, clears the head.  Arguments against: just spent ten days walking (and cycling) in sunny Spain where the sky was blue and the climactic contrast with my homeland is therefore both deeply unfavourable and a significant deterrent (for the moment anyway, until it all becomes a distant memory).  Conclusion: have some mint tea and think about it some more.

Hegel's bagels

We went to Prague earlier in the year. I had been several times before before but it was the first time for my wife and we both thoroughly enjoyed it.  There were however a few exceptions.   For example, the outrageous pricing at some of the most popular tourist spots and in particular the atmospheric Old Jewish Cemetery. I know that the exorbitantly priced ticket included entry to all of the many Jewish synagogues in the city, many of which are particularly fine, but how many shuls can a goyim visit in a single day?  Of the nearby Cafe Kafka however I have no complaints.  A quiet and dark wooden interior, plain furniture, and decent beer and coffee (at reasonable 'tourist city' prices) make it easy to imagine that you might bump into the great man himself.  I declined to buy their subdued souvenir t-shirt only on the grounds that I now prefer plain t-shirts sans motif.  Of the food they served, I'm not so sure because the strudel we ate wasn't quite as good as the breakfast strudels we enjoyed in a different cafe.  However, if they had been selling Hegel's Bagels ...

Other food we ate in Prague was much more enjoyable, and so too was the exemplary Prague beer - the wine too.  Lots of meat, mostly pork and venison, and lots of dumplings, but we found an excellent pizzeria serving both pizza and local wine at very reasonable prices just slightly out of the city centre.  We also enjoyed eating near the university in a restaurant/bar decorated with fleshy murals of large-breasted and naked women and hugely endowed and naked men fornicating in the Bohemian countryside.  Definitely a place to go back to.  Prague I mean.

Feline dementia and daal

It is so cold here.  Driving my son to work because he missed his bus this morning, I first had to defrost the car's windshield.  The temperature outside was 2.5 degrees.  Not too cold if you live in northern Scandinavia or Alaska but cold enough here, especially if you have just returned form southern Spain where the average daytime temperature was in the middle to high 20s.  It is so cold here even the cats are complaining and meow piteously to be let in through the kitchen door whenever their little paws begin to ice up.  Although the older of the two cats regularly meows out of context because of her feline dementia and so it's difficult to know exactly what she's thinking.  She's also taken to leaping, slowly, onto the dining room table to lick any plates or bowls inadvertenbtly left behind.  So it was I discovered today that cats seem to like daal curry with onion, ginger and garlic.  But that could have been the dementia of course.

Small things matter

I can heartily recommend the Guardian columnist Oliver Burkeman whose writing appears in the weekend magazine. A recent article emphasised the importance, based on solid academic research, of 'pusuing little victories ... (That) a sense of incremental progress is vastly more important to happiness than either a grand mission or financial incentives'.  It's the sort of thing that chimes with common sense and personal experience but is often swept aside by the surge of 'mission statements' and 'targets' that bedevil the managements of both modern corporations and the public sector, aided and abetted by all shades of political opinion.  Too often managements emphasise the importance of 'seeing the big picture' but lose sight of the more important details, for example understanding the fundamental role played by 'the human factor'.  That is, in any organisation the people you work with come first, last, and always - not customers, clients, shareholders, stakeholders (whatever they are).  Get this first bit right and everything else will fall more easily into place and everyone benefits - including all of the above.  The corollary of course is also true. There might then be some truth in the old saw that if you take care of the little things, the big things often take care of themselves.  Just ask Snoopy.  (I had forgotten how much the Charles M. Schulz cartoons made me smile.)
As a sidebar, my older son was highly critical when I told him the subject of my latest blog, accusing me of 'plagiarism'.  'But,' I protested. 'I always quote my sources.' 'Still plagiarism,' he insisted.  Well not according to my 1996 edition of Chambers Dictionary it isn't.  I quote verbatim: 'to copy ideas from someone else's work and use them as if they were one's own'.  So, ha!

A fine malt , but there are limits

The problem started when my younger son took me literally.  'The malt whisky is there to be drunk', says I.  And so drinking it he has been.  But he has been taking more than his fair share of my fine malt and I need to address the issue with him.  It's not even as if he buys his own occasionally.  So do I say, 'No more, enough already!'  Or, 'Leave some for me, please.'  Perhaps it should be, 'Smaller measures might allow the whole family to enjoy it.'  Although to be honest his mum doesn't drink malt whisky, nor does his older brother.   I could hide the bottle but that seems churlish.   And, my final dilemma, it's not as if I even enjoy malt whisky that much, certainly not compared to wine or brandy or beer.  But there are limits.

But is it a good read?

I have given up arguing with my wife about the merits and demerits of potboilers.  She likes to read them and I don't.  I have picked up Dan Brown's magnum opus and put it down just as quickly.  The writing is execrable and the plot absurd (although, mea culpa, I haven't actually read it all the way through so that might well disqualify me from comment but, since the book has become such a cultural icon, I feel quite comfortable criticising it).  Good friends and colleagues agree with my wife and one, when carelessly challenged, spewed forth a closely argued discourse on why Dan Brown was both well-written and intellectually stimulating.  No, honestly, she did.  If only I had read the fine article by Jeanette Winterson in today's Guardian newspaper.  'There are plenty of entertaining reads that are part of the enjoyment of life.  That doesn't make them literature.  There is a simple test: does this writer's capacity for language expand my capacity to think and to feel?'  All this apropos of the Booker prizewinner announced last night as Julian Barnes and the view of at least some of the judges that 'readibility is the key to a good book'.  Well, maybe but, as Winterson continues, 'There is such a thing as art.  There is such a thing as literature'.  Hooray for that!  I suppose what has tripped me up on previous occasions was a failure to discriminate between 'a good read' and literature.  Must be more careful with my dialectic in future and tonight over dinner I will try out my new line of attack on my family of voracious readers.

P.S. Sadly, never managed to insert my praphrasing of Winterson's argument into our table-talk.  Perhaps another time.

Well, I did say it would be occasional

I cannot believe how long it is since I posted a blog, but here I am again anyway, just returned from a short break in Spain and clearly refreshed enough in body, mind and spirit to resume my blogging.  I wonder if I will be able to sustain the effort after so long an absence from the keypad?  Isn't the main point about blogging that it's a regular activity?  Otherwise, online at least, I lose track of what's going on in the world around me.The most successful blogs are clearly those that keep abreast of major political, social or cultural events and then comment on them. The bloggers in Syria provide invaluable insights into the violent convulsions of that benighted dictatorship, just as they once did in Egypt and Tunisia and Libya.  (Has anyone seen Mr Qaddafi recently?)  Bloggers in China risk  censorship and imprisonment if they dare to step outside the clearly marked boundaries of 'free speech and tolerance for dissent' allowed by the repressive authorities.  Ironic then that judges in this country's Court of Appeal recently averred that modern communication  technology is 'totally out of control' and so clearly a threat to public order.  Two young men had lengthy jails sentences confirmed for inciting riots on Facebook - only two years less than Abu Hamza received for inciting murder.  How Beijing must smile when western governments raise with them the issue of human rights.  
My blog commands no significant audience.  Perhaps even none at all ... lol!  Nor does it offer unique insights into international or even local or national events, if you discount the intricacies of the Scottish education System - and I wish you would while it still offers me gainful employment.  No, I write my blog simply because it amuses me to do so. So, let's get started again and see how long it lasts for this time.