I think that organic farming is the Arts & Crafts movement of our day. And will fail for the same reasons: it is ugly, old fashioned & expensive, its products out of the reach of, & sensibly unwanted by, those without money to burn on expensive fol-de-rols. It will never Feeeed the Wurrrld
Nevertheless I share the nostalgia for this kind of agriculture. My maternal great grandparents had a farm, & I spent a lot of time there until they gave it up when I was 5; none of their surviving 9 children wanted to take it on
Though it seemed large to me I guess it was really small as farms go. There were at least 2 fields - one for hay, the other for cereal. There were also sheep (high up the hill), cows & hens &, at least one year, geese. It seems odd to me now that I cannot remember any pigs, given that they are such useful animals: you can use everything but the whistle & they provide an economical form of garbage disposal. At least while I was in primary school the leavings from our school dinners were scraped into enamel pails & taken away as pig swill
My grandfather was adamant about one thing: no tractors. He maintained that they could not cope with hills as well as could the horses, & I guess he was right. How many farm workers have been killed by toppling tractors? So he had horses. They seemed huge to me too. I can still remember being lifted up as a tiny child to perch on a broad solid back, high in the air above feet as big as soup plates, taking in the lovely warm friendly smell of horse
One of my favourite 'jobs' was to help with the butter-making once a week. After churning, the butter was put into small round wooden bowls & tapped down with a wooden lid. My task was to press the lid down hard enough to imprint the butter with the image carved onto the underside of the lid. My favourite picture was of a butterfly
At the age of three I almost became an instant vegetarian during the course of the family Sunday dinner. That year I had been 'given' an orphan lamb. Naturally I christened him Larry. He lived for a while in a shoe box beside the kitchen range & I helped to feed him from a babys bottle. It is surprising how fiercely such a tiny thing can pull. During the famous dinner my horrible uncle - only 11 himself - asked me if I realised that I was eating Larry
Another favourite job was to take my grandfathers dinner to him when he was working the harvest. He impressed everybody with his appetite for apple pie, a whole one just for him in a rectangular enamel pie dish. An essential part of the ritual was his careful lifting of the pastry crust so that he could spread the contents liberally with English mustard. Such a sweet/sour/hot combination seems commonplace now, but was a thing of wonder to us then
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Whats wrong with ginger beer?
I saw a press report that ginger beer will be barred from a new tv series based on Enid Blytons Famous Five. How can this be? Well, I dont suppose that a world-wide audience will necessarily understand that this is not an alcoholic drink.
There was once a real fad for making your own ginger beer at home. For this you needed a ginger beer plant. This was some kind of yeast or fungus which you put in a jam jar half full of water & left on a window sill. It had to be fed regularly with, I think, ground ginger and sugar. After a week or so you strained off the liquid, mixed it with water & sealed it in glass bottles. One half of the plant could then be discarded or given to friends, & the whole process gone through again with the other half.
We used to store our bottles of ginger beer in a small stone outhouse. One winter panic set in at the sound of repeated explosions coming from the garden. When it seemed safe to investigate it transpired that the ginger beer had frozen & the subsequent expansion had caused the bottles to explode. Come to think of it there must have been some kind of fermentation going on, so at least some alcohol was being produced.
As an even smaller child I used to wonder how my Methodist & strictly teetotal grandma could be responsible for making something called herb beer, which I used to love. Even at that tender age I wondered if the adults were being strictly truthful when they said it was non alcoholic, though I reasoned that they certainly wouldnt give it to me if it were. Regretfully, it was only made in summer. Even more regretfully, I never thought to ask for the recipe. It tasted very like Dandelion & Burdock, though not nearly as sweet as the commercial versions available today.
In some ways however, my absolutely most very favourite drink as a small child was soda water. This used to come from the grocers in a very heavy glass syphon with a silver coloured top. It cost the huge sum of 1 shilling & threepence, though most of that was returnable deposit. My Nan always had a syphon in the larder for medicinal purposes, namely her indigestion. I was, very occasionally, allowed a small quantity as a treat. I regret to say that I was not entirely above sneaking in to the larder for a stolen splash when I thought I could get away with it.
As I grew older & rationing came to an end, fizzy drinks became more widely available. There were even lorries which used to drive around, much as ice cream vans do today, delivering bottles to your door - though you still had to pay a deposit on each. There was definitely however a sense that only the more common sort of family would stoop to giving their children such large quantities of fizzy pop.
There was once a real fad for making your own ginger beer at home. For this you needed a ginger beer plant. This was some kind of yeast or fungus which you put in a jam jar half full of water & left on a window sill. It had to be fed regularly with, I think, ground ginger and sugar. After a week or so you strained off the liquid, mixed it with water & sealed it in glass bottles. One half of the plant could then be discarded or given to friends, & the whole process gone through again with the other half.
We used to store our bottles of ginger beer in a small stone outhouse. One winter panic set in at the sound of repeated explosions coming from the garden. When it seemed safe to investigate it transpired that the ginger beer had frozen & the subsequent expansion had caused the bottles to explode. Come to think of it there must have been some kind of fermentation going on, so at least some alcohol was being produced.
As an even smaller child I used to wonder how my Methodist & strictly teetotal grandma could be responsible for making something called herb beer, which I used to love. Even at that tender age I wondered if the adults were being strictly truthful when they said it was non alcoholic, though I reasoned that they certainly wouldnt give it to me if it were. Regretfully, it was only made in summer. Even more regretfully, I never thought to ask for the recipe. It tasted very like Dandelion & Burdock, though not nearly as sweet as the commercial versions available today.
In some ways however, my absolutely most very favourite drink as a small child was soda water. This used to come from the grocers in a very heavy glass syphon with a silver coloured top. It cost the huge sum of 1 shilling & threepence, though most of that was returnable deposit. My Nan always had a syphon in the larder for medicinal purposes, namely her indigestion. I was, very occasionally, allowed a small quantity as a treat. I regret to say that I was not entirely above sneaking in to the larder for a stolen splash when I thought I could get away with it.
As I grew older & rationing came to an end, fizzy drinks became more widely available. There were even lorries which used to drive around, much as ice cream vans do today, delivering bottles to your door - though you still had to pay a deposit on each. There was definitely however a sense that only the more common sort of family would stoop to giving their children such large quantities of fizzy pop.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
I love radio transmitters
While idly Googling one day I came across a marvellous site which documents, with photos, every radio & tv transmitter in the country. It even has a section recommending sites of particular interest to visit when on vacation. This may seem like a very nerdy thing for anyone to want to do, but of course many sites are found in areas of spectacular beauty. And they will be high up so you can enjoy an invigorating hill walk on your tour of inspection.
In fact I had similar holiday treats myself as a child. I very vividly remember Goonhilly Down in Cornwall. And more mundanely, as far as the visuals go, St Margarets Bay near Dover. This was my last family holiday before going off into the big wide world & I had my first bikini - pink with polka dots! - which I was far too self conscious to feel comfortable wearing. My other main memory of the holiday was being taken to see the laying of a new cable across the English Channel - a rather boring spectacle I thought. But my father explained to me that this was revolutionary, because the cable would be able to carry more than one conversation simultaneously; it achieved this by chopping up any one conversation into little pieces- just cutting out all the silences basically - & fitting them all together again at the other end. I remain mystified as to how a mere wire can know which bit is which
I was recently reminded of all this when I came across a book, The Atlantic Telegraph by William Russell (the man who reported the Crimean War), about the very first attempt to lay a cable across the Atlantic in the 1850s.
This was both beautifully illustrated & much the most exciting page turner I have read since I don't know when. I do recommend a read if you can lay hands on a copy - there is one in Manchester Central Library. It was heartbreaking when they finally had to admit defeat & leave a broken cable to lie on the ocean floor
Fortunately there is a much more recent & easily obtainable book - Thread Across the Ocean by John Steele Gordon - which includes the successful attempt in 1866
By 1867 The Manchester Guardian was complaining about the high cost of using the Atlantic cable - £10 for 20 words
In fact I had similar holiday treats myself as a child. I very vividly remember Goonhilly Down in Cornwall. And more mundanely, as far as the visuals go, St Margarets Bay near Dover. This was my last family holiday before going off into the big wide world & I had my first bikini - pink with polka dots! - which I was far too self conscious to feel comfortable wearing. My other main memory of the holiday was being taken to see the laying of a new cable across the English Channel - a rather boring spectacle I thought. But my father explained to me that this was revolutionary, because the cable would be able to carry more than one conversation simultaneously; it achieved this by chopping up any one conversation into little pieces- just cutting out all the silences basically - & fitting them all together again at the other end. I remain mystified as to how a mere wire can know which bit is which
I was recently reminded of all this when I came across a book, The Atlantic Telegraph by William Russell (the man who reported the Crimean War), about the very first attempt to lay a cable across the Atlantic in the 1850s.
This was both beautifully illustrated & much the most exciting page turner I have read since I don't know when. I do recommend a read if you can lay hands on a copy - there is one in Manchester Central Library. It was heartbreaking when they finally had to admit defeat & leave a broken cable to lie on the ocean floor
Fortunately there is a much more recent & easily obtainable book - Thread Across the Ocean by John Steele Gordon - which includes the successful attempt in 1866
By 1867 The Manchester Guardian was complaining about the high cost of using the Atlantic cable - £10 for 20 words
Link
Friday, December 15, 2006
Freedom of the road
We have only had free bus passes in our part of the world since April this year - before it was half fare. Of course its very nice for me as a regular bus user & non-driver, though there is the vaguest feeling of guilt about not having to pay now. A guilt rapidly extinguished by thinking of all those well-to-do Londoners who've had them for years, & remembering all those years of resentment when I seemed to be the only person not entitled to some kind of reduced rate pass
The effects have been quite marked. Since we live on the A6 south of Manchester many car owners are actually quite relieved that not every journey has to involve the hassle of negotiating the congestion & having to pay to park in town. If, that is, you can find a place
But its not just giving out for free something which used to be paid for. Bus passes generate increased travel & (therefore) increased economic activity. Many women over 60 have found a degree of freedom which they have not had for years, either because they are non-drivers or because others have priority use of the family car. It is a pleasure to meet them at the bus stop, imbued with a new sense of adventure, able to choose to go out at purely their own convenience
The bus drivers tell me that they have been much more busy on Sundays, & that a large part of the increased business seems to come from grandparents taking their small grandchildren out for the day. What a wonderfully simple, cheap & non-bureaucratic way to improve family values & social cohesion
The effects have been quite marked. Since we live on the A6 south of Manchester many car owners are actually quite relieved that not every journey has to involve the hassle of negotiating the congestion & having to pay to park in town. If, that is, you can find a place
But its not just giving out for free something which used to be paid for. Bus passes generate increased travel & (therefore) increased economic activity. Many women over 60 have found a degree of freedom which they have not had for years, either because they are non-drivers or because others have priority use of the family car. It is a pleasure to meet them at the bus stop, imbued with a new sense of adventure, able to choose to go out at purely their own convenience
The bus drivers tell me that they have been much more busy on Sundays, & that a large part of the increased business seems to come from grandparents taking their small grandchildren out for the day. What a wonderfully simple, cheap & non-bureaucratic way to improve family values & social cohesion
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Quarries
I love the quarries of Derbyshire. The current romantic idea is that the countryside should be preserved as it is & further quarrying should be avoided at all costs. But our landscape, far from being unspoiled, untouched by human hand or dynamite is, as anyone with half an eye can see, made of & by the old quarries. Admittedly most of them have left quite small scars on the landscape compared with the larger scale ones of today, but I love the idea of our stone being removed & used in great buildings; that to me is the true romance. Even if Derbyshire stone is used for more mundane projects, what could be more wonderful than the movement of stone to construct Stone Henge, Notre Dame, St Pauls, Taj Mahal? Even aggregate for motorways. What could be more romantic than the construction of great highways to allow man to wander far?
In the summer light the quarry at Peak Dale always reminds me of a Cezanne, with its large slab planes of ochre, yellow & cream & grey against the surrounding green. The industrial accretions are Futurist cum Socialist Realist; in my most fanciful moments I can see those two young peasants levitating in a giant leap across the top of the quarry with a cheery wave to us bus passengers. The only sour note is given by the trains; their subdued burnt orange is the perfect colour, but could someone please invent a dust resistant paint?
If I were a photographer I should like to try & take a photo with practically no depth of field almost like a water colour wash but with high definition of the edges of each block of colour. And blow it up to about 20x20 feet
In the summer light the quarry at Peak Dale always reminds me of a Cezanne, with its large slab planes of ochre, yellow & cream & grey against the surrounding green. The industrial accretions are Futurist cum Socialist Realist; in my most fanciful moments I can see those two young peasants levitating in a giant leap across the top of the quarry with a cheery wave to us bus passengers. The only sour note is given by the trains; their subdued burnt orange is the perfect colour, but could someone please invent a dust resistant paint?
If I were a photographer I should like to try & take a photo with practically no depth of field almost like a water colour wash but with high definition of the edges of each block of colour. And blow it up to about 20x20 feet
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Lessons from the masters
I am sorry for writing you such a long letter, I didnt have time to write a short one -Pascal
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All progress depends on the unreasonable man, for the reasonable man accepts things as they are and adapts himself to them - George Bernard Shaw
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When your teachers or your parents tell you 'Concentrate, concentrate. Whatever you are doing you MUST CONCENTRATE' they have got it almost precisely the wrong way round. Your aim in life should be to be to maximise the number of things you can do without thinking about them at all; then you can concentrate your mind on learning new things - Alfred North Whitehead
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It is the mark of an educated mind to rest satisfied with the degree of precision that the nature of the subject admits & not to seek exactness when only an approximation is possible - Aristotle
.
All progress depends on the unreasonable man, for the reasonable man accepts things as they are and adapts himself to them - George Bernard Shaw
.
When your teachers or your parents tell you 'Concentrate, concentrate. Whatever you are doing you MUST CONCENTRATE' they have got it almost precisely the wrong way round. Your aim in life should be to be to maximise the number of things you can do without thinking about them at all; then you can concentrate your mind on learning new things - Alfred North Whitehead
.
It is the mark of an educated mind to rest satisfied with the degree of precision that the nature of the subject admits & not to seek exactness when only an approximation is possible - Aristotle
Friday, December 08, 2006
Chicken & giblets
More agricultural memories; this time about chickens
I used to help to collect the eggs on the farm. One day I was, to my ginormous pride, sent to collect them ALL BY MYSELF
It was a long time before I was allowed to forget that my oh-so-carefully carried harvest included the china egg whose sole purpose was to encourage the hens to lay
Another chicken memory concerns the Young Farmers Wives competitions at the Bakewell Show - how deliciously, nostalgically anachronistic that sounds now. One class involved plucking & drawing a chicken. Results were judged on speed & thoroughness. The speeds achieved were truly astonishing
I could if presented with a whole chicken, still remember how to draw it, though I doubt I have the requisite strength in my hands. But I would not want to pluck one. I get the shudders just thinking about it. The reason stems from an act of downright disobedience by my three-year-old self in the days just before Christmas
My father arrived home & dumped a sack just inside the kitchen door. I went to investigate while he was saying hello to Mum. Despite cries of DONT I put my hand in the sack ... the shock of feeling feathers - almost alive but somehow not quite right - made me squeal
Christmas isnt Christmas without the smell of proper giblet gravy simmering on the stove. Its sad that it is now virtually impossible to find anyone who sells chicken with giblets, though turkey with giblets is still available in some supermarkets
I try to avoid all ready meals & sandwiches which include chicken. Not just because I hate battery farms; I also worry about those products which make claims to using only prime breast fillet from free range animals. What happens to the rest of the chicken? Im with the River Cottage man: if you are going to eat an animal, you should at least show it the respect of eating as much it of as possible
I used to help to collect the eggs on the farm. One day I was, to my ginormous pride, sent to collect them ALL BY MYSELF
It was a long time before I was allowed to forget that my oh-so-carefully carried harvest included the china egg whose sole purpose was to encourage the hens to lay
Another chicken memory concerns the Young Farmers Wives competitions at the Bakewell Show - how deliciously, nostalgically anachronistic that sounds now. One class involved plucking & drawing a chicken. Results were judged on speed & thoroughness. The speeds achieved were truly astonishing
I could if presented with a whole chicken, still remember how to draw it, though I doubt I have the requisite strength in my hands. But I would not want to pluck one. I get the shudders just thinking about it. The reason stems from an act of downright disobedience by my three-year-old self in the days just before Christmas
My father arrived home & dumped a sack just inside the kitchen door. I went to investigate while he was saying hello to Mum. Despite cries of DONT I put my hand in the sack ... the shock of feeling feathers - almost alive but somehow not quite right - made me squeal
Christmas isnt Christmas without the smell of proper giblet gravy simmering on the stove. Its sad that it is now virtually impossible to find anyone who sells chicken with giblets, though turkey with giblets is still available in some supermarkets
I try to avoid all ready meals & sandwiches which include chicken. Not just because I hate battery farms; I also worry about those products which make claims to using only prime breast fillet from free range animals. What happens to the rest of the chicken? Im with the River Cottage man: if you are going to eat an animal, you should at least show it the respect of eating as much it of as possible
Monday, December 04, 2006
I love £ stores
I love Pound Stores. Partly because of meanness or thriftiness. 18 packest of pocket tissues! 200 polythene gloves! Bath towels! Incense! Reading glasses?!
I also love - though do not buy - the tat - so called. Hair ornaments, house ornaments, jewellery, toys - what exactly, is the difference between a Poundstore & Selfridges?
The main difference is chaos. Everything is, relatively, jumbled up, confined in a much smaller space. There is no continuity of supply - no point going back next month for another box of those pocket hankies from Slovenia
Are they exploitative?
Exploitative of labour in poorer countries such as China, India & Slovenia?
Exploitative of more pretentious gift shop businesses in the West who go bust & need to sell their bankrupt stock at any price to a wily Pound Store trader?
Exploitative of the youngsters who work the tills?
Exploitative of the UK tax & VAT system? - not many of my pounds get registered on the till
Exploitative of the cash cow possibilities & of money laundering connections with criminal or terrorist organisations?
Exploitative of their cash-strapped customers?
Well no more so, I guess, than the original 6d Woolworth or the M&S market stall in Leeds
'Ordered' middle class society preens itself on its taste in shopping only at Selfridges or Harvey Nicks. They think of themselves as prosperous & of well-developed good taste. But they accept that those clever enough to provide their palaces of temptation will be rich, fashionable leaders of taste, while they are rich only in the level of their personal indebtedness
I also love - though do not buy - the tat - so called. Hair ornaments, house ornaments, jewellery, toys - what exactly, is the difference between a Poundstore & Selfridges?
The main difference is chaos. Everything is, relatively, jumbled up, confined in a much smaller space. There is no continuity of supply - no point going back next month for another box of those pocket hankies from Slovenia
Are they exploitative?
Exploitative of labour in poorer countries such as China, India & Slovenia?
Exploitative of more pretentious gift shop businesses in the West who go bust & need to sell their bankrupt stock at any price to a wily Pound Store trader?
Exploitative of the youngsters who work the tills?
Exploitative of the UK tax & VAT system? - not many of my pounds get registered on the till
Exploitative of the cash cow possibilities & of money laundering connections with criminal or terrorist organisations?
Exploitative of their cash-strapped customers?
Well no more so, I guess, than the original 6d Woolworth or the M&S market stall in Leeds
'Ordered' middle class society preens itself on its taste in shopping only at Selfridges or Harvey Nicks. They think of themselves as prosperous & of well-developed good taste. But they accept that those clever enough to provide their palaces of temptation will be rich, fashionable leaders of taste, while they are rich only in the level of their personal indebtedness
Lancelot Hogben
"You may provide creches, school feeding, family allowances, holidays with pay for expectant mothers, & 1001 other inducements. If you do not give people space you will not make parenthood endurable"
Nobody who has ever travelled by train from Manchester to London could possibly believe that; once out of south Manchester only a tiny portion of the country is built over until you get to Watford
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Children & Social Control
These days I spend a lot of my time reading in the Manchester Central Library which has a wonderful collection of Victorian books, pamphlets, newspapers & archives. Manchester was a pioneer of C19th public libraries & the current building, which was erected in the 1930s, is a magnificent 6 storey circular structure based on the Round Reading room of the old British Library. Unlike the British Library, which was hidden away in the midst of the British Museum, this one is free standing, near to the Victorian Gothic Town Hall, but in another nod to the BM has an impressive south-facing colonnaded entrance
The Library is also home to, on its basement floor, a theatre. In common with many other theatres the Christmas season is occupied with shows suitable for children & attracts many school parties to its daytime performances. Readers & theatregoers share the entrance to the building
An experience of two years ago still resonates with me; I came down the stairs from the 1st floor reading room to meet a party of excited & noisy 6/7 year olds making their way out from a performance of that years Christmas show; chaotic in their excitement, it took time for them to pass through the security gate. After standing watching them with a fond grandmotherly eye for several minutes, then thinking that it could take a long time for a whole theatre-full to pass, I joined the melee & made my way out of the building
A couple of days later I again came down the stairs as the theatre was emptying. Another crowd leaving the show, slightly older this time, 8 year olds perhaps. But these children, though clearly happy & excited, were quiet & organised; they passed quickly, two by two, often holding hands
Reflecting on the differences several things became clear; age, obviously, plus the fact that the first was a mixed group & the second was just girls - no noisy boys. But the chaotic group also obviously came from one of the poorer areas of the city, the organised ones were from a much more prosperous background. Uniform in more than one sense, the second group were all dressed in navy & red & I particularly remember the coat worn by one little girl - fully tailored, made of an expensive woollen cloth - how much do you have to pay for such a coat which she will grow out of within the year?
The noisy group had many more adult supervisors who themselves looked harassed & pale, even ill. The second group seemed to be accompanied by no more than a couple of teachers, well-dressed, even soignée, women
C20th historians pondered the question of 'social control' in the Victorian era - meaning middle class attempts to control the noisy, dirty, chaotic & immoral working class, or slum, populations of the cities. Some of these historical essays suggest that social control was an imposition which demeaned the liveliness of working class culture & was distasteful in its sense of superiority (they also beg the question of how many of the middle class cared & how many preferred to ignore these social problems). My C21st example raises the question of how the middle classes achieve such control over their own children; of whether it is a good thing; & if so, what are the benefits?
Organisation & control have clear benefits - in this example, access for me & for all other library users was subject to minimum disruption. Cleanliness & order have clear medical & health benefits too. But total order is the same thing as entropy; growth & evolution depend on difference; does organisation bring atrophy, can change emerge only from chaos? Or can important differences only emerge more clearly when the noise of chaos is removed from the system?
And how is such order achieved? Could the mechanism be genetic? This seems unlikely in itself - if two babies are swapped at birth would the one assigned to the middle class upbringing necessarily revert to lower class behaviour & vice versa? It seems much more plausible that the advantages of a comfortable environment would encourage conformity of external behaviour while allowing maximum scope for thinking about ways of developing & expanding human experience. For example it would allow or encourage thinking about new types of technology whether this be railways, telephone or internet
But this in turn begs the question of how some people (regardless of which class they are born to) are able to act, throughout their lives, in a way that gives them access to & control over, the resources needed to provide such comfort; which in themselves need a certain skill in relating to others - to organising - the plumbers, builders, cleaners, architects, solicitors etc etc - necessary for such a comfortable life. Such talent for organisation is not limited to the middle classes, which brings us back round the circle to the question: does order come from chaos, or do new forms of order come only from order?
The Library is also home to, on its basement floor, a theatre. In common with many other theatres the Christmas season is occupied with shows suitable for children & attracts many school parties to its daytime performances. Readers & theatregoers share the entrance to the building
An experience of two years ago still resonates with me; I came down the stairs from the 1st floor reading room to meet a party of excited & noisy 6/7 year olds making their way out from a performance of that years Christmas show; chaotic in their excitement, it took time for them to pass through the security gate. After standing watching them with a fond grandmotherly eye for several minutes, then thinking that it could take a long time for a whole theatre-full to pass, I joined the melee & made my way out of the building
A couple of days later I again came down the stairs as the theatre was emptying. Another crowd leaving the show, slightly older this time, 8 year olds perhaps. But these children, though clearly happy & excited, were quiet & organised; they passed quickly, two by two, often holding hands
Reflecting on the differences several things became clear; age, obviously, plus the fact that the first was a mixed group & the second was just girls - no noisy boys. But the chaotic group also obviously came from one of the poorer areas of the city, the organised ones were from a much more prosperous background. Uniform in more than one sense, the second group were all dressed in navy & red & I particularly remember the coat worn by one little girl - fully tailored, made of an expensive woollen cloth - how much do you have to pay for such a coat which she will grow out of within the year?
The noisy group had many more adult supervisors who themselves looked harassed & pale, even ill. The second group seemed to be accompanied by no more than a couple of teachers, well-dressed, even soignée, women
C20th historians pondered the question of 'social control' in the Victorian era - meaning middle class attempts to control the noisy, dirty, chaotic & immoral working class, or slum, populations of the cities. Some of these historical essays suggest that social control was an imposition which demeaned the liveliness of working class culture & was distasteful in its sense of superiority (they also beg the question of how many of the middle class cared & how many preferred to ignore these social problems). My C21st example raises the question of how the middle classes achieve such control over their own children; of whether it is a good thing; & if so, what are the benefits?
Organisation & control have clear benefits - in this example, access for me & for all other library users was subject to minimum disruption. Cleanliness & order have clear medical & health benefits too. But total order is the same thing as entropy; growth & evolution depend on difference; does organisation bring atrophy, can change emerge only from chaos? Or can important differences only emerge more clearly when the noise of chaos is removed from the system?
And how is such order achieved? Could the mechanism be genetic? This seems unlikely in itself - if two babies are swapped at birth would the one assigned to the middle class upbringing necessarily revert to lower class behaviour & vice versa? It seems much more plausible that the advantages of a comfortable environment would encourage conformity of external behaviour while allowing maximum scope for thinking about ways of developing & expanding human experience. For example it would allow or encourage thinking about new types of technology whether this be railways, telephone or internet
But this in turn begs the question of how some people (regardless of which class they are born to) are able to act, throughout their lives, in a way that gives them access to & control over, the resources needed to provide such comfort; which in themselves need a certain skill in relating to others - to organising - the plumbers, builders, cleaners, architects, solicitors etc etc - necessary for such a comfortable life. Such talent for organisation is not limited to the middle classes, which brings us back round the circle to the question: does order come from chaos, or do new forms of order come only from order?
Memory & Malcolm X
I just came across a cutting of The Guardians report of the death of Malcolm X; the word 'negro' is used 3 times in the first few lines
But its the date - February 1965 - which has discombobulated me. The article says that he had just returned from a visit to Britain, so unless he had made another visit in 1964, the assassination must have happened very soon after my own (nearly) meeting with him
He had given a public address to a packed lecture theatre at college; word went round that there would be a more private meeting in one of the common rooms. I went along, with my friends, only to be turned away at the door (just me) on the grounds that I was not the right colour. A valuable lesson in Life
But why are these two events not more closely associated in my memory? True, it was a momentous year in my personal life, & there was still the aftershock of the death of Kennedy, but if you had asked me yesterday I would have put the Malcolm X murder at more like 1968
Unreliable memory indeed
But its the date - February 1965 - which has discombobulated me. The article says that he had just returned from a visit to Britain, so unless he had made another visit in 1964, the assassination must have happened very soon after my own (nearly) meeting with him
He had given a public address to a packed lecture theatre at college; word went round that there would be a more private meeting in one of the common rooms. I went along, with my friends, only to be turned away at the door (just me) on the grounds that I was not the right colour. A valuable lesson in Life
But why are these two events not more closely associated in my memory? True, it was a momentous year in my personal life, & there was still the aftershock of the death of Kennedy, but if you had asked me yesterday I would have put the Malcolm X murder at more like 1968
Unreliable memory indeed
Playing with words
Alimony Acrimony
fr Latin alere: to nourish fr Latin acer: sharp
Alimentary, my dear Watson
Friday, December 01, 2006
Telephone exchanges
In the middle of the twentieth century many villages in rural Derbyshire were in possession of an automatic telephone exchange.
As a child, a holiday treat for me was to accompany my father on his visits of inspection to these exchanges. They looked like small bungalows, built out of local stone, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding cottages except for their lack of windows or gardens.
I can still remember the mysterious click, clack clack of the connections being made by the banks of levers, knobs & switches - is it my imagination, or were they made of wood?. The romance of imagining all those human connections being made without the need for human intervention ... But how clunky it all seems now, when at the touch of a button on a lap top I can be connected with the other side of the world.
What happened to those exchanges? Have they been demolished? Converted into des res? Do they now house vital bits of the World Wide Web? Or do they just stand as empty echoes of the ghostly clacks of those postwar rural conversations?
As a child, a holiday treat for me was to accompany my father on his visits of inspection to these exchanges. They looked like small bungalows, built out of local stone, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding cottages except for their lack of windows or gardens.
I can still remember the mysterious click, clack clack of the connections being made by the banks of levers, knobs & switches - is it my imagination, or were they made of wood?. The romance of imagining all those human connections being made without the need for human intervention ... But how clunky it all seems now, when at the touch of a button on a lap top I can be connected with the other side of the world.
What happened to those exchanges? Have they been demolished? Converted into des res? Do they now house vital bits of the World Wide Web? Or do they just stand as empty echoes of the ghostly clacks of those postwar rural conversations?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Cricket at Lords Tuesday 3 July 1984
I was going through an old commonplace book when I found, tucked away, a few pages torn from an old mini-notebook. I thought I would transfer them to my blog because I rather like the idea of having them floating around in the ether, and also because it was the last time I attended all 5 days of a Test match
.
Another cold overcast morning at Lords - despite Francis Wilsons promise of a bright warm day. I believed him & wore a shirt & strappy t shirt - though took the precaution of packing a cardi &, at the last moment, putting on tights rather than go bare-legged. Thank heavens
This is not turning out to be one of Marshalls better matches. After losing the battle with Botham yesterday he at last managed to dispose of Lamb (c Dujon) with the first ball of his second over today. Only to have young Foster come in & dispatch balls 5&6 for 4 through the covers down to the short Tavern boundary
Marshall is the bowler who seems to give most thought to his fields - redirecting people without always seeming to consult Clive Lloyd
Pringle promptly went during the next over - another lbw
England declare, without further ado, at 300 for 9
Thus saving Willis the bother of batting. He does not look at all his old self - or rather, perhaps thats what he does look. After a very short net this morning he returned to the pavillion looking sweaty - in the face as much as anywhere. A sure sign of someone not at the peak of fitness
Willis had Greenidge worried during his first over - in particular one which was only just kept out of his stumps
Botham too bowled a lively first over to Haynes from the Nursery end
WI 0 for 0 after 2 overs
57 for 1 after 14.1 overs
Haynes unfortunately run out - after being sent back by Greenidge. The decision must have been a close one. Haynes lay prostrate for several seconds. Off Pringles first ball
It is interesting to see who plays the part of bowlers friend. Is this the job of mid-off, or is the friend put at mid-off to do the job?
Gatting adopted the role for Foster: he was particularly noticeable during the over, about 6 after lunch, when Greenidge really got going again
Lamb missed a really hard chance in the covers: Foster, though he jumped quickly, could not even get a finger to a straight drive
Greenidge makes the fielders look like fools because he is such a hard hitter. They dive & seem to get a hand to the ball but still it goes on its way towards if not actually to the boundary
Richards hits the ball through the gaps, Greenidge hits it through the fielders
In the 1920s Chris Broad would have been the answer to many a maidens prayer. Strong square chins however have not been in fashion since the 60s
Lamb plays bowlers friend to Botham though he usually fields no further forward than mid wicket
Willis in his trance has no need for a friend
Mike Brearley joined the ground staff on the Nursery benches in mid afternoon. I didnt see him arrive but I get the distinct impression that he is happier there than he would be in the Pavillion. If only he had a walkie-talkie to Gower
After Gomes has got his eye in & loosens up he seems to grow at least 6 inches taller
Never have I seen them changing the sight screens so often at the Nursery end. It has something to do with Bothams bowling - & of course the left hand/right hand bat combination (Haynes & Greenidge)
One MCC type who came to sit here after lunch was driven to exclaim 'They must be the worst side we have ever had' He wore brown suede shoes with gold buckle fastenings, so his opinions must be suspect
Greenidge making his 200 with a 6 to long fine leg off Foster
To see Richards walk down the ground from the Nursery to the Pavillion after nets you would think he had just got off the boat after 15 months on the raging Main. Still got his sea legs. Landlubbers need not aspire to the heights of batting
If Gomes (or Greenidge) had got out, would Lloyd have come in to bat his final innings at Lords? Pause to sigh for my all-time hero
Coloured clothing must be better, cant be worse, than the miscellaneous collection of so-called whites. Sweaters look almost brown against the over-white synthetic trousers. And someone ought to tell them about the visible panty line
When are the nice men who run Lords going to do something about the PA system at the Nursery end? Its fine - so long as there are not more than twenty people sitting here to deaden the acoustic
forecars
Friday, November 24, 2006
Shelling peas
Childhood memories - we're talking 1950s here. For me the memory of shelling peas provides one of those madeleine moments; it was a communal activity - you, your nan, your mum, your sister (no men), sitting in the sun outside the back door; peas into the saucepan, empty pods & haulm on to a sheet of newspaper later to be wrapped up tidily & deposited in the bin
A pound or two of pods, some flat & green, some fat, some warty, sere & yellow. The plump yellow pods usually provided the fattest palest peas & were easiest to pop; the flat, bright green pods were hard to split open, often had to be torn apart, & frequently provided no peas at all, just minuscule seeds which could not be sloughed into the communal saucepan. But they did provide the guilty treat - guilty because you thought you had to do it without your mother seeing - since they, pods & all, were sweet to eat whilst raw; the idea that we should pay a premium price for mangetout lay in the future
Sometimes, most pleasing of all, the peas were fresh-picked from the sun-drenched summer garden, but more often than not they came from the greengrocer or the market. If it had been a wet week a proportion of the pods were slimy & totally unpoppable; then extra sheets of newspaper were required for wiping the gloop from your fingers as you grappled to salvage a usable number of peas from the pulpy mass of their covering
In winter however, vegetables - especially green ones - were both harder to come by & unappetising. Revolting slimy cabbage (why did nobody know how delicious it could be if briefly cooked or lightly steamed? Was it because the ribs needed to be boiled for half an hour to make them tender, the black slimy leaves just the price you had to pay?) Or sprouts, after the first frost had got to them; the varieties we had then needed frost to ameliorate the bitter taste. Given these choices, winter Sunday dinner often relied on dried peas for that necessary touch of green
The blue sugar-paper bag of shrivelled, alas NOT sugar, peas from the grocer usually contained a flat wrapped tablet of sodium bicarbonate. You had to soak the peas in plain water overnight; then the bicarb would, if added during the boiling, restore a pleasing shade of green & stop them from turning yellow & sulphurous; some argued that this came at the price of destroying the flavour
Tasty or not, dried peas were spectacularly fart-inducing, especially in the dog, whose own Sunday treat consisted of the scrapings from our plates - cold roast potatoes (the hard bits), congealed gravy &, overwhelmingy, bullet peas
Then came the day we were introduced to frozen peas. As is the case with so many innovations, especially the convenient ones, they were attacked as depraved, immoral, not nearly as good for you as those communally shelled ones which we had before (from time immemorial). It did not help that frozen peas were the favoured accompaniment to that other invention of the devil which was corrupting our childrens tastes & eating habits - the fish finger. In vain, at least in those early days, did the manufacturers protest the nutritional superiority of peas picked & frozen within hours compared with peas which sat for days on the market stall or in the greengrocers shop, albeit in their pods. Uniformity, green intensity, MUST be less natural, & therefore less good than, the spectrum of variety from fat/warty/yellow to thin/flat/green
But we got used to frozen peas, & fish fingers would now, in some quarters at least, be considered infinitely superior to anything MacDonalds has to offer. Their familiarity perhaps explains why they are now faintly out of fashion. On the other hand it may be just that the difficulty of eating peas, in these days of finger foods, has led to their decline
Peas have not totally had it however. They have subtly gone upmarket in these days of ready-prepared. I still remember how decadent I felt when I bought my first plastic tray of 'fresh' shelled peas from M&S. They cost about £1, itself a sinful sum. They allowed me to avoid the physical labour of shelling & the intellectual labour of deciding which were edible; they lacked variety, were uniformly green, round & perfectly formed. They tasted delicious
Is there a moral to this story? it certainly tracks important changes in society since I was a child in the 1940s & 50s. Division of labour, for one; instead of growing peas in your own garden or buying them in their pods from the market, then shelling them as a communal family activity, they now come grown & harvested, selected & shelled, prepared (probably in Africa), ready for 5 minutes cooking, or less in the microwave. This new division of labour has been made possible by the development of air transport & concomitant expansion in methods of communication - supermarket managers need fairly instant methods of making known how much & how many they want & where they want them
Women work outside the home & cant, or dont want to, waste time shelling peas. And then there is the matter of choice; all of us, even very young children, have got used to deciding, almost then & there, what we want to eat, rather than being told to eat up - for the sake of starving children in Africa! - whatever Mum has decided to cook for tea at 5 o'clock. Its like having servants, without the stress of havimg them there to observe your sins & foibles
Should we worry about all this? What about the pollution from the planes busily transporting these peas? What happens to all those empty pods, haulm, peas which are the wrong shape or colour? Is their disposal better or worse - for the planet, for gods sake - than what happened when we used to put all the bits in the dustbin & send them to landfill? If waste is minimised, for example by ensuring that the peas all grow to the requisite shape & size, are we interfering dangerously with Natures variety? Even if we dont use GM methods?
Are we exploiting African labour, or do jobs in the pea fields & factories offer a more dignified way of life than that which the workers had before, or than that which used to be on offer to domestic servants in this country? Is it better to serve others at a (maybe considerable) distance, in return for a wage or salary, rather than serve them intimately, responding to their instant whims?
Has anything good replaced that communal pea shelling?
Well yes, if you live in the present & look to the future. The Sainsburys in Hazel Grove is open late, cafe & all, fresh peas in plastic trays & all, bus stop outside, easily accessible to those without cars, gives us many more options in the way we live our lives. I just hope that, by some process of symbiosis, this will also help improve the lives of others employed in the process. It seems better, less condescending, simply to enjoy the peas than to gush over 'their' wonderfully crafted textiles for which I pay more than I would in a commercial shop because I want to give them a slightly greater proportion of what would otherwise be 'profit', thus giving them less opportunity to build a life, dependent on divided labour, such as the one I lead
A pound or two of pods, some flat & green, some fat, some warty, sere & yellow. The plump yellow pods usually provided the fattest palest peas & were easiest to pop; the flat, bright green pods were hard to split open, often had to be torn apart, & frequently provided no peas at all, just minuscule seeds which could not be sloughed into the communal saucepan. But they did provide the guilty treat - guilty because you thought you had to do it without your mother seeing - since they, pods & all, were sweet to eat whilst raw; the idea that we should pay a premium price for mangetout lay in the future
Sometimes, most pleasing of all, the peas were fresh-picked from the sun-drenched summer garden, but more often than not they came from the greengrocer or the market. If it had been a wet week a proportion of the pods were slimy & totally unpoppable; then extra sheets of newspaper were required for wiping the gloop from your fingers as you grappled to salvage a usable number of peas from the pulpy mass of their covering
In winter however, vegetables - especially green ones - were both harder to come by & unappetising. Revolting slimy cabbage (why did nobody know how delicious it could be if briefly cooked or lightly steamed? Was it because the ribs needed to be boiled for half an hour to make them tender, the black slimy leaves just the price you had to pay?) Or sprouts, after the first frost had got to them; the varieties we had then needed frost to ameliorate the bitter taste. Given these choices, winter Sunday dinner often relied on dried peas for that necessary touch of green
The blue sugar-paper bag of shrivelled, alas NOT sugar, peas from the grocer usually contained a flat wrapped tablet of sodium bicarbonate. You had to soak the peas in plain water overnight; then the bicarb would, if added during the boiling, restore a pleasing shade of green & stop them from turning yellow & sulphurous; some argued that this came at the price of destroying the flavour
Tasty or not, dried peas were spectacularly fart-inducing, especially in the dog, whose own Sunday treat consisted of the scrapings from our plates - cold roast potatoes (the hard bits), congealed gravy &, overwhelmingy, bullet peas
Then came the day we were introduced to frozen peas. As is the case with so many innovations, especially the convenient ones, they were attacked as depraved, immoral, not nearly as good for you as those communally shelled ones which we had before (from time immemorial). It did not help that frozen peas were the favoured accompaniment to that other invention of the devil which was corrupting our childrens tastes & eating habits - the fish finger. In vain, at least in those early days, did the manufacturers protest the nutritional superiority of peas picked & frozen within hours compared with peas which sat for days on the market stall or in the greengrocers shop, albeit in their pods. Uniformity, green intensity, MUST be less natural, & therefore less good than, the spectrum of variety from fat/warty/yellow to thin/flat/green
But we got used to frozen peas, & fish fingers would now, in some quarters at least, be considered infinitely superior to anything MacDonalds has to offer. Their familiarity perhaps explains why they are now faintly out of fashion. On the other hand it may be just that the difficulty of eating peas, in these days of finger foods, has led to their decline
Peas have not totally had it however. They have subtly gone upmarket in these days of ready-prepared. I still remember how decadent I felt when I bought my first plastic tray of 'fresh' shelled peas from M&S. They cost about £1, itself a sinful sum. They allowed me to avoid the physical labour of shelling & the intellectual labour of deciding which were edible; they lacked variety, were uniformly green, round & perfectly formed. They tasted delicious
Is there a moral to this story? it certainly tracks important changes in society since I was a child in the 1940s & 50s. Division of labour, for one; instead of growing peas in your own garden or buying them in their pods from the market, then shelling them as a communal family activity, they now come grown & harvested, selected & shelled, prepared (probably in Africa), ready for 5 minutes cooking, or less in the microwave. This new division of labour has been made possible by the development of air transport & concomitant expansion in methods of communication - supermarket managers need fairly instant methods of making known how much & how many they want & where they want them
Women work outside the home & cant, or dont want to, waste time shelling peas. And then there is the matter of choice; all of us, even very young children, have got used to deciding, almost then & there, what we want to eat, rather than being told to eat up - for the sake of starving children in Africa! - whatever Mum has decided to cook for tea at 5 o'clock. Its like having servants, without the stress of havimg them there to observe your sins & foibles
Should we worry about all this? What about the pollution from the planes busily transporting these peas? What happens to all those empty pods, haulm, peas which are the wrong shape or colour? Is their disposal better or worse - for the planet, for gods sake - than what happened when we used to put all the bits in the dustbin & send them to landfill? If waste is minimised, for example by ensuring that the peas all grow to the requisite shape & size, are we interfering dangerously with Natures variety? Even if we dont use GM methods?
Are we exploiting African labour, or do jobs in the pea fields & factories offer a more dignified way of life than that which the workers had before, or than that which used to be on offer to domestic servants in this country? Is it better to serve others at a (maybe considerable) distance, in return for a wage or salary, rather than serve them intimately, responding to their instant whims?
Has anything good replaced that communal pea shelling?
Well yes, if you live in the present & look to the future. The Sainsburys in Hazel Grove is open late, cafe & all, fresh peas in plastic trays & all, bus stop outside, easily accessible to those without cars, gives us many more options in the way we live our lives. I just hope that, by some process of symbiosis, this will also help improve the lives of others employed in the process. It seems better, less condescending, simply to enjoy the peas than to gush over 'their' wonderfully crafted textiles for which I pay more than I would in a commercial shop because I want to give them a slightly greater proportion of what would otherwise be 'profit', thus giving them less opportunity to build a life, dependent on divided labour, such as the one I lead
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Quantum words
Theres probably a proper (or at least an existing) term for this. I just made it up for words which can hold completely opposite meanings, are their own antonym, can be in two places at once
Wan: can mean dark or pale. I heard someone somewhere once explain that the old English word for dark acquired new meaning after the Black Death
Before can also mean behind. 'The prospect before her' is obviously in front. 'Before I came into the room' is obviously behind. Perhaps Einstein can explain this confusion of space & time
Federal in England means being ordered around by a supra-national power. In Germany it means that central government cannot tell the lande what to do. In the USA it means that state rights are jealously guarded
Wan: can mean dark or pale. I heard someone somewhere once explain that the old English word for dark acquired new meaning after the Black Death
Before can also mean behind. 'The prospect before her' is obviously in front. 'Before I came into the room' is obviously behind. Perhaps Einstein can explain this confusion of space & time
Federal in England means being ordered around by a supra-national power. In Germany it means that central government cannot tell the lande what to do. In the USA it means that state rights are jealously guarded
humbergris
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Perspicacity
I was just re-reading my commonplace book for 1997 & came across the following quotation from Theodore Porters admirable book Trust in Numbers:
'As an abstract proposition, rigorous standards promote public responsibility & may very well contribute to accountability, even to democracy. But if the real goals of public action must be set aside so that officials may be judged against standards that miss the point, something important has been lost. The drive to eliminate trust & judgement from the public domain will never succeed. Possibly it is worse than futile'
Which I had annotated:
'cf the need to find politicians we can trust [Blair, Clinton, Reagan] even if, especially if, they dont actually do much?'
How perceptive of me (!)
'As an abstract proposition, rigorous standards promote public responsibility & may very well contribute to accountability, even to democracy. But if the real goals of public action must be set aside so that officials may be judged against standards that miss the point, something important has been lost. The drive to eliminate trust & judgement from the public domain will never succeed. Possibly it is worse than futile'
Which I had annotated:
'cf the need to find politicians we can trust [Blair, Clinton, Reagan] even if, especially if, they dont actually do much?'
How perceptive of me (!)
arglot
Friday, November 17, 2006
Tony Blairs Bad Hair Day
I am actually starting to feel a bit sorry for the man. You can hear the strain & depression in his voice, his hair has receded still further &, in my opinion, it looks as if he is now wearing something akin to a full wig rather than just a top piece. Just look at the photo on p35 of The Times 16 November - you can see the 'hair line' going round to the back of his neck with his sideburns peeking through. The Times has also helpfully provided a series of then & now pictures for comparison
pippadom
Tony Blairs black day
Conservatives have only just begun to recover from Black Wednesday, the day when Norman Lamont appeared on late night tv to explain how we had just fallen out of the erm or whtever it was called then. The country just quietly turned its back & let them get on with it, whatever
I believe the equivalent happened to Tony Blair on the day it was revealed that he, personally, participated in the switch from donations to loans. In that sense the details & legal niceties, whether charges will be laid, matter not one jot. Here is this aw shucks Im a good guy I am, who promised an end to sleaze, promised to make us feel good about ourselves, knowingly cicumventing his own law.
Yea, yea, Tony, whatever you say.
Has he gone yet, Ethel?
I believe the equivalent happened to Tony Blair on the day it was revealed that he, personally, participated in the switch from donations to loans. In that sense the details & legal niceties, whether charges will be laid, matter not one jot. Here is this aw shucks Im a good guy I am, who promised an end to sleaze, promised to make us feel good about ourselves, knowingly cicumventing his own law.
Yea, yea, Tony, whatever you say.
Has he gone yet, Ethel?
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Did I say that?
.
Copying & change are the fundamental processes
Genes hold the secret of life but not of living
Patients have problems, not complaints
Translation - like forgery - always shows its age
I cant understand what you say unless I already know what you mean
Art is a way of making you see
Everybody wants to be special but no one wants to be different
If ends justify means then the future justifies the past
All logic fails when pushed to its logical confusion
My body is just the space I move around in
'Originality is just another word for faulty memory' - John Patterson, Guardian Guide 28/6/1998
Copying & change are the fundamental processes
Genes hold the secret of life but not of living
Patients have problems, not complaints
Translation - like forgery - always shows its age
I cant understand what you say unless I already know what you mean
Art is a way of making you see
Everybody wants to be special but no one wants to be different
If ends justify means then the future justifies the past
All logic fails when pushed to its logical confusion
My body is just the space I move around in
'Originality is just another word for faulty memory' - John Patterson, Guardian Guide 28/6/1998
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