tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66449181266887217882024-03-18T09:14:44.304+00:00TONE DEAFRoderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.comBlogger1392125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-79146188017669899602024-03-11T11:14:00.000+00:002024-03-11T11:14:25.749+00:00Larry's first - inauspicious - steps<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL06FAAW2i1nxIwEhEMXFFyk54t5nCboYdo7UTFUZS7BnScFIAL9Ofzs9UOtq1b1zO9YJ_3AXr6DEYoWNDh0rNLgeikohiU3RdjHOyftPcbDJ5QZ-dFQGIJNBfjtlm-BeGmkGPsFW7G97JwMyPYsDQqQoat7_Jgr1ah4E9wxHP9ZIpKrUP1zNnGAgas2o/s202/Tesco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="76" data-original-width="202" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL06FAAW2i1nxIwEhEMXFFyk54t5nCboYdo7UTFUZS7BnScFIAL9Ofzs9UOtq1b1zO9YJ_3AXr6DEYoWNDh0rNLgeikohiU3RdjHOyftPcbDJ5QZ-dFQGIJNBfjtlm-BeGmkGPsFW7G97JwMyPYsDQqQoat7_Jgr1ah4E9wxHP9ZIpKrUP1zNnGAgas2o/s1600/Tesco.jpg" width="202" /></a></div>The idea was to write a short story that hilariously examined the hazards of computer dating. The extract below doesn’t even touch on this since, beforehand, readers must “know” the central character. He has to be a real not a cardboard cut-out. Meet Larry.<p></p><p>However readers of the eventual short story do have one advantage – they know that a “date” will be forthcoming. The italic paras start to hint at what sort of a man Larry is.</p><p><i>Months ago the shopping lists were scribbled in pencil. Then, carefully, in pen. Then in pen and in capital letters. Then enlarged on the laptop and printed out on a full A4 sheet. Ma saying, “You can’t snivel now even if you do forget your glasses.”</i></p><p><i>But glasses didn’t solve all Larry’s problems. Potatoes were of course potatoes. And tooth-paste was tooth-paste. But what was Ainsley Harriot lemon grass? Last week he’d returned home lacking this very item, defeated, terrified of asking a shelf-stacker in case he made a fool of himself. Ma had shrieked her displeasure, grabbed the car keys and stamped off.</i></p><p><i>Back in ten minutes, still angry. At least she hadn’t insisted Larry walked back to Tesco. She could have.</i></p><p>I’m a Brit and this is a British story using a native vocabulary. In the past US readers of Tone Deaf have flapped their hands and wondered what certain words and locutions mean. Most Brits managed to read The Bridge of San Luis Rey, Cannery Row, and the Rabbit tetralogy without external help. Try Google if you must. Better still, visit us.</p><p><span style="color: red;">Story progress: 792 words written; 3200 words (approx.) to go</span></p><div><br /></div>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-71162579060949218852024-03-04T02:44:00.005+00:002024-03-04T02:44:54.479+00:00Larry's agony: progress report 1<p>Larry's progress towards his computerised date (See previous post) now stands at 774 words. For Larry to be comic I find he must suffer. Abominably. With so much suffering yet to come. Yet I made Larry; must I dislike him? For another 2500 words at least? Well, I have him wearing a most inappropriate suit and that's a start</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-26395954593861245582024-02-25T11:02:00.001+00:002024-02-25T11:07:31.026+00:00Would you dare do it?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG22vM2PjfMQuji-WBjprT0qu26CZku2L6cG26M40PA6VPDTHwDgT2pyj_pHg7boB5xewG7og9OKwLIlkZodQCjbAQ7vS-OchwKwjvq9RAQtQdMZTfIqRbzDecKps463iroGvEx4BTEALOOi-qveTzOizgloaiwC6PEGfuNwZVpHaWXQ91pbLVmoc-C_M/s312/Dating.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="312" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG22vM2PjfMQuji-WBjprT0qu26CZku2L6cG26M40PA6VPDTHwDgT2pyj_pHg7boB5xewG7og9OKwLIlkZodQCjbAQ7vS-OchwKwjvq9RAQtQdMZTfIqRbzDecKps463iroGvEx4BTEALOOi-qveTzOizgloaiwC6PEGfuNwZVpHaWXQ91pbLVmoc-C_M/s1600/Dating.png" width="312" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">Who'll carve the chicken?</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Not that I’m intending to, but suppose I joined a dating agency. Two problems: (1) Apart from being married I’m not tempted. (2) If I simply imagined the event – fictionally – I would be cheating: it could go anyway I chose – high comedy or profound tragedy.</p><p>So I'd have to pretend I was desperate. Which is difficult; like most adults I strenuously resist desperation as a life mode. This week’s <i>Guardian</i> magazine carries many such encounters and most depict a civilised evening meal <i>à deux</i>. But elsewhere I read that many such manufactured dates end badly.</p><p>Down to basics. It’s not just me, there’s my algorithm-chosen partner. Who could quite possibly be desperate too. Hmm. I see why that could end badly.</p><p>So, suppose I, or she, recognised the other’s desperation and sought to reach out, to help? And the evening became an exercise in sociological caring. Seems unlikely, too pat.</p><p>Is there an alternative to desperation? Curiosity, say. In fact a project similar to a day out of my previous professional life. The difference being the ultimate aim: then I was after information, today I would be looking for what? Emotional expansion covering friendship as well as something more meaty.</p><p>The more I think the more I envisage a disaster arriving with the starters. My default state is to ask questions – they fill in awkward gaps. But VR, among others, has warned me that not everyone responds well to being interrogated. Nor do they respond enthusiastically when urged to ask their own questions.</p><p>Having started this hare (It’s a phrase they have in the Airedale Beagles, <i>qv</i>) I’m maliciously attracted towards a hilarious short story treatment. Fictional but funny. Perhaps I could discuss that over the dinner table. Offering to share the byline.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-42567841645652432212024-02-17T19:18:00.000+00:002024-02-17T19:18:04.533+00:00Some progress; could do better<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkFH_i5mMhofTs5ZzQ5SfZf3N-nmFO_Ry11NdNeNL6N8dpMKecWe2Eq2xcxsLdrP4LWCJn0mRLKdd22hDLNS6B4To809dVLDbI5hqJTSE3HR-3T7XprvgjNr_Ja8ffVHEebKY4YIkXkba2btJjs65kgBtc9aDm3XFConYGCCHoI6ePsSGDZsx1KKcaQw/s204/Gluck.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="150" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkFH_i5mMhofTs5ZzQ5SfZf3N-nmFO_Ry11NdNeNL6N8dpMKecWe2Eq2xcxsLdrP4LWCJn0mRLKdd22hDLNS6B4To809dVLDbI5hqJTSE3HR-3T7XprvgjNr_Ja8ffVHEebKY4YIkXkba2btJjs65kgBtc9aDm3XFConYGCCHoI6ePsSGDZsx1KKcaQw/s1600/Gluck.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>In Saturday’s Guardian magazine some bookish person or other is traditionally subjected to a set of questions. Not all answers seem entirely truthful; may even be self-serving. Do I also tell fibs?<p></p><p><b>My earliest reading memory</b></p><p>At primary school the class had <i>Mr and Mrs Peg</i> readers with green covers; mine was red, the only one. I was more or less left to my own devices. At home my mother read me Arthur Ransome’s <i>Swallows and Amazons</i>. Dimly – I think – I perceived these young people were “growing up”.</p><p><b>The book that changed my mind.</b></p><p>Aged ten or eleven I was lent a Peter Cheyney <i>“Saint”</i> thriller (title forgotten). Again, the details are vague, but I wanted to read more because of the style in which it was written. Laconic, mainly. I recognised style in later books by other authors.</p><p><b>The book that made me want to be a writer</b></p><p>I’ve always disliked novels about novel writers. Saw them as cop-outs from sedentary males who rarely stirred out of their mancaves. Raymond Chandler’s <i>The High Window</i> transfixed me by treating grim events humorously, managing to be moralistic without being pious. Much later came <i>Ulysses</i>, an infinity of possibilities, the unattainable goal.</p><p><b>The book I discovered late in life</b></p><p>Very late in life came poetry (other than Shakespeare) and with it Louise Gluck’s <i>Poems 1962 -2012.</i> Simple, even mundane, material becomes plutonium.</p><p><b>The book I’m currently reading</b></p><p>Wayne Barne’s <i>Throwing the Book</i>. He’s a retired rugby football referee. (Also a barrister). No great shakes as a writer but there are truths even in sport. And commercialism is one of sport’s untruths. Nothing in it for anyone who is unaware of Ireland’s present predominance in rugby. As Walt Whitman said: my life is full of contradictions </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-58908881264734006452024-02-14T18:13:00.001+00:002024-02-14T18:14:31.634+00:00Who we are and what we do - now<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXkLMKmcNK9GdwPK2VdNNv7Ei6dm5NAXiNh2sOFd5VPwAInew4P4wW1tT6aT2-sOGM-qqKqAGYCChyphenhyphen-ntM0NEonu70KLuyeYNB8wNlXRJnXaIHPnbpd3JH6OMRVUNBNfI9Rvossl8z_kNadGnTjL3oSeM9mh3XUn5WfC9hXOBmo0XtaCV8Owk6TP7IlY/s2628/Wheelchair.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2628" data-original-width="2235" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXkLMKmcNK9GdwPK2VdNNv7Ei6dm5NAXiNh2sOFd5VPwAInew4P4wW1tT6aT2-sOGM-qqKqAGYCChyphenhyphen-ntM0NEonu70KLuyeYNB8wNlXRJnXaIHPnbpd3JH6OMRVUNBNfI9Rvossl8z_kNadGnTjL3oSeM9mh3XUn5WfC9hXOBmo0XtaCV8Owk6TP7IlY/s320/Wheelchair.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">"Bags of space", said the Mobility saleswoman,</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">as we assessed VR's bum width against the</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">wheelchair seat. Should make France more</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">explorable, if we get there this year</span></i></div></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Drove VR to Mobility to check whether her backside fitted the seat of a wheelchair I’d chosen. Wheelchairs can cost thousands; this was secondhand, priced at £50 (“one careful user”). It fitted. Driving back I listened to the familiar lilt of Beethoven’s Spring sonata for violin and piano. Improving the afternoon gloom.</p><p>Reflecting: This had been a trip “outside”, something mildly different, a forty-minute treat. Breaks in the routine are rare.</p><p>If you flitted round us at home you’d conclude ours is a very dull life. Tangible silence; VR downstairs, same easy chair, reading her Kindle for hours with leisure breaks of FreeCell. Me upstairs, grinding out the words, fidgeting Solitaire.</p><p>Bursts of incompetence as I prepare brunch and sometimes an evening snack. Cursing a spoon falling from arthritic fingers. Food no longer a major priority. A modest glass or two in the evening. Often a foreign movie on Netflix or Amazon Prime (free, courtesy of grand-daughter and daughter).</p><p>VR’s illness hinders talk so we choose subjects carefully, using a minimum of words. VR damns her reduced mobility. Recalls childhood memories in précis. Thanks me for my burnt offerings. Says she’s lucky to have me. Once – A veritable thunderclap! – says I’ve still retained some looks so why don’t I find someone else? I’m speechless. And undeserved.</p><p>I summarise what I’ve read and what I’ve written. Speaking loudly. Sigh heavily when mealtimes roll round. Make a big deal out of “doing” the garden while only planning to weed a couple of pots. Most days I visit Tesco, on foot if I may, by car if there are too many bottles.</p><p>We can live comfortably without chat. That’s when I inspect VR’s lined face with enormous affection, a gentle and cumulative delight.</p><p>Dull? Let’s say private.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-92028172073399413532024-02-10T08:44:00.002+00:002024-02-10T08:44:45.510+00:00Members of the same club, say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PGnEWlzdvpCzPdsrx6MKsVBP_AX7OwazMlfm6VENZ8ijBWeWywC5VUuip3x4Wd0MNflEu2lrjQiMu8Cw4Gv4TXHp-YcjGNoHLXTfPXOT_sgQCMYz_LhPWvTWYeXJq7ashFy65Bo0D3KdrIfjWQIllkr0VN8QEY2O5qDCVoEj6E4v64RjYNMkHIG-VGw/s224/Charles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="224" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PGnEWlzdvpCzPdsrx6MKsVBP_AX7OwazMlfm6VENZ8ijBWeWywC5VUuip3x4Wd0MNflEu2lrjQiMu8Cw4Gv4TXHp-YcjGNoHLXTfPXOT_sgQCMYz_LhPWvTWYeXJq7ashFy65Bo0D3KdrIfjWQIllkr0VN8QEY2O5qDCVoEj6E4v64RjYNMkHIG-VGw/s1600/Charles.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><p>Our comparatively new king, Charles III, and I have something in common: a malady disguised by many a euphemism (Note: that’s a five-dollar word to comfort those who find reality too harsh). I think the USA invented Big C. Certainly it was a US movie – the first version of Ocean’s Eleven back in the sixties – which launched The Big Casino.</p><p>Charles was complimented for going public. A good sport, having received, as it were, an invitation to a party few wanted to attend. Fair enough. Previously the UK royal family only contracted anonymous ailments. None that I know of ever suffered the indignity of haemorrhoids. Too hard to spell.</p><p>The popular UK newspapers handled this news gruesomely, making me queasy. I wanted to give you a flavour of their glutinous sentiments but the Internet was silent.</p><p>More than that, the apocalyptic tone employed in referring to cancer. The sheer horror, etc. As if the word itself was infectious.</p><p>So why do I find myself distanced by this news? Maybe because I’m more than a decade older than Charles. The younger you are the more horrified the response, it seems.</p><p>But let’s get one thing straight. Forget all misapplied references to anything like “courage”. The surgeon dispensing my first diagnosis was quite gruff. I idly wondered (aloud) whether any hacking and/or cutting would be worth submitting to. He became gruffer, promised me “a miserable death” if I discounted surgery. Good on him.</p><p>Was I being philosophical? Better cancer than Alzheimers? Perhaps. Fact is I surprised myself; truly there are more interesting things to think about. How to improve my singing timbre. Giving Tone Deaf wider appeal. Cancer stuff is terribly predictable and I hate being obvious.</p><p>Charles has gone into medical purdah. Pity. Couple of questions I could ask. </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-79471073041442072972024-02-05T08:24:00.004+00:002024-02-10T08:49:12.727+00:00Time like an ever-rolling stream...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuQJHAjt0g5licPCzON7vU5rFQ-cmtVQydZywmwINkq_X_Y-_9poerUrfSniN8c-m56qvn8iNzUlfUjydgnL1ubey-tVcsn4myqS8XW36Ec_Q6n5RaN_NvEVTtu6w105u7nh8ESncGm4iuYCdbVLoGXvz6EHhfiCFsyQn-lHmQyArOpwD6_R9ZSCucmM/s300/Empty%20stage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuQJHAjt0g5licPCzON7vU5rFQ-cmtVQydZywmwINkq_X_Y-_9poerUrfSniN8c-m56qvn8iNzUlfUjydgnL1ubey-tVcsn4myqS8XW36Ec_Q6n5RaN_NvEVTtu6w105u7nh8ESncGm4iuYCdbVLoGXvz6EHhfiCFsyQn-lHmQyArOpwD6_R9ZSCucmM/s1600/Empty%20stage.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Some time ago I swore a private oath I wouldn’t post about old age. And here I go – reluctantly, I admit – breaking that private oath.</p><p>Today is Monday, the beginning of another week. You want numbers? It’s the 4576th week of my life. A meaningless figure but not a meaningless day. Since January 2016, 8.30 on Monday morning has signalled Singing Lesson! the reaffirmation of a late yet very positive phase of my long life. Gilded gates opening on a difficult but rewarding activity which had previously seemed as impenetrable as the rationale of logarithms, a willingness to accept the fictional existence of Bilbo Baggins, or a defence of the British royal family.</p><p>Singing lessons started in my eightieth year and all of a sudden I realise that was some time ago. In the interim I’ve got older and feebler. Never has the passage of time been so evident as when I struggled to get out of bed an hour ago. The creaky structure that is my body whined and groaned.</p><p>Today, even the prospect of singing lacks encouragement. In the way of things V and I will be tackling my most difficult song yet, <i>Der Neugierige</i>, sixth in Schubert’s <i>Schöne Müllerin</i> song cycle. Yes, yes, I know. There’ve been other “most difficult” songs and now they’re merely part of the repertoire. Eventually I’ll crack this one and all will be well.</p><p>But the effort to do so will be just that little more demanding. As was getting out of bed. I re-focus on my life and see it as a race against – What? – oblivion, of course. I need to achieve and go on achieving. Until the lid on the grand piano is lowered and the stage is empty.</p><p>On. On. But more slowly. Uh, uh… On.</p><p><b><span style="color: red;">POST SCRIPTUM. Disregard the old-age pessimism above. V was in top form with Der Neugierige, planed out the difficulties and I sang loudly and confidently. Music is the GREATEST specific against death's imminence. I feel no more than seventy-five.</span></b></p><p><span style="color: red;"><b>Lessons usually end with V "warming me down" (ie, familiar easy phrases). Not today. She said, "Let's just end with memories of the Schubert".</b></span></p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-91693880507776283652024-01-31T18:01:00.004+00:002024-01-31T18:01:33.522+00:00Elusive yet ever present<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOpF6f9fzm-F1ucRqmSQtonbePXWw-lCmPf2fv4VZkxgLtXsryIJb-jqjmDJrVIUli3PWNG1JHYkAixAXyvqKQoGx9sBL_Vx4RYJGomR3IqFdveNezipAPLbEnoLoag-vo0d5CzEXwIjj8TrSvxQmMDIfPERGyzsWpyfJDYh9-P6W8PmvFvXn4tCUre4/s329/Sine%20waves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="329" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOpF6f9fzm-F1ucRqmSQtonbePXWw-lCmPf2fv4VZkxgLtXsryIJb-jqjmDJrVIUli3PWNG1JHYkAixAXyvqKQoGx9sBL_Vx4RYJGomR3IqFdveNezipAPLbEnoLoag-vo0d5CzEXwIjj8TrSvxQmMDIfPERGyzsWpyfJDYh9-P6W8PmvFvXn4tCUre4/s320/Sine%20waves.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>There are words we’ve used all our adult lives, regularly, sometimes more than once a day, which have never been explained to us and we’ve never checked in the dictionary. Yet we use them confidently and unquestioningly</p><p>Today’s word is “thought”? So what is it?</p><p>A thing that occurs in our brain? True but childishly incomplete. Blood flows through our brain. Electric impulses pass by. Confirmation is received that what we’ve just experienced is a smell, an image, pain, etc. Thought helps make sense of a fact remembered.</p><p>Thought sounds as if might be static; in fact it can be a sequence. Rather marvellously, a thought may start out as a problem and end up as a solution. Even more marvellously, thought allows us to come to conclusions about ourselves that are unique, known nowhere else.</p><p>Thought helps us judge the outside world, saying what’s good and what’s bad. And we – using thought – may define how good is good and how bad is bad.</p><p>We may apply thought to simple visible things – a vacuum cleaner, an earring, a hamburger – or things that are theoretical and therefore invisible – politics, charity, forgetfulness. In some cases these latter abstractions may even take on unbidden shapes and colours; thus we have a green opinion about philately.</p><p>We may convert thought into other forms which others may examine. As with this post I’m writing.</p><p>And we may think about thought itself. See it as an asset even a friend. Except that thought isn’t always beneficial, it may develop strengths and uncontrollably impose itself on us, making us uncomfortable.</p><p>It could be that our thoughts are our greatest quality. Or our worst. It can help if we exercise our thoughts, making them fitter for the job.</p><p>Why not consider that final sentence? Thoughtfully.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-56047935972718301642024-01-28T17:12:00.003+00:002024-01-28T17:12:33.112+00:00Drowning in ignorance<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQPKpPxkrCiHogcMOyQdTUUixCHOegVffOzQOcXMZx55XUUh8uKTAzLU60UEKPN_FYII-en-owkx_Ff7a9QPQ_POSGRLJQvO8TeRPkAeNn_-DcR6DUw46XEROwvdUGKAMN7giVGRR2GufNWVtouNdb246woOqTXueY-g8dLayXyULxyciqGnSG74C94M/s1836/Heavy%20jumper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><span style="color: red;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1419" data-original-width="1836" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQPKpPxkrCiHogcMOyQdTUUixCHOegVffOzQOcXMZx55XUUh8uKTAzLU60UEKPN_FYII-en-owkx_Ff7a9QPQ_POSGRLJQvO8TeRPkAeNn_-DcR6DUw46XEROwvdUGKAMN7giVGRR2GufNWVtouNdb246woOqTXueY-g8dLayXyULxyciqGnSG74C94M/s320/Heavy%20jumper.jpg" width="320" /></span></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: red;">Chosen as dark grey for an obvious reason</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><b>Needs an answer (NAA)</b> 1. My Skoda was bought in 2016. Due to the pandemic and various medical imperatives it has only travelled 50,000 miles. Regularly serviced, it is always garaged at night and the engine starts up first whir. The battery is original; should I change the battery now or wait until I find myself cursing?</p><p><b>NAA 2.</b> I have worn this heavy jumper (see pic) continuously since early autumn 2023. Still unwashed. When will it become, unmistakably, a social disaster?</p><p><b>NAA 3</b>. At my own request I was given Barbra Streisand’s autobiography for Christmas. The turgidity of <i>Long Hard Road</i> (<b><i>qv</i></b>) has delayed my tackling her but I’m now done with lithium-ion stuff. Barbra runs to 970 pages and weighs 1.3 kg. I have a damaged rh shoulder; has anyone any appropriate ergonomic advice to counter future stresses? </p><p><b>NAA 4</b>. Only sympathetic responses for this one. My op for mouth cancer in August 2021 left me with weakened muscles at the lh end of my mouth. Putting things bluntly – when I drink, I dribble at the left. Any suggestions?</p><p><b>NAA 5</b>. Here you need to know what a stud-wall is. Suppose you wanted to hang a picture (weighing, say, 1 kg) on such a wall. What hook fitment would be guaranteed secure? Note: the one that opens up as a parallelogram when tightened isn’t – in my late mother-in-law’s words – “worth a light”. Also, finding and screwing into the stud-wall’s solid framework is beyond my diagnostic competence. </p><p><b>NAA 6</b>. Should all outdoor pot-plants, withered into crackly brownness by the first sharp frost, be cropped down to, say, 10 cm?</p><p><b>NAA 7</b>. Why am I the only wine-drinker on Earth who knows that whites from the Southern Rhone succeed best in the cost/flavour equation? </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-3540783557052934262024-01-21T16:05:00.005+00:002024-01-21T16:05:43.869+00:00Roles reversed; results rotten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPNBwqYVNCiJJXwIjMi17HquezKrDiPjWKc-Hh2oBA_9uQiaxoaSr03P9W4a4VZts0wHptHrVtooXpke5GQI-ERbB1NKXcAuHr_7CXzuF5M73hkBCwih06EIL9_SzsamXzP7v5cnGoyXDWRGqCf_OKW00cl8zAj88aNi8_Jkjf60rG6JhS3xbROMqsUg/s275/Pan%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPNBwqYVNCiJJXwIjMi17HquezKrDiPjWKc-Hh2oBA_9uQiaxoaSr03P9W4a4VZts0wHptHrVtooXpke5GQI-ERbB1NKXcAuHr_7CXzuF5M73hkBCwih06EIL9_SzsamXzP7v5cnGoyXDWRGqCf_OKW00cl8zAj88aNi8_Jkjf60rG6JhS3xbROMqsUg/s1600/Pan%20copy.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>For sixty-two years VR fed me. A year ago illness descended; since then I’ve fed her. Not with any distinction, I should add. Luckily she is an utterly uncomplaining diner and I fear I’ve got away with culinary murder.</p><p>I’d like to say I’ve cooked for her but that would be a gross fib. More precisely I’ve – sort of – prepared food. And when I’m sure I’ve served something that doesn’t visibly make her gip I tend to repeat it. Over and over.</p><p>If this sounds heartless, the alternative is unthinkable. Two days ago I did a mushroom-based stir-fry with boned chicken thighs to give it relevance. One sears the chicken, doesn’t one? I asked. VR nodded. However the maximum tolerable gap between “seared” and “over-seared” is measured in milliseconds. A whiff of conflagration sent my heart into my boots. The underneath of a test piece of chicken turned out to be jet black And oh, oh, so bitter to taste. Yet VR ate her portion stoically and in silence.</p><p>I can’t pretend I enjoy turning out meals. For one thing I always forget to retrieve stuff from the freezer in good time. This results in lengthy experiments with the microwave’s Defrost function suggesting it would be more productive if I simply breathed on the mini-iceberg.</p><p>Also I’m continuously harassed. Meals are all about time’s wingèd chariot and its speeds are variable. I try to imagine the degrees of synchronicity that would be needed to bring a full roast dinner (Rare beef, roast potatoes, green beans, sprouts and gravy.) to the table – simultaneously and properly cooked. Syncope just around the corner.</p><p>Plus, of course, guilt. VR has performed such tasks over six decades with great skill. Pro-tem I’m spending more on our mutually shared wine cellar.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-33216208212804361632024-01-16T18:12:00.001+00:002024-01-16T18:12:47.774+00:00Picking up the threads. Or not?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxaNYhjSNnOOq5qUx8Hl-J_jJIRif4YYASfzwxN__6_2P1_nhw8jrjrbQg4VrD8oanAhMTt5tfDBSHPW2k5Hli6y008me6aMHXk2vtiRBt9zkaZG7NAgujML1FBsmFLvMgWq-57NkI7jG79EC5eoSGhRJeRjIsf3ebPF7XMofQXU3gJ_vsjMbm8-Jjt4/s217/NovelFace.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="217" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxaNYhjSNnOOq5qUx8Hl-J_jJIRif4YYASfzwxN__6_2P1_nhw8jrjrbQg4VrD8oanAhMTt5tfDBSHPW2k5Hli6y008me6aMHXk2vtiRBt9zkaZG7NAgujML1FBsmFLvMgWq-57NkI7jG79EC5eoSGhRJeRjIsf3ebPF7XMofQXU3gJ_vsjMbm8-Jjt4/s1600/NovelFace.png" width="217" /></a></div><p>To compensate for <i>Long Hard Road</i> (see below) I am re-reading the MS of my novel <i>Rictangular Lenses</i>, title intentionally misspelled, started six years ago, dropped inexplicably after 56,000 words, still unfinished. Yes, re-reading drafts for no good reason is pathetic; a form of self-abuse.</p><p>And “unfinished” is inexact. The story, as is, follows an upward trajectory. A woman living dully in the UK Midlands, takes male-dominated management by the scruff of the neck, succeeds on character, is now paid a lot. A free-ranging investment agent, she identifies commercial opportunities and gives their existing (male) managers hell. The last written page has her arriving in Paris to check the “true” viability of a company that may profit from more cash.</p><p>Unusually for me, <i>Rictangular</i> lacks a plot outline and is based entirely on the appearance and behaviour of a woman I watched for an hour in a Birmingham restaurant. Accompanied, but he a mere cipher. Much observation posted in November 2015 . An extract:</p><p><i>SHE. Hair imperfectly dyed blonde (irregular dark streaks) swept up from neck with largish bun on top, deliberately loose strands of hair, petite face with pink/white makeup, black mascara, prominent convex cheeks, glasses with slot-like lenses and black and white sidebars (tapering towards the ear), white tight-fitting knitted pullover/blouse buttoned up to scalloped collar detailed in red, thin upper body with prominent, seemingly spherical breasts, hands with coloured nails regularly in motion.</i></p><p><i>Speaks conversationally yet – paradoxically - assertively, even occasionally shrilly but not unpleasantly. Not in charge but talking/acting with conviction. Ate salad.</i></p><p>So what happens next? I think Paris was to be pivotal, otherwise it’s a blank. Tiny hint suggests a huge change in direction. Also that the novel will be – must be – much longer. Temptation re-tickles my creative glands. Have I time enough?</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-82073064833748013492024-01-07T18:16:00.000+00:002024-01-07T18:16:58.544+00:00Progress is harder than the road<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwT5kAAnR1aaz7bu6srTjiOUO6A6uTbrxrXMVoTWiM8fThJI53rI6kghi9Fa5EZZ3yDM7kZhI6FznQylPrZikFfPtGbklh0w_QoHiJ7sZ0WvECfEHZ2eGGpXCj1kprdW4tSurhyHNROqMyyTTvPRAg1PbAJEInN9mxM48vnZ-CmDtVmHC3tcfqnEy8nGs/s299/ElectricCarBattery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwT5kAAnR1aaz7bu6srTjiOUO6A6uTbrxrXMVoTWiM8fThJI53rI6kghi9Fa5EZZ3yDM7kZhI6FznQylPrZikFfPtGbklh0w_QoHiJ7sZ0WvECfEHZ2eGGpXCj1kprdW4tSurhyHNROqMyyTTvPRAg1PbAJEInN9mxM48vnZ-CmDtVmHC3tcfqnEy8nGs/s1600/ElectricCarBattery.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">Not at all like this</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I am presently reading <i>Long Hard Road</i>. Unless you’ve noticed accidental hints I’ve dropped in recent posts – posts few have read – you may guess at the subject matter. A sequel, or prequel perhaps, of Jack Kerouac’s novel with a slightly similar title? The autobiography of a personnel manager with a highway surfacing sub-contractor? The brief life and early suicide of a folk guitarist who unwisely chose to trim his own hedge? A Mississipi congressman’s even briefer attempts to woo Mary McCarthy?</p><p>None of these. But don’t guess too hard. I decided I needed to be better informed – technically – about the electric car.</p><p>Not about the car itself, of course. Such a vehicle is no more interesting than a power drill fitted with wheels. Lacking an overhead camshaft, direct fuel injection or a hemi cylinder head there’s little to wax lyrical about. In fact, one way of identifying an electric car as it sighs past is the absence of an exhaust pipe. Absences don’t usually excite. They’re difficult to tweak</p><p>No, the nerdy bit is the battery. Specifically the lithium-ion battery. Ions you may have heard of, they’re sort of attached to – or detached from – the atom. Hard info so we may ignore them. Lithium is… well, stuff. A chemical element, yeah. Symbol Li, yea-ea-ah. Atomic number 3; is that good or bad? Highly reactive and flammable. O wow! Bring it on.</p><p>Look, I’m only a third the way through <i>Long Hard Road</i>. All I can say for the moment it took decades to develop the battery’s anode and cathode. And they’re truly basic. I haven’t really touched on the internal goo. </p><p>Regard this post as a prelude to thrilling techno leaps forward. Usually measured – if past pages are any guide – in sub-millimetres.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-78917242764539911652024-01-06T18:24:00.000+00:002024-01-06T18:24:25.616+00:00Touching on my dim past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIU8ROGxsEYnflZy_jndV4otv1Kfq5R7U1miFCaNDhDvxvhHCuBvgljZCmfiaGlQ_hxmwiNcq7wCFJlYowz8f3gJMSHbHsCtxUX8hd9Zv1uVoQRnyigkrwqIajtaIV7FFSokrk84w7fNi6I2mDRo8BQL1qJeth9hFbJKMJKHcUC4z8hb5_Y1SLH5hnBRQ/s300/Oppenheimer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIU8ROGxsEYnflZy_jndV4otv1Kfq5R7U1miFCaNDhDvxvhHCuBvgljZCmfiaGlQ_hxmwiNcq7wCFJlYowz8f3gJMSHbHsCtxUX8hd9Zv1uVoQRnyigkrwqIajtaIV7FFSokrk84w7fNi6I2mDRo8BQL1qJeth9hFbJKMJKHcUC4z8hb5_Y1SLH5hnBRQ/s1600/Oppenheimer.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>I care little about the British royal family yet I watched some of <i>The Crown</i> TV series with interest. Those episodes embraced an era I lived through and during which my fledgling awareness of the links between national events in the UK started to develop. </p><p>Even more so with <i>Oppenheimer.</i> I was too young for Hiroshima although I’ve subsequently absorbed just enough physics to appreciate the scientific and argumentative roots which brought about the bomb. But the plotline and I (historically) became more political simultaneously as McCarthyism raised its ugly head, covered in the final hour of the movie.</p><p><i>Oppenheimer</i> is long (181 minutes) and it needs to be. Every twist and turn of the dilemma RO faced is both detailed and animated in trenchant dialogue and a persuasively realised cast of characters. It was fashionable to demonise RO’s latter-day tormenters at the time but the movie reminds us that the bomb – as a principle – threatened all of us and the very world itself, then as now.</p><p>A true dilemma in that no one was a hundred percent right.</p><p>For a time I loathed the USA. I think I was vaguely aware of the injustices (And the ingratitude!) heaped upon RO but he was just one of many victims. Think of the black-listed writers. On the other side: think of the celebrities who flipped.</p><p>Decades later it took a few months living in an unremarkable Pittsburgh suburb to achieve a more balanced view of a country I’ve tended to regard as a multi-faceted continent.</p><p>The movie won’t be to everyone’s taste. It’s not obscure, the story is well told, but its aims are serious. Someone once said the Brits can’t stand too much reality. No reason why Americans should be any different. See it anyway.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-44852713706923748762024-01-04T11:37:00.000+00:002024-01-04T11:37:02.958+00:00Not just a book in the Bible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35he2qZXPFxekXS8VsFJRtYzddFm5l9sAsc0N2XUdqqA5RJm7WZRlkuZevOneb1Z8m-4nvQC15p-RKu0IMVFtDfa5CCCbbL0cjTrK3nWrKmm6gaMnM5BFqjjmGMHsg0NaxIYuaTEj8-PsiBC7vAzHtEc1jkEEb9OVkB_0VTJSseZChvyny1xeqHjBavI/s251/Revelation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="251" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35he2qZXPFxekXS8VsFJRtYzddFm5l9sAsc0N2XUdqqA5RJm7WZRlkuZevOneb1Z8m-4nvQC15p-RKu0IMVFtDfa5CCCbbL0cjTrK3nWrKmm6gaMnM5BFqjjmGMHsg0NaxIYuaTEj8-PsiBC7vAzHtEc1jkEEb9OVkB_0VTJSseZChvyny1xeqHjBavI/s1600/Revelation.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p>Ever asked: has my life been a success? Most don’t for good reason. The answer must be <i>Yes</i> because the alternative is unthinkable. Most lives revolve round very big matters like marriage, children, relationships and employment. Who would dare conclude that any - or all - of these had failed?</p><p>But success may be measured in lesser ways; say, how many revelations experienced along the way? Not a trivial concern. Revelations occur mainly to those with an open mind - the opposite of a closed mind which is no kind of asset.</p><p><b>Geography</b>. For me the USA was all revelation, good and bad; I’ve written about this endlessly. But before that, my solitary holidays in London. Dimly I perceived the excitement and stimuli of a large cosmopolitan city. Sure, there were disadvantages but I was a journalist and needed to know about things – at first hand. Rural surroundings could wait until the professional urges had dimmed.</p><p><b>Bird watching</b>. A revelation that failed. For a year or so I found it fascinating but I needed a knowledgeable companion to bounce off my questions and ideas. None arrived. In any case, writing novels was tightening its grip.</p><p><b>Language</b>. The seventies, a time of Euro-excitement, long before the false promises of Brexit. My employer allowed me two mornings a week (Just think of that!) to re-learn French. Years later I interviewed people in French for my magazine. But studying another language also informs you about your mother tongue.</p><p><b>Computers</b>. Tools that enormously improved my way of writing (and of the subjects I tackled) plus my editing of magazines. Gorged on them from the start. And still do.</p><p><b>Serious illness</b>. Bad, of course, but an unexpected and invaluable aid to self-examination and regard for others.</p><p><b>Singing</b>. Ah, yes.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-76533699174340947712023-12-27T17:01:00.002+00:002023-12-28T10:04:49.937+00:00Sir, it's about cars not cash<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWXDQi-hfszdBGBADQBNMJaLeMtMt9xwxHNAacQrd4WRIbejzx4K-QT2fEO8Oh_Jv5P3fE4Bamk0c11e9lO5DbKRqGtbGTj-K2bmXCYZXitpmiNd_aqRUqwX0U2gNRPvXTyV1AkdWZ7zXKDwXZAY84FccLDLpTu9PulTDM3KRNiejTTJIkFOjV0TPlUA/s144/State%20Trooper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="107" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWXDQi-hfszdBGBADQBNMJaLeMtMt9xwxHNAacQrd4WRIbejzx4K-QT2fEO8Oh_Jv5P3fE4Bamk0c11e9lO5DbKRqGtbGTj-K2bmXCYZXitpmiNd_aqRUqwX0U2gNRPvXTyV1AkdWZ7zXKDwXZAY84FccLDLpTu9PulTDM3KRNiejTTJIkFOjV0TPlUA/s1600/State%20Trooper.jpg" width="107" /></a></div>I’m as guilty as anyone so why not shrive myself with a Christmas post that’s not about eating, drinking, cooking, gifts and/or self-indulgence?<p></p><p>How about grandson Zach passing his driving test, aged seventeen and a bit, more or less the UK’s minimum age. And how shrewd of him to pick a post-Christmas day with minimum traffic on the road. I had a theory about this. He’s excelled at virtually every one of the many sports he’s tried which says much about his powers of physical co-ordination. And co-ordination is central when one’s behind a car’s steering wheel.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNen4PDmBjUPqzatVS7FBWrS8bQ_KeNSRgb63juSdTh58zvrWMhB_NuwdGYww6eBdWIZOCtINApROWtLhCdhcN8EDcRVCPcd4CGtPcZHtz5sm93-oFEb_J37ChjUZuP4_gPdQm7V7l4o95o7K4BSsnBg13bQPitU_uzFOguCD_897slfvAR-M3NmofyE/s1600/IanCar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNen4PDmBjUPqzatVS7FBWrS8bQ_KeNSRgb63juSdTh58zvrWMhB_NuwdGYww6eBdWIZOCtINApROWtLhCdhcN8EDcRVCPcd4CGtPcZHtz5sm93-oFEb_J37ChjUZuP4_gPdQm7V7l4o95o7K4BSsnBg13bQPitU_uzFOguCD_897slfvAR-M3NmofyE/s320/IanCar.jpg" width="144" /></a></div><p>A note to US readers from someone who holds US and UK licences. Things may have changed since I took the US test but it was an absolute doddle compared with my experiences in Catford, a cramped suburb in SE London. In an underpowdered vehicle (me bulky, the examiner even bulkier) that made hill-starts a nightmare. The US examiner (in his Boy Scouts hat) got so bored he decided to throw me a whammy: “Say, bud, whatsa max. fine for dropping trash from a car window?” I guessed $100 and he grunted. He so wanted to fail a furriner.</p><p>More non-Christmas news. Our bank statement arrived today (the day after Boxing Day) so I re-established my financial situation. Ill-health for both of us has led to heavy expenses during 2023, not least the Stannah stair lift. Despite this I find I am comfortably off at a time of year when balances usually plummet. Sufficiently flush to discuss another costly villa rental in France in the summer. But that’s not self-indulgence, more an extended language test.</p><p>Did my singing lesson this morning, launching into eight of the nineteen songs forming Schubert’s <i>Schöne Müllerin</i> cycle. Some untouched for months. A super stimulant. Begone dull care. </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-27695325593264391332023-12-23T05:01:00.000+00:002023-12-23T05:01:10.216+00:00Pawn Two to Bishop's garage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMnFjfGq9Wkr8RmeaA3frNSVL7pndb__nBXz8c_NZVmDJtal-Dpfz8jw0YwhnTdq33m5F4-4GUWLvjMa0FRWa0GVq5A4ijtIQZ3MIw2WTCH6smWrAdldszHQ85GMpYey1Itp4L_JOoI4OI_6uAfwNpV5JMEKJZ_RKzTCzXXceSMnppM-erffmE72Awww/s275/Scheduling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMnFjfGq9Wkr8RmeaA3frNSVL7pndb__nBXz8c_NZVmDJtal-Dpfz8jw0YwhnTdq33m5F4-4GUWLvjMa0FRWa0GVq5A4ijtIQZ3MIw2WTCH6smWrAdldszHQ85GMpYey1Itp4L_JOoI4OI_6uAfwNpV5JMEKJZ_RKzTCzXXceSMnppM-erffmE72Awww/s1600/Scheduling.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>On the TV a lissom young woman performs exercises that get more and more difficult. It’s five-ish in the morning and – obviously – dark outside. I’m lying on the couch in the dimly lit living room, certain in my mind that the young woman’s gyrations are well beyond my enfeebled body.</p><p>Not that it matters. Elsewhere in the room, daughter Professional Bleeder, a mere fluttering shadow, is mimicking the exercises and doing a fair job of it, given she’s five years short of retirement. It’s all to do with Buddha, I’m told, and a regular feature of PB’s health regime.</p><p>But both of us share another concern, we’re waiting for the butcher and the delivery of a six-part lamb crown roast, several Chateaubriant steaks which will form the heart of a Beef Wellington and other meaty bits and bobs. Costing a small fortune.</p><p>As it happens the butcher fails to turn up and things have to be re-organised. And here we are at the very essence of Christmas. Organisation and re-organisation of an interlocking series of events, movements, transportations and cash transfers. Strangely reminiscent of the last magazine I edited, devoted to logistics. An industrial practice that’s frequently misunderstood but may be summarised as: getting the right amount of stuff to the right location at the right time. Inexpensively.</p><p>We will eventually be a group of eight. But before that happens the group will fragment and three separate locations will be occupied. One of the meals – Whoops! That’s four locations! – will be in a restaurant. The cumulative mileage will be in the hundreds. Acres of wrapping paper will be wrapped.</p><p>Dwight D. Eisenhower did something similar prior to D-Day and was rewarded by becoming the US president. At eighty-eight my contribution is to spread my hands. </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-80837475733145678072023-12-17T08:00:00.001+00:002023-12-18T08:45:30.545+00:00The bottle? It's traditional<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkN1jJK3eqkVyownZA_cAHdkQrfjuE7RignCuJXvoG3P_TqRZIXvdowr_3Bu8DCCCWc1BCdJtlmwcS6p5LnQdnRTZsSE5ioS8lbfczzKgD5uXVD83F8X5lZ9Np8prlwYr6yLw8fAZEuKTiaJFelhK-0eP7tOyPoXB6K82AUSNrn-ldgok27j0-0M3JPQA/s217/Languedoc%20red.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="82" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkN1jJK3eqkVyownZA_cAHdkQrfjuE7RignCuJXvoG3P_TqRZIXvdowr_3Bu8DCCCWc1BCdJtlmwcS6p5LnQdnRTZsSE5ioS8lbfczzKgD5uXVD83F8X5lZ9Np8prlwYr6yLw8fAZEuKTiaJFelhK-0eP7tOyPoXB6K82AUSNrn-ldgok27j0-0M3JPQA/s1600/Languedoc%20red.jpg" width="82" /></a></div>The party (see previous post) had a mildly odd aftermath but I’ll get to that. VR’s medical concerns meant I went alone, carrying a bottle of Languedoc red. Martin, my host, opened the door and there was a tiny confusion as I handed him the bottle while we shook hands.<p></p><p>VR and I are both invalids. When did I last shake hands? Months ago? Years?</p><p>I first met Martin walking to the supermarket during the last couple of years. Casually. The party started stiffly, new arrivals just standing around. Not me of course. Journalism taught me to break social barriers by forcing conversation. Encountering a Chinese woman married to a Japanese man I asked what language did they speak when alone? Their answer released a welter of possibilities.</p><p>The spread of food was enticing and varied and I’d have liked to return to the table more than once (At home I’m responsible for very dull fare). But people were sitting now and conversation was broadening. I joined in, frequently startling people into discussing subjects other than members of their families. </p><p>No doubt you, dear reader, disapprove of such dictatorship. But most Brits welcome those who help guard against social silence. I am not necessarily liked but I may be tolerated.</p><p>The party started at 5 pm. Most had left before me and I was home by 8.30. Resuming my duties by creating a G&T for VR.</p><p>Then the aftermath. A strange “otherness”. For a year now we’ve mainly spent our evenings alone, just the two of us. Earlier I’d been part of a group, now it was quiet in our living room. As if I was the traveller from an antique land. Nothing unexpected would happen. Just reading and some telly. Old age solitude. Ah, yes.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-57926662465915481192023-12-16T05:48:00.000+00:002023-12-16T05:48:56.808+00:00Death's rehearsals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7WSdxphwEyjaVPDwi9E7lWFN6AV1CwRckS-VNDr4GRS3wZCnh6u8jhsFPYrD3Re4AborwBmEV0eo4dXxLURkjGeEjMeb9qErJH1ebIO4ehrp1hs7EJ9GYuM9rBIbes6w0Y2ewzWaTOt9npqw4xpGBr9AjUmygZqa2o7vK4_qXbL8ZgwjvoVflElX85Q/s297/Mariupol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="297" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7WSdxphwEyjaVPDwi9E7lWFN6AV1CwRckS-VNDr4GRS3wZCnh6u8jhsFPYrD3Re4AborwBmEV0eo4dXxLURkjGeEjMeb9qErJH1ebIO4ehrp1hs7EJ9GYuM9rBIbes6w0Y2ewzWaTOt9npqw4xpGBr9AjUmygZqa2o7vK4_qXbL8ZgwjvoVflElX85Q/s1600/Mariupol.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><p>We’ve been invited to a pre-Christmas party today. I tried to remember my last party outside the family. Years ago, but when or what I can’t be sure. I imagine people nodding: who’d be so foolhardy as to ask him? His blog says it all. A walking black hole.</p><p>Too true, I’m not an ideal guest. But this time perhaps the reason is unexpected. It’s 04.21 and I can’t sleep. Why? Because of Putin and the Ukraine. Given the most recent developments, far away from Kiev, I sense – for the first time - Vladimir’s going to win. And many many people will die as have already died.</p><p>As I might have died during the fifties, when I was a conscripted military men. There were several warlike opportunities. Instead I’ve reached very old age. Yet can’t sleep.</p><p>I flatter myself I have a well-developed imagination, thus I write fiction. But imagination can be a curse. I remember the way the city of Mariupol in southern Ukraine was systematically destroyed; that arid shell now provides raw material for envisaging what may happen to the country’s capital city. Presided over by the tight smiling man in the Kremlin who may, or may not, wear a toupée. An irrelevant detail which, nevertheless, stimulates relevant thought.</p><p>Shakespeare’s good on sleep and especially its absence. But this isn’t the time for easy quotes. Sleep replenishes the living body and should keep disturbing images at bay. But I – having slid lusciously beneath the duvet at midnight – must now sit around wakefully a few hours later. Thinking about irony. That Ukraine has slipped down the priorities of the news organisations to be replaced with newer horrors in Gaza. Where death is strangely more immediate.</p><p>Time to re-try the bed. There’s the party to be considered.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-39310268304723600752023-12-12T18:16:00.004+00:002023-12-15T07:40:59.353+00:00Like the first sniff of a casserole<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMslvb5AuGc7kxFzQenAjf_oKKoL9r1Zdv0vQCO4Cc-UDZ2XxHlGYbzPeCcr54y3T8EWGtBH3bgQfZPItBGJE4TT7w_99-lk5gUpQVfVXZRMOYL0i8xBWRu94cl1BfoyYT0ViL2RjKYpWR7ndCEh6TCAYLNU04OjOa0hLc_w8wrg2yaO8VmDzs8FCeC5s/s275/Happiness.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMslvb5AuGc7kxFzQenAjf_oKKoL9r1Zdv0vQCO4Cc-UDZ2XxHlGYbzPeCcr54y3T8EWGtBH3bgQfZPItBGJE4TT7w_99-lk5gUpQVfVXZRMOYL0i8xBWRu94cl1BfoyYT0ViL2RjKYpWR7ndCEh6TCAYLNU04OjOa0hLc_w8wrg2yaO8VmDzs8FCeC5s/s1600/Happiness.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><i>The Guardian’s</i> Saturday edition profiles certain chosen people by posing a fixed set of questions. One question: When were you happiest?<p></p><p>Did you learn technical English grammar at school? - many kids now don’t. Older readers will recognise the above as the superlative form of the adjective, neither “happy” nor “happier” but “happiest”. Implying an extremity.</p><p>Alas, this concept means different things to different people. Those doing day-long manual labour might say the first step towards “happiest” would be avoiding work altogether. With others it’s both good and bad: teachers, who just want to teach kids, feel frustrated marking exercise books at midnight. Journalists, dreaming of a soccer scoop, mutely collect names at a funeral.</p><p>“Happiest”, in this context, needs further definition. Ideally it should be unique, not a repeated pleasing event. Ideally too, since happiness is a state of mind, it must involve thought. And, for goodness sake, avoid anything that’s merely socially acceptable; like the act of being married. Was it all wonderful? Me, I hated not knowing what happened next in this alien location (a church).</p><p>Other amplifications. Happiness is warm not hot, pervasive not piercing, may arrive slowly and indirectly, may not be easily discussed. I was happy when my deputy editors went on to more elevated jobs. But happiest didn’t apply.</p><p>My first singing lesson induced a new physical awareness. Tight as a drum-skin. But again, happiest didn’t apply; what was I comparing it with? The best pork sausage ever?</p><p>Hey-hoo. Parts of <i>Out Of Arizona</i> satisfied me. Another re-read and they got slightly better. Yet another go-through and a short, carefully slotted sentence (“Like all those things.”) hinted I might be a writer. </p><p>Happiest? Well, stronger than “happier”.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-62691060517495466322023-12-11T08:23:00.003+00:002023-12-11T15:59:49.226+00:00Not what you'd call cuddly<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWtWpCmAHE-iU4fPDr9RmqluRRCRUMelarbDVRAg_VIACLsOJXGRRfSinIwLkjZFPiuTmIZe5bZPRTLjgwBFoZGRCxG6x06wydK-6BFWiqnSn5a3_O8iwX3cvCTkevu8K1L5NA3O28Cb3BErkFzYMyKATHHKTU3QntppXbBCFRZDeYuLmPZaKVe5wSUw/s888/PassportPhoto.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="681" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWtWpCmAHE-iU4fPDr9RmqluRRCRUMelarbDVRAg_VIACLsOJXGRRfSinIwLkjZFPiuTmIZe5bZPRTLjgwBFoZGRCxG6x06wydK-6BFWiqnSn5a3_O8iwX3cvCTkevu8K1L5NA3O28Cb3BErkFzYMyKATHHKTU3QntppXbBCFRZDeYuLmPZaKVe5wSUw/s320/PassportPhoto.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br />Unsmiling, looking neither up nor down, a grey figure against a grey background. A man most likely to be stopped at the <i>douane</i>.<p></p><p>Note the thunderous double eye-bags, the twisted mouth, the eyes that have lost all hope. Only the hair retains any sense of style.</p><p>MikeM, an intermittent visitor to Tone Deaf, asked to see it. So here, for his delectation...</p><p>Since I, like you, am looking in on this I may ask: What does it say? A face gravely affected by wars and there've been plenty: World War Two, Korea, the invasion of Suez, various skirmishes in South America, the Malayan emergency (in which this ghost figure played a tiny part), Viet Nam, the invasion of Grenada, Afghanistan, Kuwait, Ukraine. Not forgetting the Cod War involving Iceland</p><p>He's written books and some authors append a selfie in the end-papers of their works. But no publisher would see any advantage in including this! </p><p>Some faces are a sum of all their successes; this suggests a huge mound of failures. No happiness here, surely. But the gloom merchant pursued the job he wanted (and was best fitted for) for 44½ years and he's been married for 63 years.</p><p>Against all the odds.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-19782892498096441042023-12-09T08:54:00.001+00:002023-12-09T08:54:41.114+00:00Swift, pleasing and faultless<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZ5gyItTYFAvOXKcXge1V7F8BqFdiwW-hI8Ivz4nH-96dinfmu0CHNsk61zBPvvUEvPJvA-yf9vZVBICuQq_K6VX_egyTcJ3BeIsEOBJxw3tRvNR6dkXMALFIXdHQqv-Cd-aIT0AaeVvYu2m5eA9hn2SV8jmZfkb1Z6RsNt4aa28RjLMb-eFCwPAUgqg/s292/EU%20passport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="292" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZ5gyItTYFAvOXKcXge1V7F8BqFdiwW-hI8Ivz4nH-96dinfmu0CHNsk61zBPvvUEvPJvA-yf9vZVBICuQq_K6VX_egyTcJ3BeIsEOBJxw3tRvNR6dkXMALFIXdHQqv-Cd-aIT0AaeVvYu2m5eA9hn2SV8jmZfkb1Z6RsNt4aa28RjLMb-eFCwPAUgqg/s1600/EU%20passport.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;">Goodbye old friend, gateway to France</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>UK passports last ten years so you have time to forget the palaver of renewal. But here’s a happy story based on technological development.</p><p>I wasn’t looking forward to renewal. One reason was pure sentiment and normally I detest sentimentality. It meant junking my little red booklet representative of belonging to the EU. Replacing it with the UK’s flag-waving blue number and thus being forced – symbolically – into joining the Brexit voters. Who are now strangely silent about the “benefits” Brexit is bringing us.</p><p>Even worse is the very real palaver of organising a photo acceptable to the passport authorities. You sit on the stool in the supermarket cubicle, twiddle it up and down, yet still cut off your hairline (Forbidden). Get your hairline right and find you smiled (Forbidden). Contrive to look serious but your chin’s too low (Forbidden). An adult woman I know became so disturbed by all this she rang her father to help her. I sympathised.</p><p>This time a digital photo is required and so to hell with twiddling the stool. I spent £12 at a specialist. If I hadn’t chatted a perfect photograph would have been mine – approved and paid for – in three minutes. A lad with a Canon said “Lips together.”, “Chin up.”, etc, and that took 20 seconds. He fiddled with the Canon at the counter for a minute, handed me a colour proof (I looked dully insane.) with an eight-figure code. I swiped my credit card and was gone.</p><p>Online at home I followed a simple procedure, entered the code and was gratified to see my face appear on the filled-in application. The time-consuming bit was putting my old passport into an envelope and posting it to the authorities.</p><p>I was mildly exhilarated. I rarely yearn for Old Times.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-50216207275035310782023-12-08T16:40:00.001+00:002023-12-08T16:40:44.217+00:00Self-torture? 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsYseY20SOTlCCrngZpuDf5VLTUWE0nA2LS6JAJI0S8BDFe3wADaPUC3WfNw1nCw4DPNKFwKglI1t9OzQ6i7T5DTHgGcDoUFGxHGr52qFyR4WQHw9kdxlUAt-DPTzvxBpeM9dnjpZQfEcWYOpZLHjoOCMQeHw9xQ_ZFRBeBGgtoCmL0NbxRnIk2qk554/s300/Quantum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsYseY20SOTlCCrngZpuDf5VLTUWE0nA2LS6JAJI0S8BDFe3wADaPUC3WfNw1nCw4DPNKFwKglI1t9OzQ6i7T5DTHgGcDoUFGxHGr52qFyR4WQHw9kdxlUAt-DPTzvxBpeM9dnjpZQfEcWYOpZLHjoOCMQeHw9xQ_ZFRBeBGgtoCmL0NbxRnIk2qk554/s1600/Quantum.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>During my RAF National Service (1955 – 1957) my technical competence was examined and, astonishingly, I was deemed capable of repairing complex electronic equipment carried in warplanes. I wasn’t convinced but when The Military says “Do this.” you do it. And the Military was right. During an 8½-month course I passed 25 exams and emerged as a Junior Technician.</p><p>Thus I learned about electrical systems and, especially, some of their associated mathematics, an interest later stretching all the way to quantum mechanics. Ah, quantum! Hard stuff which revolutionised techno-thought and led to misunderstandings about Schrödinger’s Cat.</p><p>I must confess my useful knowledge is virtually zero but my curiosity remains enormous. Rovelli’s book (see Self-Torture?) was reviewed, I think, in The Guardian so the prose is not considered hopelessly specialised. In fact, Rovelli’s aim is to reveal – as simply as possible - a decades-long quest to find out how the force of gravity can be incorporated, mathematically, into what is known about the atom.</p><p>Beyond this I cannot explain. That’s up to Rovelli. But I can hint at the weirdness.</p><p>How about: “… Planck’s length… in numerical terms… is equivalent to approximately one millionth of a billionth of a billionth of a billionth (ten to the power of minus thirty-three) of a centimetre.” Never mind about the “what”, just consider its smallness. Rovelli puts it into context: “It is at this extremely minute scale that quantum gravity manifests itself.” </p><p>And it’s not just numbers. “Energy makes space curve. A lot of energy means that space will curve a great deal. A lot of energy in a small region results in curving space so much it collapses into a black hole…”</p><p>You see my problem. The mental images are inexplicable but I can’t stop reading (ie, letting the images form in my brain). </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-24037033207016309102023-12-07T08:00:00.001+00:002023-12-07T08:01:47.079+00:00Self-torture?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKFrtPjo6vYSPhYUzDaxQeSiqQvqzjmJpC1FLXykjAix_GoqXOG_7HTaXUTd3tg4Zar0-dnAZiE9w7u09HJFu6chm2MxKwDgGePclnFqcKSSL0iZJQF0Du9P8aj_nPuzZUWM4IyNlCepNVHuUAJU4_v1xCg8LwWpCwqv70QdALMZxT2CpDTPZqkrhQqQ/s466/Rovelli.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="292" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKFrtPjo6vYSPhYUzDaxQeSiqQvqzjmJpC1FLXykjAix_GoqXOG_7HTaXUTd3tg4Zar0-dnAZiE9w7u09HJFu6chm2MxKwDgGePclnFqcKSSL0iZJQF0Du9P8aj_nPuzZUWM4IyNlCepNVHuUAJU4_v1xCg8LwWpCwqv70QdALMZxT2CpDTPZqkrhQqQ/s320/Rovelli.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><p>Help! I am reading a book ninety percent of which I do not understand. Yet I continue, often no more than two or three pages at a time. Why?</p><p>Could we rule out: that I’m doing this to boast about it in Tone Deaf. This post demands I summarise the book’s contents and that’s far from easy. In my sere and yellow years I shun hard work.</p><p><i>Reality Is Not What It Seems</i>, subtitled <i>The Journey to Quantum Gravity</i>, is by Carlo Rovelli, an Italian theoretical physicist and international best-selling author. He wrote <i>Seven Brief Lessons on Physics</i> which I have read and - I think - understood. </p><p>So, what izzit? To use his own words "... coherently synthesizing what we have learned about the world with the two major discoveries of twentieth-century physics: general relativity and quantum theory"</p><p>More particularly it tries to bring gravity into what went before. And it's the simpler declarative factoids that require chewing. F'rinstance, "the granular structure of space", or "the disappearance of time at small scale", or "the origin of black-hole heat."</p><p>Already I'm admitting defeat. Rovelli explains things for non-scientists. Am I asking too much of myself to simplify what he has already simplified? No comfort in “non-scientist”, by the way. For me it requires dedicated concentration and much memory - both qualities undermined by old age. Still I mainly fail.</p><p>So why persist? Perhaps because of the way I earned a living. To ask worthwhile questions I needed - at the very least - to know little bits about lots and lots. Maybe brushing against this arcane world will add to those bits. Or is this self-delusional?</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-92184208634639627032023-12-05T04:46:00.000+00:002023-12-05T04:46:58.087+00:00Where are they now?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzHT5nqY2_m-OAmr97SSyawabXLr1MadAHnabBAkewdmR1oJcJqnH2wQMnb8G6CoZkALUJVyYMFMKNPeYKgtg52ZhE9GHAiEowf9rw-vFiku9pLL0CIjyWxY8de3VY87SJS6CVJ1UIAW52OkMPbhI81YXgB7AcCDrRLISQKzufBRDBFHc8pzGZQxZfgs/s255/Hanging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="197" data-original-width="255" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzHT5nqY2_m-OAmr97SSyawabXLr1MadAHnabBAkewdmR1oJcJqnH2wQMnb8G6CoZkALUJVyYMFMKNPeYKgtg52ZhE9GHAiEowf9rw-vFiku9pLL0CIjyWxY8de3VY87SJS6CVJ1UIAW52OkMPbhI81YXgB7AcCDrRLISQKzufBRDBFHc8pzGZQxZfgs/s1600/Hanging.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><p>Writing's an imaginary rocket that can take me to all sorts of places. That’s me re-commenting on a comment from Colette.</p><p>Here I am at take-off with: <i>UK jobs that have disappeared since WW2.</i></p><p><b>National hangman.</b> Yes sir, we Brits were breaking felons’ necks back in the fifties The night before, people gathered round the relevant gaol; nominally (see pic) to protest against capital punishment, more likely to share the buzz. To avoid national shame hangman had a Frenchy sort of surname: Pierrepoint. Ran a pub (and yes, I know the name) while fashioning nooses.</p><p><b>Chimney sweep.</b> To emphasise his authenticity he didn’t wash. Came covered in soot. Attached a collection sack (also sooty) to the fireplace by nailing it to gaps between the surrounding ceramic tiles. Was forcedly jolly, unusual in that part of Yorkshire.</p><p><b>Door-to-door milkman.</b> Ladled milk from a sort of bucket which must have weighed a ton. Customer provided the receptacle, typically a jug; as a token towards hygiene the jug was then covered with a lace doily with glass beads round the edges.</p><p><b>Oral campaigner.</b> Only saw him once. He stood bareheaded in our street (about 125 yards long) and, lacking amplification, shouted pitifully, urging us to vote against the opening of cinemas on Sunday. Was he successful? Haven’t a clue.</p><p><b>Ancillary job for trolley-bus conductors.</b> Often the bus’s poles detached from the overhead cables carrying the power. The conductor descended, walked to the back, drew an equally long bamboo pole (with hook) from a tube under the bus, and hooked the power poles back up to the cables. Lots of dangerous amps.</p><p><b>Outdoor newspaper vendors.</b> From sites at street corners in the city they yelled their presence, sometimes summarising the main headlines. Generally thought to be “characters”. </p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644918126688721788.post-48263623865203194072023-12-04T08:19:00.000+00:002023-12-04T08:19:31.915+00:00Husbandly gesture<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZ7PGzHoD3rl5wQQdffWnenNmD_PH__OgLTJFUvJQhok8FgoUjldYA_DWzoYYg6PdJh3zRUuKbX3ahOrIzfg_MAR8eKUZX4gNdeIQV5KALEniDjLdlzsrKmdccD1GCZ6JWk_X0SAXSxK5bIG5T4EwPZi4isqnhTUnvFm9AZh1LSMeTMTIF-2fiJFjH3Y/s123/Bathroom%20light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="123" data-original-width="100" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZ7PGzHoD3rl5wQQdffWnenNmD_PH__OgLTJFUvJQhok8FgoUjldYA_DWzoYYg6PdJh3zRUuKbX3ahOrIzfg_MAR8eKUZX4gNdeIQV5KALEniDjLdlzsrKmdccD1GCZ6JWk_X0SAXSxK5bIG5T4EwPZi4isqnhTUnvFm9AZh1LSMeTMTIF-2fiJFjH3Y/s1600/Bathroom%20light.jpg" width="100" /></a></div>Shaving in the dark? Why do it? Isn’t it horribly dangerous?<p></p><p>On Mondays I rise early in preparation for one of those activities listed above, now excluded from Tone Deaf to avoid subject-matter repetition. VR is able to lie abed. However, all impedimenta for shaving, tooth care and the prevention of certain pathological conditions are to be found in the <i>en suite</i> bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Turning on the light there would disturb VR’s slumbers. I choose to let her sleep.</p><p>But before picking up the razor other tasks must be faced. Selecting an anti-gout pill from the bubble-pack, for instance. And ensuring the freed pill doesn’t drop down the plug-hole. The cod-liver-oil-plus-vitamin capsules are more manageable. </p><p>Next I must fumble for my detachable brush-head and attach it to the electric toothbrush. Squeezing paste from the tube means standing closer to the window to gather light from the street lamp outside.</p><p>Then shaving foam from the aerosol. Amazingly, because the foam is bright white, I am able to monitor its distribution on my face via reflection in the mirror.</p><p><i>Et enfin,</i> the five-bladed razor. Certain facial sore areas must be avoided and up-and-down sweeps are necessary to hack bristle from my neck.</p><p>All this before the central heating radiators switch on and I’m bare to the waist.</p><p>VR often raises the subject retrospectively, saying she wouldn’t mind the light going on. But it’s tiny – seemingly unimportant – observations like this that have helped maintain the marital state over 63 years.</p>Roderick Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16828395545197001637noreply@blogger.com6