In that room,
I'd dream of flying planes
Across the world.
My mind was filled with stories
Of discoveries and science.
There were only possibilities.
In that room,
I ran a transport company
From under a stool
While the Fab Four stared down
From posters on damp walls
And listened to my singing.
In that room,
I was a work in progress,
The yet to be me.
And my parents' words and love
Began to mould and shape,
Preparing me for departure.
In this room,
I think of making planes
From the household bills.
My mind gets frozen trying hard
To navigate a way through life
Devoid of concrete certainties.
In this room,
I play the games that others have
Designed for me.
The Fab Four now number only Two
And though the walls are dry,
Yet still I serenade them.
In this room,
I'm still a work in progress,
The very nearly me.
And my soul mate's words and love,
Provide encouragement and hope
And reasons for remaining.
Tuesday, 13 January 2015
Monday, 12 January 2015
We come to the land of ice and snow....
After a whirlwind visit to Reykavik, I can honestly say that, based on first impressions and bearing in mind we have only just scratched the surface of what the country has to offer, it seems to be a very interesting and civilised place. Unfortunately, with the flight times at euther end of our stay being as they were, we only had two days to do things which left us pretty much confined to the capital (apart from a couple of trips, more of which later). A few points from those two days...
- The centre of the capital is intimate in size: we walked pretty much everywhere and the shopping district rubs shoulders with the administrative and cultural centres which, in turn, lay hard up against private houses. There is not the same separation that one finds in larger capitals where there are districts separate the different functions within the city. Imagine walking out of Harrods in London and finding next door to it a modest two or three bedroom house. The beautifully geometric and (at night) spectacularly-lit concert hall is right next door to the working port stocked with oily fishing vessels. It is a strange mix and one that seems to seems to indicate the 'grounded' nature of the country. They have no army or navy, their police, like ours, carry no weapons and their prime minister lives in a house on a main thoroughfare that anyone can walk up to and has no guards posted outside. In fact, the house was the city's first jail. Many will say that we too should house our PM in a jail...
- There was snow on the roads and fresh falls happened throughout our time there. There were no shops that failed to open because people couldn't get to work and services kept running normally. This was not achieved through gritting, chains on car tyres or snow ploughs. Instead, cars had winter tyres fitted - essentially, tyres with a deeper, grippier tread. Using these, people drove at reasonable speeds (no speeding but neither was there any crawling at 5 miles an hour) and I saw no accidents or even any cars skidding or being in any way out of control. Of course, they probably have ploughs and gritters as backup when the weather gets really bad, but the contrast couldn't be greater: in the UK, the country grinds to a halt as soon as the first smowflake hits the ground.
- The snow itself, however, is rather different. I know you are probably thinking that "snow is snow is snow", right? Well, there has to be a reason why the Innuit have many words for snow - it obviously comes in different 'types' and the type on display in Reykavik I can only describe as 'dry'. When Elaine picked a handful of snow up with the (leter admitted) purpose of snowballing me, she found that it could not be compacted into a ball. As she released her hands from shaping the weapon, the snow just fell apart almost into separate flakes once more! I could only think the difference is that, in the UK, there is a greater degree of 'wetness' to the snow and it is this that 'welds' the snow into a ball when moulded. Lacking that moisture, the ball would not coalesce and I was therefore saved from having cold drips down the back of my neck! The fact that the snow had this property also affected walking...
- The pavements, though not usually gritted or cleared, remained pretty safe as the snow seemed much harder to melt together into lethal ice fields. I am not saying there were no slips at all: although I did not see what happened, at least three tourists we encountered in the course of the break (unfortunate word) had suffered from some slipping trauma. As a fairly recent recipient of an ankle break from a slippy surface, the amount of snow on 'public surfaces' caused my heart to sink when I first saw it (hell, the steps down from the plane were coated in snow when we arrived!). Maybe, because of that, I was ultra cautious, however, I felt safer on their streets than I do on the slides that we end up with here whenever we get snow. Amazingly, E stayed on her feet throughout also!
- Eggy showers. Hot water in the hotel came from geothermal sources and is piped straight into the hotels (and, I believe, private houses) for use in showers and heating etc. Perfectly good hot water but with a slightly disconcerting sulphurous smell. The first shower I had was almost stopped in order for a complaint to be made to the management before I remembered the reason for the smell. Being green sometimes involves a small sacrifice. Or noseplugs. Cold water was lovely, straight from the tap. Volcanic filtered and soft as an angel's kiss (as the Icelandic Tourist Board might say). Bottled water sales are probably pretty slow in Iceland.
- The Northern Lights - although involving a drive out of the city for an hour; standing in a lay-by and a field for an hour and a half (temperature was -6 or -7) only to see nothing; be driving home when the sky clears and there they are, albeit indistinctly; rejoining the coach only to be told "They're back and much better!", getting off once again - were, eventually, a magnificent and eerie sight. A strange green band of light from sky to horizon, moving and changing over time: sometimes a frail, pale green but at other times, intense and almost flourescent in places. It was was really quite magical to be ankle-deep in snow watching a celestial light show of epic prpoportions play out on the night sky.
- The whale watching trip we are counting as 'unfinished business': one potential whale (OK, a fin) seen at some distance means that we need to return to try again. The display by the harbour porpoises almost made up for lack of the larger cetaceans, but - hey! - that's nature as opposed to Disney: things don't happen in line with a rigid timetable. The whale watch company, very fairly, gave us all a raincheck valid for two years. We will be taking them up on their kind offer.
- I tried two new types of fish: tusk and arctic char. It turns out, I was less adventurous than I thought - tusk is a fish of the cod family (although much more plentiful than cod) and char is a fish of the salmon family. What I ended up tasting, therefore, was essentially cod and salmon. Oh well - at least they were beautifully fresh and cooked to perfection.
Overall, a good taster. We have resolved to return for a summer trip (OK, no Northern Lights then, but better whale chances) and to try to see more of the island, maybe by hiring a car. Definitely, a place you should go to!
- The centre of the capital is intimate in size: we walked pretty much everywhere and the shopping district rubs shoulders with the administrative and cultural centres which, in turn, lay hard up against private houses. There is not the same separation that one finds in larger capitals where there are districts separate the different functions within the city. Imagine walking out of Harrods in London and finding next door to it a modest two or three bedroom house. The beautifully geometric and (at night) spectacularly-lit concert hall is right next door to the working port stocked with oily fishing vessels. It is a strange mix and one that seems to seems to indicate the 'grounded' nature of the country. They have no army or navy, their police, like ours, carry no weapons and their prime minister lives in a house on a main thoroughfare that anyone can walk up to and has no guards posted outside. In fact, the house was the city's first jail. Many will say that we too should house our PM in a jail...
- There was snow on the roads and fresh falls happened throughout our time there. There were no shops that failed to open because people couldn't get to work and services kept running normally. This was not achieved through gritting, chains on car tyres or snow ploughs. Instead, cars had winter tyres fitted - essentially, tyres with a deeper, grippier tread. Using these, people drove at reasonable speeds (no speeding but neither was there any crawling at 5 miles an hour) and I saw no accidents or even any cars skidding or being in any way out of control. Of course, they probably have ploughs and gritters as backup when the weather gets really bad, but the contrast couldn't be greater: in the UK, the country grinds to a halt as soon as the first smowflake hits the ground.
- The snow itself, however, is rather different. I know you are probably thinking that "snow is snow is snow", right? Well, there has to be a reason why the Innuit have many words for snow - it obviously comes in different 'types' and the type on display in Reykavik I can only describe as 'dry'. When Elaine picked a handful of snow up with the (leter admitted) purpose of snowballing me, she found that it could not be compacted into a ball. As she released her hands from shaping the weapon, the snow just fell apart almost into separate flakes once more! I could only think the difference is that, in the UK, there is a greater degree of 'wetness' to the snow and it is this that 'welds' the snow into a ball when moulded. Lacking that moisture, the ball would not coalesce and I was therefore saved from having cold drips down the back of my neck! The fact that the snow had this property also affected walking...
- The pavements, though not usually gritted or cleared, remained pretty safe as the snow seemed much harder to melt together into lethal ice fields. I am not saying there were no slips at all: although I did not see what happened, at least three tourists we encountered in the course of the break (unfortunate word) had suffered from some slipping trauma. As a fairly recent recipient of an ankle break from a slippy surface, the amount of snow on 'public surfaces' caused my heart to sink when I first saw it (hell, the steps down from the plane were coated in snow when we arrived!). Maybe, because of that, I was ultra cautious, however, I felt safer on their streets than I do on the slides that we end up with here whenever we get snow. Amazingly, E stayed on her feet throughout also!
- Eggy showers. Hot water in the hotel came from geothermal sources and is piped straight into the hotels (and, I believe, private houses) for use in showers and heating etc. Perfectly good hot water but with a slightly disconcerting sulphurous smell. The first shower I had was almost stopped in order for a complaint to be made to the management before I remembered the reason for the smell. Being green sometimes involves a small sacrifice. Or noseplugs. Cold water was lovely, straight from the tap. Volcanic filtered and soft as an angel's kiss (as the Icelandic Tourist Board might say). Bottled water sales are probably pretty slow in Iceland.
- The Northern Lights - although involving a drive out of the city for an hour; standing in a lay-by and a field for an hour and a half (temperature was -6 or -7) only to see nothing; be driving home when the sky clears and there they are, albeit indistinctly; rejoining the coach only to be told "They're back and much better!", getting off once again - were, eventually, a magnificent and eerie sight. A strange green band of light from sky to horizon, moving and changing over time: sometimes a frail, pale green but at other times, intense and almost flourescent in places. It was was really quite magical to be ankle-deep in snow watching a celestial light show of epic prpoportions play out on the night sky.
- The whale watching trip we are counting as 'unfinished business': one potential whale (OK, a fin) seen at some distance means that we need to return to try again. The display by the harbour porpoises almost made up for lack of the larger cetaceans, but - hey! - that's nature as opposed to Disney: things don't happen in line with a rigid timetable. The whale watch company, very fairly, gave us all a raincheck valid for two years. We will be taking them up on their kind offer.
- I tried two new types of fish: tusk and arctic char. It turns out, I was less adventurous than I thought - tusk is a fish of the cod family (although much more plentiful than cod) and char is a fish of the salmon family. What I ended up tasting, therefore, was essentially cod and salmon. Oh well - at least they were beautifully fresh and cooked to perfection.
Overall, a good taster. We have resolved to return for a summer trip (OK, no Northern Lights then, but better whale chances) and to try to see more of the island, maybe by hiring a car. Definitely, a place you should go to!
Friday, 9 January 2015
The Daily Blog
By now, you may have guessed that I am trying to publish a daily post, whether it is an opinion, a piece of fiction, a poem or simply what I did that day. Because I am going to be Internet-less for a couple of days and typing even a couple of hundred words on the mobile will be tedious in the extreme, there will be a brief break in service. I will, however, return very soon for your edification and entertainment.
See you soon...
See you soon...
Thursday, 8 January 2015
Cartoons and killing
I want to say that I can't believe that 12 people have been killed in Paris because a tiny minority get so annoyed over some cartoons that they feel the only proper way to express their disgust is to take the lives of the cartoonists. I want to say that, but I can't as it was probably only a matter of time before some ignorant, murderous fool decided to apply their own form of censorship via the use of an assault rifle. I refuse the murderers the right to claim this was done in the name of religion: I can think of little that is less Godless that cold-bloodedly shooting dead people who have done no more than poke a little fun at the religion the killers claim to espouse. Equally, I will refuse any argument that this was done on behalf of all muslims across the world: these criminals speak only for themselves and a scant handful of other deluded individuals who have twisted their 'faith' into a weapon of hate. The vast majority of muslims are appalled at the outrage perpetrated in Paris yesterday. I hope the killers are caught and spend the rest of their lives being helped to reflect on the inhumanity they displayed through their actions.
Predicatably, however, social media has been lit up with calls to 'kill all muslims' or for some 'action to be taken'. The former reaction characterises a school of thought esposed by some (Britain First, the EDL and some UKIP-loving members of a local politics group I was once a member of - you know who you are) that see all muslims as terrorists or, at best, would-be terrorists. The latter stance, on the other hand, is the directionless rage that demands a scapegoat be found and killed in retaliation and I think we know from the aftermath of 9/11 where that leads to. Either reaction legitimises the acts of the killers: it reinforces the idea of the West as hating Islam and all who follow its ways and it marginalises peaceful muslims - the 99.9% - who want no part of the hate war these people wish to inflame. To this end, I am not sure that republishing the offending cartoons at this moment is the right reaction, even if it does say that we refuse to be silenced. While only a few saw fit to kill in response to the cartoons, there may be many more moderate muslims who were offended by their publication. While I believe that any religion, if it has enduring strength and integrity, should be able to laugh off the pinpricks that such satires inflict, at a time of great sensitivity, it might be best to try and keep everyone inside the tent with the idiots isolated on the outside.
Free speech should not - cannot - be silenced by such barbaric actions. Our thoughts and prayers should be with the families and friends of the employees of Charlie Hebdo and the policemen killed in the attack. But we must avoid indiscriminate hate as a response - hate the killers by all means. Find them and bring them to justice. After that, however, let's consider the wider picture and think a little what should happen next...
Predicatably, however, social media has been lit up with calls to 'kill all muslims' or for some 'action to be taken'. The former reaction characterises a school of thought esposed by some (Britain First, the EDL and some UKIP-loving members of a local politics group I was once a member of - you know who you are) that see all muslims as terrorists or, at best, would-be terrorists. The latter stance, on the other hand, is the directionless rage that demands a scapegoat be found and killed in retaliation and I think we know from the aftermath of 9/11 where that leads to. Either reaction legitimises the acts of the killers: it reinforces the idea of the West as hating Islam and all who follow its ways and it marginalises peaceful muslims - the 99.9% - who want no part of the hate war these people wish to inflame. To this end, I am not sure that republishing the offending cartoons at this moment is the right reaction, even if it does say that we refuse to be silenced. While only a few saw fit to kill in response to the cartoons, there may be many more moderate muslims who were offended by their publication. While I believe that any religion, if it has enduring strength and integrity, should be able to laugh off the pinpricks that such satires inflict, at a time of great sensitivity, it might be best to try and keep everyone inside the tent with the idiots isolated on the outside.
Free speech should not - cannot - be silenced by such barbaric actions. Our thoughts and prayers should be with the families and friends of the employees of Charlie Hebdo and the policemen killed in the attack. But we must avoid indiscriminate hate as a response - hate the killers by all means. Find them and bring them to justice. After that, however, let's consider the wider picture and think a little what should happen next...
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
The Lament of Epiphany
Christmas is finally over.
The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.
The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.
The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.
Christmas is finally over.
The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.
The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.
The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.
Christmas is finally over.
Monday, 5 January 2015
Disconnecting
"You're breaking up!" He yells this at the hands-free as if sheer lung power is going to overcome the combination of the foul weather and the road about to be swallowed by the tunnel ahead. The line goes dead as the final gossamer thread of the crackling conversation with his wife snaps leaving only the clatter of the rain and the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers as they endlessly fail to clear the windscreen. As the car enters the tunnel, the noise of the wipers and the rain ceases and suddenly, he is able to able to gather his thoughts.
He hates this job. Travelling, always travelling. Driving here, flying there, hotel rooms that all blend into one well-appointed, lonely cell. Yes, he is well paid - ridiculously so, some might say. This has enabled him to buy all the toys that allow him to 'play hard' when he isn't working his arse off: the joint ownership of the ski chalet (hardly manage to get there); the home gym (barely touched, his once toned body now seems to spread to fill the seat of the Merc); the golf club membership (not even sure where his clubs are); and the house in the Cotswolds (although he gets there fairly regularly, it just provides a change of scenery for emailing, business calls and report writing). Somewhere along the way, he seems to have managed to find the time to marry well (she's old money, terribly sweet and knows how to organise dinner parties although the sat-nav probably says more to him in the course of the week than she does) and to have two young children. When business colleagues ask about his family, he sometimes finds himself struggling to recall their ages. Hell, it was only a couple of weeks back, he even got one of their names wrong. Still, the job pays for them to have the best start that money can buy. They won't have to fight their way up the greasy pole in the way he has had to, no sir. Much as he hates the job, it pays for the perfect lifestyle, the lifestyle that others envy. Whenever he feels it all becoming a little too much, when he feels a tingle in the left arm, the racing pulse, the shortness of breath, he tells himself that it is all worth it in the end.
His reverie breaks as he realises that he is out of the tunnel and the storm has mostly blown itself out. The console display suddenly flashes and the soothing female voice of the car's comms system purrs "You have voicemail". The network must be up again after the storm he thinks and, pressing a button on the steering wheel, he settles back to listen to the message from his wife and over the course of the next one minute and twelve seconds, he finds that the message is still breaking up: his family, his world, his hard shell of success. One too many parents' evenings missed, one too many dinner parties not attended, leaving his wife to hold the babies once too often. All in a voicemail. One minute and twelve seconds. Disconnected.
He hates this job. Travelling, always travelling. Driving here, flying there, hotel rooms that all blend into one well-appointed, lonely cell. Yes, he is well paid - ridiculously so, some might say. This has enabled him to buy all the toys that allow him to 'play hard' when he isn't working his arse off: the joint ownership of the ski chalet (hardly manage to get there); the home gym (barely touched, his once toned body now seems to spread to fill the seat of the Merc); the golf club membership (not even sure where his clubs are); and the house in the Cotswolds (although he gets there fairly regularly, it just provides a change of scenery for emailing, business calls and report writing). Somewhere along the way, he seems to have managed to find the time to marry well (she's old money, terribly sweet and knows how to organise dinner parties although the sat-nav probably says more to him in the course of the week than she does) and to have two young children. When business colleagues ask about his family, he sometimes finds himself struggling to recall their ages. Hell, it was only a couple of weeks back, he even got one of their names wrong. Still, the job pays for them to have the best start that money can buy. They won't have to fight their way up the greasy pole in the way he has had to, no sir. Much as he hates the job, it pays for the perfect lifestyle, the lifestyle that others envy. Whenever he feels it all becoming a little too much, when he feels a tingle in the left arm, the racing pulse, the shortness of breath, he tells himself that it is all worth it in the end.
His reverie breaks as he realises that he is out of the tunnel and the storm has mostly blown itself out. The console display suddenly flashes and the soothing female voice of the car's comms system purrs "You have voicemail". The network must be up again after the storm he thinks and, pressing a button on the steering wheel, he settles back to listen to the message from his wife and over the course of the next one minute and twelve seconds, he finds that the message is still breaking up: his family, his world, his hard shell of success. One too many parents' evenings missed, one too many dinner parties not attended, leaving his wife to hold the babies once too often. All in a voicemail. One minute and twelve seconds. Disconnected.
Sunday, 4 January 2015
A grand day out
Thanks to our obtaining some free tickets for a film preview, we found ourselves actually doing something with a Sunday rather than spending the morning in bed with the papers and the afternoon on the sofa with US TV box sets. And, reader, we greatly enjoyed our day out! The venue for the film showing I chose was the Museum of Film and Photography in Bradford so, naturally, that meant having a curry for lunch (when in Rome and all that) and after that there would still be time to mooch around the museum.
Firstly, the film. It was Clint Eastwood's latest film (as a director), American Sniper. After watching the brainless crap that is The Interview (see yesterday's instalment), this was at the absolute opposite end of the scale: good acting (Sienna Miller is a bit of a revelation), plenty to think about and a feeling of being cinematically satisfied when I left the cinema. And it is the first film in ages that I have been to where no one moved as the credits began but the only time where no one spoke as we left the cinema: nothing, nada for a good minute or two. I shall say no more other than to urge you to go and see it.
Onto lunch. We had planned to eat at the Kashmir, just round the corner from the cinema (as those dodgy homemade ads used to say in between films in the 1970s). I had phoned them the previous week to check if they opened on Sundays. Yes, I was told, "after 11". When we arrived at about 1:30 - that is still lunchtime, isn't it? - it was not only shut, it looked as if it had not been open at all that day. Obviously I should have asked the question "Are you open next Sunday" - I didn't realise I needed to be quite so specific. Anyhow, this being Bradford,there were plenty of other curry house to choose from and we went to Omar Khans's. The food there was great and different - lots of things on the menu that I had never seen before. Between us, we went totally adventurous and tried all sorts. Well-spiced, well-priced and recommended.
Finally, a trawl around the museum. A lot of it is targeted at kids (and none the worse for that), but there was plenty to entertain the big kids. I especially liked the special exhibition based on the work of a Catalan photographer who documents 'miracles' and fantastical animals, many of which were on display in the exhibition: deer with the wings of an eagle, birds with turtle shells, a clam with two tiny ams so it can use tools to catch its prey. All completely crackers but hugely entertaining. There were so many times when I laughed out loud.
Finally, as we drove back on the M62, we found ourselves heading into the most beautiful sunset - a suprisingly pale blue sky as the light faded but shot through with pinks, orange and red. A sublime vision to end a lovely day. I think we might try to make more use of Sundays in future.
Firstly, the film. It was Clint Eastwood's latest film (as a director), American Sniper. After watching the brainless crap that is The Interview (see yesterday's instalment), this was at the absolute opposite end of the scale: good acting (Sienna Miller is a bit of a revelation), plenty to think about and a feeling of being cinematically satisfied when I left the cinema. And it is the first film in ages that I have been to where no one moved as the credits began but the only time where no one spoke as we left the cinema: nothing, nada for a good minute or two. I shall say no more other than to urge you to go and see it.
Onto lunch. We had planned to eat at the Kashmir, just round the corner from the cinema (as those dodgy homemade ads used to say in between films in the 1970s). I had phoned them the previous week to check if they opened on Sundays. Yes, I was told, "after 11". When we arrived at about 1:30 - that is still lunchtime, isn't it? - it was not only shut, it looked as if it had not been open at all that day. Obviously I should have asked the question "Are you open next Sunday" - I didn't realise I needed to be quite so specific. Anyhow, this being Bradford,there were plenty of other curry house to choose from and we went to Omar Khans's. The food there was great and different - lots of things on the menu that I had never seen before. Between us, we went totally adventurous and tried all sorts. Well-spiced, well-priced and recommended.
Finally, a trawl around the museum. A lot of it is targeted at kids (and none the worse for that), but there was plenty to entertain the big kids. I especially liked the special exhibition based on the work of a Catalan photographer who documents 'miracles' and fantastical animals, many of which were on display in the exhibition: deer with the wings of an eagle, birds with turtle shells, a clam with two tiny ams so it can use tools to catch its prey. All completely crackers but hugely entertaining. There were so many times when I laughed out loud.
Finally, as we drove back on the M62, we found ourselves heading into the most beautiful sunset - a suprisingly pale blue sky as the light faded but shot through with pinks, orange and red. A sublime vision to end a lovely day. I think we might try to make more use of Sundays in future.
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