Is a weed just an out of favour flower?

Many years ago, in the shared garden of a tenement house, there laboured three keen gardeners. My Grandmother, my Dad and my Mum.

My Grandmother had a room on the third floor and we lived in the basement. In between, the tenants had rights to half the garden, which was exercised by coming downstairs and through our kitchen, whenever they felt like it.

The garden was fiercely defined by big stones, wire mesh and shrubs. We grew a harvest of flowers plus strawberries, giant greengages and soft, sweet loganberries. They grew half hearted flowers and weeds.

When I was about twelve it was judged that I could have a small patch of my own, about six feet by three.  It was right next to the conker tree that was the envy of my friends, being variously the mast of a pirate ship, a plane bumping through the skies, a castle turret, a lighthouse and a place where I could read in peace as no one else could climb as high in the swaying branches.  It also threw my patch into complete shadow all day.

Nevertheless, some hardy plants had survived and my parents encouraged me to consider the possibilities from a large book of thousands of unpronounceable Latin names.

After about a month of inactivity it became obvious that, ‘Still thinking about it’, was being received with a degree of non-comprehension, bordering on frustration that such a golden opportunity to revive the fecundity of my little patch should be missed as the growing season progressed.

I made my decision, and returned from school, rolled up my metaphorical and real sleeves and set to with spade, fork and rake.  There were some veiled comments about not exchanging my not so metaphorical school trousers, but on the whole an appreciation of the hard work that had turned an unloved patch into an almost flat, and empty, rectangle of muddy soil.  Many questions were rebuffed and theories dismissed. A breathing space had been secured.

Several weeks passed, and the weeds began to poke through the newly turned soil. Questions hovered on parental lips, unspoken yet hanging like un-pricked speech bubbles.  Some careful digging and mound rebuilding in the corner led to intense speculation. A rockery, a herb garden perhaps. But why had the weeds been left?

The following Saturday was fine. Dad was working, Mum was shopping, Nan was snoozing.  After an hour of intense work on the garden it was finished.

The metal battlements of the castle were dug in around the mound, with an inner keep, moat, drawbridge, cannon and knights, (history followed the availability of toys).  On the plains below were tee-pee’s, cowboys, Indians, horses and assorted weaponry. To the right lay the airport with runways of dried mud, carefully smoothed with the back of a comb. In front were the roads, being flattened by a Dinky steam roller, and flowing with vehicles of many vintages and sizes.

All this life, separated, protected, made real by the gorgeous greenery of trees, hedges and fields thanks to the generosity of the weeds.

Citronella candles - do they work?

I'll declare an interest to start. They don't work as well as mosquito coils, that's those compressed wood, smouldering green swirls that give off a thick smoke designed to envelope the lucky person and deter any kami kazi biting insects. I have seen these work against the mozzies of Southern France and the midges of Scotland, so a better test you could not find.

Unfortunately, the side effects are dire, creating coughing fits and watering eyes in all but the hardiest forty-a-day smoker. In most instances this leads to all others evacuating the area covered, to a clean air zone, only to find clouds of frustrated insects have massed, waiting for their nightly feast of human blood.

Like all legislation, the anti smoking laws had unintended consequences. The massive reduction in the smoking population has left travellers vulnerable to the attack of millions of 1cm whistling doodle bugs. I have yet to read of any experiments with electric cigarettes that suggests their great plumes of water vapour have the same deterrent effect that tobacco had on the midge. And there lay the original dilemma; smoke a lot and ruin your lungs, but be midge free, or rely on choking mosquito coils?

Which is where citronella candles were supposed to be the big new saviour for human kind. Now you see them in every guise, thick candles, thin candles, candles in cups, candles in tins, candles to hang up and candles in the top of tall bamboo poles to stick in the ground.

Currently we have a 'Two Ronnies' arrangement, (see picture and try to keep up), on a campsite in South West France. The verdict?

Inconclusive. There are no mosquitos over the table but one just whined past my ear.

Feel free to add your experiences.

Is it worth having a home phone anymore?

Am I being old fashioned in having both a landline phone and a mobile?

A number of friends are quite content with just a mobile and I can see the attraction each month, as my phone usage is a fraction of the allowance on each phone. There is no carry over, so I am paying afresh each month for two services that I could otherwise take six months to exhaust.

But, my home phone is linked to my internet line so I need that to use a computer with a decent sized screen and keyboard, not the tiny picture and finger torturing pop up of a mobile. I read that you can now get internet only deals without a monthly line rental. True, but they cost more than the dual deal in most cases. How so? Don't ask me. I assume the companies want to keep their turnover up so build the line rental into the deal rather than showing it separately.

Not that the decision is going to be only down to money. The home phone is a guaranteed signal quality which is more suitable for the hard of hearing and can have bigger buttons for the visually impaired. There are the more difficult to quantify advantages of that big, clunky handset, with it's tactile handling nestling on the erotic zones around the ear. And those big finger poke-able buttons that click satisfyingly like staccato music notes.

The mobile has its ergonomic, slithery sleek styling, of course, making it the cigarette substitute of hand plaything in public. Which is part of it's addictive attraction, to be constantly displayed, thumbed into action and watched with feigned concentration as though a friends breakfast or their cat's antics could be life changing events. In competition, the home phone becomes a mundane artifact, to be used only when necessary, the pedestrian great aunt to the world travelling youngster.

 An essential safety tool when the torch is deployed or a photo is needed. A useless piece of plastic when the battery expires.

So, there you have it. Another dilemma needing you opinion. Do I go all mobile or stick with the two phone option?                                                                        

Give feet a chance

Give Feet a chance?

Or do I need a new pair?

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I bought some new shoes recently and this got me thinking about feet.

Now, I know lots of you will have pedometers, either stand alone, (keep up) or built into your mobile. Seemingly everybody is after the holy grail of 10,000 steps a day, that’s 10,000 times your foot crashes down, jarring the heel, the bones and muscles travelling up your legs. Probably in shoes designed to look good moving between desk and coffee machine.

Then there are the joggers among us, with better running shoes but pounding away on those poor feet, which are suffering even higher impacts. Footballers, rugby players, tennis buffs and fast bowlers, all putting long term stress on joints designed to avoid danger by running to safety, not three hour marathons.

I have heard the arguments that a regular level of activity is good for the heart, lungs and other internal bits and pieces. The problem is that my, far from scientific, observations are that there are distinct times in the urban human life cycle when our feet are tested and times when ‘normal’ use happens. As kids we run, jump and unselfconsciously enjoy our bodies. In teenage years we put away childish exuberance, become cerebral, inward looking, spotty, screen fixated, downright hormonally unsociable. Our still growing feet are in ill fitting trainers in constant danger of tripping over the fashionably untied laces.

A change occurs as the frightening and exciting world of discovering there is another sex leads to a more sporty lifestyle, feet are back in action. Local football muddy slides, university prestige, celebrity status gets the admiration, the mating ritual of the human being. Early morning runs continue after moving in together before hitting the brick wall of domesticity and career prospects. Children, the end of ‘me’ time and men’s feet get a rest, the bones get a bit set and the muscles slack.

Years flash by and the mid life crisis, “Am I still attractive to the opposite sex?” What works for you? A sexier car, a bigger bust, new clothes, visits to the local music scene. Or back to the jogging, the latest gear, trainers that cost the earth, clothing that wicks away that on-show sweat, a hand shaped drinking bottle, the latest ‘must have’ fitness watch. But those poor feet, neglected for years but now encased in the most ergonomically beautifully sport logo on Earth, crashing down every second, loaded with thirteen stone of unfit body.

But, it rains sometimes and it can be boringly cold at others, so let’s sign up for the gym, nice bodies, coffee bar, friendly muscled people to take the money by the hour. And the feet can take a rest from the running machine as there are so many other bits that need ‘toning’. Then there is something good on television, a meal out with friends, the kid’s school concert. The gym lasts less than the year’s pre paid subscription, and feet are relieved, only the nightly dog walk remains into older age.

Which brings me back to my new shoes. My feet have shrunk. Either that or shoe sizes have changed, I used to fit an eight now it is a seven. I have played fair with my feet, no jogging, no sports, (except swimming), no gym, just the dog walking. I tried the counting steps for a week just to see how many I did without trying, it averaged about 6,000 a day.  So why have my feet shrunk? Would they have stayed the same size if I had done all those sporty things?

Should I approach Amazon for free delivery on a new pair?

Thinking it through

This week's local paper contains a gem of a letter. An ardent Brexit fan had taken exception to the President of the European Union asserting that English was becoming less important in the EU, and delivering his speech in French.

The outrage of the correspondent would have been enough for most people,but he then went on to bypass reality by suggesting that a poor deal for the UK should lead to the UK imposing a ban on all Europeans speaking English.

Hold on. Let's try that again. Unless we get a good deal from Europe when we leave, the U.K. should ban the total population of the 27 EU countries from speaking English.

So, it could go something like this?

A sunlit cafe on the Boulevard St Michel, Paris. Two very obvious British tourists sit looking glumly at their cooling cups, wondering how the cups of tea they wanted had morphed into this glass of colourless liquid with a piece of lemon floating in it.

Each clutched a mobile phone, with their fingers hovering over the 'record' button.

"Why didn't they send me to Spain? "asked the lanky one. "I've been there. When I ask for a cup of tea I get a cup of tea, they understand English."

"I know, Stan. It's OK for them to understand, but it's our job to stop them speaking it." The rotund policeman from Suffolk was not at home in any city and Paris terrified him.

Meanwhile, across Europe similar scenes were being played out by some 15,000 UK police officers. Crime soared in the UK, whilst the Daily Mail demanded that EU nationals arriving in the UK be tested on their fluency in their native language before being allowed in.

"Et vous, le weekend?"

"Did you hear that, Oliver? 'Weekend' she said, as clear as day. That good looking blond, over there." He nodded his head towards a table near the pavement.

The woman's companion was replying, the word 'weekend' clearly heard by the appalled policemen.

"Do you think it's enough for us to take action, Stan?"

"Not sure, better phone Inspector Barrage for advice."

As Stan felt for his security phone he notice two blue dots on his jacket. He attempted to brush them off, but they appeared on the back of his hand.

"Attention gentlemen. This is the Police. Put your hands on the table. Slowly."

As they obeyed, four very large black-uniformed men with balaclavas and huge guns appeared, handcuffed them and led them away.

"You can't do this, we're English Language Protection Officers."

The man looked up from his desk. "I know. We have been listening to you since the patron at the cafe told us about you acting suspiciously. Apart from the fact that your UK Acts of Parliament have no legality in the EU, your choice, remember? Let me ask you this.  If my officers had asked you in French to put your hands on the table, would you have understood and obeyed?  No? Well then, my officers would have shot you. Good job some of us speak English, huh?"

In the next year over 13,000 UK police officers were deported from EU countries for extremism. The other two thousand were either in jail or had claimed asylum.

This has been false news, (Ooops, almost said Fox News), based on a real event.

Will the next generation write?

Will the next generation need to bother to write? 

This is a serious question. With the major advances in speech to text recognition it has to be asked whether anyone will need to actually put pen to paper or fingers to word processor in the future. That's not to say that we shouldn't have to read, reading is entirely different from the writing process, on the other hand does the one depend on the other? 

  It's not as though this is a brand new idea. Dictation to a secretary was, for many years, much faster for business communication than writing something out by hand and passing it to the typing pool, does anyone remember typing pools? But it wasn't only business, Winston Churchill dictated his speeches, many of the aristocratic writers had secretaries who they dictated to directly, although few  managed the kilograms of book weight each year of Barbara Cartland. 

So who does write these days? Or, to put it another way, who is likely to continue writing in the next 20 years if speech recognition software gets that much better? For writers the first draft is probably scrappy anyway so speaking it and making some minor alterations on the way is probably going to be just about as perfect as would be done by typing it, but without the hassle. It could even be true that the first draft is better if it is spoken, because we are always advised to read our work out loud to see where it doesn't work properly. Like what that didn't. 

There are dangers of course. Predictive text can be a curse to a writer. Consider Shakespeare's famous line " out damned spot". Would he have allowed "clear up this despicable Mark"? Or, the three witches," fire burns out the Hubble". On the other hand, predictive text might inject more sense into some of President Trump's tweets. 

But let's look forward to the new generation of school children. Already they have exams where all they have to do is tick one of four boxes to answer. Why bother with written tests? Surely it would be easier to let them dictate an answer, and will probably improve their ability to speak English that other people can understand. So imagine a classroom where the teacher says "please hurry up and speak" rather than "be quiet". 

But, whoever does the writing they will always have to edit it afterwards, so I suppose it's a bit like maths, if you don't have any idea of what should come out of a calculator it's a waste of time having a calculator. In either case a dot in the wrong place can change the whole meaning. 

We are not there with voice recognition. I wrote this using a free programme, and had to revise nearly every sentence.

Which side of my fence do you fall on?

Down with water

I remember being told that water runs down a plughole clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and anti clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere. But recently I read that this was a load of twaddle, poppycock and probably, misspoken. This despite the fact that I have seen a video on YouTube where a man living astride the Equator, demonstrated to tourists that moving a bowl with a plughole from one side to the other changed the direction of the water flow.

Now, I believe in science, mostly, (don't get me started on which are 'good' or 'bad' foods this month), so if science says it doesn't happen then I should believe that the tourists are pouring money down the drain, whichever way it flows.

But, it's such a good story that I want to believe it is true, and much more pleasant than having swallowed thousands of baby spiders every year, which I am happy for the scientists to disprove.So, despite my best efforts, I'm still stuck on the fence on this one.