Empty Rhetoric

When Gordon Brown became Prime Minister, I wrote the following poem, based on his own words. I think the verdict is now indeed 'empty rhetoric'!


Choleric Musings
(On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister)


‘I have heard the need for change.
…now let the work of change begin.’

Footage of journeys along The Mall;
political metamorphosis by Royal Assent.
Traditional photo-shoot at number 10
of this nation’s primary (Scottish) gent.

‘I remember words…which matter a great deal today:
“I will try my utmost”.’

Forgive a somewhat jaded view
from a veteran of decades past.
Successive governments have promised as much;
will your offerings be the ones to last?

‘I will build a government that uses all the talents.’

Are you capable of bringing stability?
Will your changes be climacteric?
Will patients see improvements they seek?
Are your sound-bites empty rhetoric?


© Copyright 2007 Dr Robert M Jaggs-Fowler

The Magic Flute in Fifty Words

A few years ago I accepted the challenge of describing a named opera in no more than fifty words. It is not an easy task! However, the result is shared below:


The Magic Flute

Romance parallels Masonic ritual.

Through luminary initiation and the assistance of three genii, ophidiophobic, muted, magic-flautist Tamino and lovelorn, tipsy, campanological Papageno rescue suicidal Pamina from the debauched Moor, Monostatos, and unite her with Tamino. Papageno discovers his feathery amour, Papagena; Sarastro is pardoned and the evil Nocturnal Queen banished.


I now challenge you to try your own hand at one!

Happy Easter

A very Happy Easter to you all.

May the Christian spirit of peace, harmony, love, trust and understanding be with you now and for always, whatever faith you profess.

Our World depends on it.

The Late Lord Slynn of Hadley

The former Law Lord, Lord Slynn of Hadley, died on the 7th April 2009, at the age of 79 years.

Lord Slynn was a lawyer with a vast intellect. Between 1981 and 1988, he was Britain's advocate-general at the European Court of Justice in Luxembourg, followed by four years of being a judge at the same court. He was elevated to the House of Lords in 1992, where he served the English judiciary for several years, being involved in many difficult cases including the debate over whether General Pinochet should be extradited to Spain to stand trial over alleged crimes of genocide; a decision regarding which, Lord Slynn dissented from the Lord's majority.

Lord Slynn was also a gregarious man with a shrewd sense of humour. He went to great lengths to put those around him at ease, and never lost the opportunity to attend a good cocktail party, where he would be a much sought-after guest.

I first met Lord Slynn when he became the Prior of the Priory of England & the Islands of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem. Within a short space of time, and true to his temperament, I was made to feel like a long-standing friend.

He will be sadly missed.

The New-Style Musings of a Literary Doctor

Welcome to the fresh new look for Musings of a Literary Doctor.

All the previous posts are still available. However, after three years of blogging, the style was beggining to look a little dated. So, here we are - a new look, with lots of new posts coming soon!

Don't forget to sign up for automatic updates as new posts are added, and please feel free to add comments. It is good to have a debate on some issues.

Travel with James Tusitala

Following a year of travel writing for www.beabritdifferent.com, I have decided to run with my own travel site.

Travel with James Tusitala can be found at www.travelwithjamestusitala.blogspot.com.

Do come along for the journey...there are plenty of seats on the transport!

Twittering on...

Following a year of blogging distraction, I am about to upgrade this site and rekindle the 'musings'. So watch this space!

Last year's 'distractions' included a regular slot on www.beabritdifferent.com, a travel website expounding all that is best about England for the USA tourist. My posts are still there (all 144 of them), so catch them whilst you may!

The year also saw the publication of my first collection of poetry. A Journey with Time is available through all internet book sellers, or directly from me at a discounted price - just e-mail me and ask!

Meanwhile, 'Musings' has ventured off into Twitterland...still very much the new boy and learning the ropes. However, a few rudimentary 'feeler' posts are out there, and hopefully I will be able to upload a photo soon (a problem with Twitter Bugs - nasty little things!) Anyway, if you are also in Twitterland, do add me in. Just look for 'James Tusitala'

Publication of Collection of Poetry

Well, there comes a time when a pseudonym has to be revealed for the person behind it! This is one of the moments...

This month sees the publication of my first collection of poetry.

A Journey with Time

is available in both hardback and paperback versions and is currently available from:

http://stores.lulu.com/JaggsFowler

In a few weeks, it should also be appearing on Amazon and Waterstones.com

For a taster, here is the blurb from the jacket:

" 'A Journey with Time' is Robert Jaggs-Fowler's first collection of poems, the subject matter drawing on his love of nature, travel, books and music, as well as exploring the more intense emotions of love and loss. At times amusing, often poignant, 'A Journey with Time' reveals the inner workings of a sensitive human being who is in touch with far more than just life's daily toil."

If you are kind enough to buy a copy, please do feel free to come back to me with any comments.

Thought for the Day

The un-examined life is not worth living.

Socrates

Thought for the Day

'The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.'

George Bernard Shaw

Thought for the Day

'What is life but a series of inspired follies?'

Henry Higgins
Pygmalion

Thought for the Day

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Edmund Burke

Headhunted!

From little acorns...

As a result of my 'Postcards from...' series on here, I was recently invited to join a group of people writing about England for the American tourist market. Naturally, I was keen to be involved and the site has been up and running for a while.

My remit is to talk about life in the North of England. My postings can be found at www.BeABritDifferent.com Look under 'Friends' and click on the posts of James Tusitala.

Associated with the above, I can additionally be found on Facebook and Myspace...so, please come and say hello, leave a few comments, write on my wall and...most importantly, don't forget to add yourself as one of my friends!

See you there!

Projection Word Drops

I have recently been approached by a group of American educationalists with a view to reproducing some of my writing on their new website, Projection Word Drops. As the administrator says in his introduction to the site, their concept is based on the idea that:

'Sincere and true words have undeniable impact, just like a drop of water hitting the water surface. The ripples can go further all around. Ripples are generated as an effect, but it is the drop itself that drives them.'

I am only too pleased to be involved with anything which spreads my writing to knew readers and thought that you, too, might wish to have a look at the site. It can be found at:

http://worddrops.visionsprojection.com/mainpage/

Thought for the Day

Why I write...

I like to dance my pen on the soundtrack of my thoughts.
Nash Suleiman

Do we face the Decline and Fall of the Western Empire?

For the past week, I have been contemplating some words of Dr Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury. In his Easter Sermon, he said:

“…we as a culture can’t imagine that this civilisation, like all others, will collapse and that what we take for granted about our comforts and luxuries simply can’t be sustained indefinitely.

To all this, the Church says, sombrely, don’t be deceived: night must fall."

Dr Williams is frequently berated in the common press for speaking in an obscure style. However, for once, his message is loud and clear. Life, as we in the Western world know it, cannot continue forever.

There are comparisons and lessons to be learned from both the Roman Empire and the French Revolution.

The Roman Empire was once the most powerful Empire the world has known. Not only was it powerful; for at least the ruling elite, life was luxurious. With villas built in the Classical style and surrounded by art, sculpture, music, good food and wines, those fortunate to be amongst the wealthier citizens of Rome must have felt that life had never been so good. For approximately 1000 years, Rome was paramount. Then, as history now shows, night fell for the Romans; the Roman Empire started to shrink and the Barbarians overran Rome.

In the years before 1789, France was essentially a feudal society. The nobles were wealthy, possessed large estates, and had a life of luxury compared to the peasant workers who toiled in their fields and who provided for the needs of their ruling class. Whether one believes the Marxist view that it was inevitable that the growing class of bourgeoisie would overthrow the aristocracy (and Monarchy), and that in time the working class would overthrow the bourgeoisie, or whether one takes a more post-modernist view of history, what is clear is that the time of the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ could not continue forever. At some stage, a degree of re-balancing of wealth had to take place. The French Revolution may have been the mechanism, or it may have just been a speeding up of events that had been happening in small ways for some time and would have reached a climax at some later, albeit inevitable, stage.

Today, those of us who have the privilege of living in the western world can all too readily be blinded to the reality of life in other parts of the world. Even with images of poverty, starvation, war, and human suffering transmitted to our televisions, we are in danger of allowing the television to sanitise the real effect on us. It is as though such things are not really happening; our lives go on as normal, we have plenty of food, clothes and warmth, our oil supplies are plentiful, we are healthy (or at least well-cared for when we are not) and nobody is waging a direct war against us. Many of us can find enough spare money to go on holiday; sometimes more than once per year. Life has never been so good.

Yet, are we not at risk of the same complacency that once beset the Roman and French aristocracies? Is it not simply a matter of scale? Instead of Rome or France, read ‘Western World’. Instead of ‘aristocracy’, read ‘westerner’. For, I would argue, there is a comparison to be drawn between the attitudes of the Roman and French aristocracies to the subjects of their respective empire or feudal estates, and those of us ‘westerners’ in our attitude to the nations poorer than us, but whose inhabitants toil for meagre return in an effort to sustain our insatiable demand for luxury. For example, where would we be without the cheap workforces of China, who produce so much of our every day commodities? Or, for that matter, the agricultural labourers who supply our tea and coffee for less than subsistence wages?

I recently read an article in Source (the Church and Community Magazine for the Parishioners of Upper Nidderdale, North Yorkshire) which gave the following statistics:

‘If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep, you are richer than 75% of this world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish, you are among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy.

If you have never experienced the fear of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pangs of starvation, you are ahead of 700 million people in the world.

If you can attend a church without fear of harassment, arrest, torture, or death you are envied by, and more blessed than, three billion people in the world.

If you can read this message, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world who cannot read at all. If you own a computer, you are part of the 1% in the world who has that opportunity.’


I can add to those statistics by something I read in a nature reserve exhibition. That, to bring the world’s population to the same standard of living enjoyed by the average person now living in North Lincolnshire, we would need the natural resources of another four or five Earths.


Insisting on supermarkets operating ‘Fair Trade’ policies is a start. Insisting that wholesalers do not import clothes from factories known to use child labour is commendable. However, such action is not going to solve the ultimate problem. We need to face up to the fact that our lifestyles in the western world are unsustainable. How long will it be before the population of China, for example, demands the same standards as those we enjoy? How will the world’s resources then meet the demand? Indeed, how can our own demands then continue to be met?

We must not be blind to the precarious nature of our western civilisation’s existence. As a country looking out at the world (rather than in respect to our internal politics), we (in the United Kingdom) are largely right wing, conservative and reactionary. A vast proportion of the world is, or has the potential to become, quite the opposite: left wing, radical, reformative, and revolutionary. We cannot rely on these factions being contained forever – but who can blame them when the time comes for them to demand an equality of existence?

Western civilisation is the modern-day aristocrat facing a growing unease amongst the countries of the poorer classes. It is time that we awoke to the reality before us. The 18th century philosopher, Rousseau, expounded the notions of the ‘Social Contract’ and the ‘General Will’; ideas that featured heavily within the minds of the French Revolutionaries. Perhaps we need our world’s leaders to start negotiating the same concepts, but on a worldwide basis – now, before the matter is beyond us?

It is a ‘fact of history’ that all empires fall. When, then, the decline and fall of the Western Empire? Just as Classical Greece saw its Dark Age, Western Europe has also lived through its own Dark Ages. However, the Archbishop of Canterbury was quite correct when he said:

“…don’t be deceived: night must fall."

Without a 21st century Enlightenment in respect to the world’s resources, and a reality check on the disparity between living standards, the western world may yet have its most significant Dark Age to come.

I'm Dreaming of a White Easter

I am sure that it has happened before, but I cannot off-hand remember when. However, Easter morning has dawned with a blue sky and two inches of snow here in the Yorkshire Dales.

A beautiful sight which offers a freshness which is very fitting for the day of the Resurrection of our Lord.

Happy Easter!

A Lexicographic Curiosity

On the 25th March 2006, I posted to this blog an article named 'Word of the Week - Megalotic'. Little did I think that this one word was going to become a major source of interest to our friends in Japan.

Like many blogs, I have a site-meter attached. This enables me to monitor how many hits the blog receives, how long people stay on and how many pages are read. An additional feature, which I find particularly fascinating, is that it tells me which part of the world the reader is in and, finally, how they got to my blog in the first place; for example, did they stumble across it by accident when searching for something in Google, or did they specifically enter the site name.

Over the past two years, it has become increasingly obvious that readers in Japan search on the word 'megalotic' and thus come to this site. Some even enter 'Dr Tusitala - Megalotic' as their search words.

The mystery to me is why this should be. The word megalotic is not an everyday English word and certainly took me a while to figure out what it might actually mean. (See the original posting for my answers to that). So why are the Japanese so interested in the word?

If anyone has an insight to my little conundrum, please do post a comment.

A Maundy Thursday Tale of Hope

Arriving at our cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, late in the afternoon, we discover a note from the housekeeper informing us that the vacuum cleaner has stopped working. A slight understatement, as none of the electrical sockets work, meaning everything (with a plug attached) has stopped working. A quick assessment of the fuse box confirms a tripped RCD. Further analysis reveals that it re-trips whenever anything is switched on anywhere.

Now, what is the likelihood of finding an available electrician at 5 pm on Maundy Thursday in a village where I hold no bargaining power as a doctor; or, for that matter, an electrician who can affect a repair before the end of the long Easter weekend? About the same as finding a GP surgery open on a Saturday morning, I would say. The immediate future was looking bleak.

Undaunted, I ring a number on an advert in the local Parish magazine. Amazingly, a man answers. I explain the situation and make the tentative request that he might be able to help me.

‘I’ll be straight round,’ he says, and hangs up.

Somewhat amazed, I tell my wife that the cavalry is on its way. True to his word, he arrives within five minutes and proceeds to spend the next three hours finding the fault, isolating it, and giving us back a power supply.

The young man is a saint disguised as an electrician. My faith in human nature is restored, but somehow, after he has left with my profuse gratitude, I cannot help feeling guilty for not opening my surgery on Saturday mornings any more…

Thought for the Day

The following is often quoted as an extract from Nelson Mandela's inaugural speech in South Africa in 1994 (see footnote). In it, he reflects on the nature of our understanding of ourselves. It is so powerful that it requires no further introduction:

'Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light and not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous. Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were all meant to shine as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.'


Footnote:
Whilst the above is widely quoted as having been used in a speech by Mandela, it would appear that this may be a misrepresentation. The original author seems to have been Marianne Williamson. The passage is a paragraph in her book Return to Love, published in 1992.

Thought for the Day

The Journey of Life

'Let us be contented with what has happened to us and thankful for all we have been spared. Let us accept the natural order in which we move. Let us reconcile ourselves to the mysterious rhythm of our destinies, such as they must be in this world of space and time. Let us treasure our joys but not bewail our sorrows. The glory of light cannot exist without its shadows. Life is a whole, and good and ill must be accepted together. The journey has been enjoyable and well worth making - once.'

From Sir Winston Churchill’s Thoughts and Adventures.

Earthquakes, Snakes and Talking Birds – Welcome to Lincolnshire

As if the floods of June 2007 were not enough, the early hours of Wednesday 27th February 2008 brought further evidence to the actuaries ensconced in the ivory towers of insurance land that Lincolnshire is not a safe place to do business.

It was a little before 1 a.m. when our four-poster bed started to violently shake, accompanied by a loud, deep, roaring-rumbling noise. The effect lasted a mere ten seconds. However, it was sufficient to fully waken both my wife and I. To her startled exclamation of ‘what is happening’, I instantly replied ‘earthquake’. Not that I am an expert in such matters. I suppose it could have been a gas explosion, or an aeroplane crashing, or the oil refinery exploding (shades of Flixborough). Nonetheless, once you have experienced one earthquake, you tend to be tuned-in for life.

Peru was the background for my initiation into the delights of nocturnal earth-movings; six floors up in an hotel in Arequipa to be precise. The year was 2006 and my wife and I were touring Peru for a few weeks.

The vast cracks and undulating pavements should have been the clues to the fact that we were in an earthquake zone. However, stepping off a coach in the darkness of evening meant that such observations were going to wait until morning. Neither did we realise the significance of the little red signs advertising ‘Safe Zone’, liberally posted at intervals along the corridors. In retrospect one can smile at our naivety.

A deep rumbling, which grew progressively louder until it became a roaring noise, preceded the shaking of the bedroom floor and walls. My first reaction was to think ‘oh no, they have put us in a room next to the railway line’. (You can probably detect that I have stayed in a few suspect areas of London in my past life.) However, as the pictures started to swing at crazy angles, the fleeting thoughts of complaining to the management and seeking an alternative room evaporated into the more focused opinion that we were six floors up and so a railway outside the bedroom window was unlikely. This was an earthquake!

Meanwhile, my wife was in a bath with its own in-built tidal waves. Now, we do have a Jacuzzi at home but can never achieve such vigorous aquatic effects. Not surprisingly, she also twigged that all was not exactly as it should be and, needless to say, the bath was quickly vacated; as was the hotel.

That is to say, we vacated the hotel. Outside, life appeared to be going on as normal; as did the activities in the hotel restaurant; which was pretty much the response in our home town in Lincolnshire last Wednesday. One or two lights went on and a couple of neighbours wandered outside in their nightclothes, before all going back to bed. No sirens, no panic – just stiff-upper lip, British matter-of-factness. Even the conversations the following day were more about the weather than the largest earthquake to hit England in the past quarter-century. Neither did the news that the epicentre was in Market Rasen, a mere steeplechase away from us, do anything to raise the British pulse.

Nonetheless, pulses were raised last night. Earthquakes followed by snakes sounds quite biblical in character. However, this sighting was one to be relished. The encounter took place in Gainsborough, not far from Market Rasen (though that is where the connection with the earthquakes finishes). Snake Davis, the internationally famous, multi-talented saxophonist, slithered once again into that jazz-club of excellence, The Sands Venue, and, along with his band, delighted his audience with two hours of aural, spine-tingling, foot-tapping, eye-closing, mesmeric delight.

Recently returned from Japan, Snake’s latest album is titled Talking Bird (the title coming from a dream wherein a bird spoke to him). With forty-six minutes of soprano, alto and tenor saxophones, flutes and the hauntingly beautiful melodies played on the Shakuhachi (made of bamboo and similar in timbre to the Peruvian queena), disciples of this two-legged serpentine musician will only be disappointed by the fact that it will probably be at least a year before the next album appears.

This album was predominantly recorded in Japan; a country well-versed with the subject of earthquakes. Talking Bird, however, has no such turmoil. On the contrary, the tranquillity of traditional Japanese culture shines through. On the album cover, Snake says

‘...we all really hope that this music will make you close your eyes and drift off somewhere away from the crazy hectic lives we lead...’

All I can say is that, listening as I write, I am already in that ‘somewhere’. Welcome back, Snake. Bring on those earthquakes – I’m cool.

Behind the Broken Façade

Two events this week have served to remind me of the importance of not underestimating the human brain.

For as long as I can remember, I have consciously made an effort to speak to disabled people as though they were able. This is no less important when it comes to addressing people who have had strokes, are in a coma, or have a condition that causes severe speech problems, such as severe cerebral palsy. One can never be sure as to how much they understand, so surely it is best to err on the side of caution and assume that they understand everything?

A newspaper article in The Daily Telegraph (Saturday, 23rd February 2008) illustrated the point about people in comas. It was reported that a woman was brought out of a coma by her husband shouting at her (Husband’s love and a rollicking save a coma wife, p. 7). Apparently, doctors told the husband that they were considering the need to turn off his wife’s life-support equipment, as there was no sign of recovery. The husband, who had been holding a bedside vigil for two weeks, grabbed his wife’s hand and shouted at her, telling her to make an effort, fight back, and not to leave him. He then left for a couple of hours to ‘get some fresh air’. When he returned two hours later, his wife was breathing spontaneously and subsequently made a full recovery. She reported that she could remember hearing him shouting at her and that made her cross; thus the stimulus to recovery.

Neurologists have confirmed that the unconscious brain continues to process information. This, of course, is a topical subject, having been brought to us in the television series Life on Mars, and most recent with the program’s sequel, Ashes to Ashes.

Which brings me to the second event of this week.

On Thursday, I went to the cinema to see the film The Diving-Bell & the Butterfly. This is not a blockbuster film. It is, however, a remarkable story and a very moving one. It was a film I really wanted to see, having read the original book in 1997.

The Diving Bell & the Butterfly was written by Jean-Dominique Bauby. Bauby was 42 years old and the editor of Elle magazine in Paris. In 1995, he suffered a massive stroke, which left him completely paralysed apart from the ability to move the lids of his left eye. This became his only means of communication. Over the next year, he managed to write the story of his stroke and to describe what it is like to suffer a perfectly active mind with no means of communication or movement. The condition is called ‘Locked-in Syndrome’. The story was dictated by having a secretary sit for hour upon hour, slowly reciting the vocabulary. Each time she reached the letter Bauby wanted, he would indicate by signalling with his eyelid. Thus, by such painstaking action, he dictated his words. Bauby died ten days after the book was published. I defy anyone not to be impressed by his tenacity and achievement, and not to be emotionally moved by those same endeavours. I also know that no one, who has either read the book or seen the film, will ever see a person with such a condition in the same light again. The story has the power to change perspectives. As the Evening Standard critic, Gilbert Adair wrote when reviewing the book:

‘…his closing sentence, just twelve flutters long, is one of the most heartrending in all of modern literature.’

It is.

The poet, Elizabeth Jennings, wrote a poem entitled Old Man. The title suggests the topic – that of an old man, beyond his prime, who requires the daily attention of carers for his well-being. In 2007, I wrote a response to Jennings's poem, suggesting that matters are not always what they seem to be. I reproduce it here:


Life’s Denouement
(after Old Man by Elizabeth Jennings)

Do not be fooled by my inaction.
My silent world is not what it seems.
You see an old man confined by
a bed, a chair, a room.
You perceive tranquillity, yet
I have no need for communication.

Chairbound?

I am not even earthbound.

My spirit has earned its freedom from
materialistic chains.
Knowledge now powers my
unencumbered travel. I exist
disassociated from your reality.

You think you tend to an old man.
Yet, you are satellite images
to where my world revolves.
That shadow is the real me:
waking with dawn, slipping away
by midday and, for now, returning
with the setting sun.

Time knows no boundaries.
Age is not what it seems;
death, a powerful invocation.
Your delusion is
my ultimate illusion.

I am not the old man you see before you.

I am.

© Copyright 2007 Dr Tusitala


Whatever the disability we are dealing with, whether it be a coma, paralysis after stroke, or the effects of old age, we must never assume that what we see is all there is. One day, we might be in a similar position of infirmity. Wouldn’t we then all wish that some enlightened person would see beyond the broken façade?

Spare a Thought for the Poor Librettist

How many people listen to the early hit songs of Elton John and think ‘wow, Bernie Taupin had a great way with words’?

How many people watch an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and knowingly admire the poetry of Tim Rice?

And the neglect of the poor librettist is not confined to the modern day. How many Mozart arias and duets can the opera buff sing along to...yet give not a moment’s thought to Lorenzo Da Ponte, who wrote the lyrics to The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni and Cosi Fan Tutte?

Of course, there are numerous other examples of misplaced admiration. The musician gets the praise, but it is often the poet who has stimulated the ideas in the first instance.

So next time you admire a song (of whatever genre), do spare a thought for the neglected poet.

The Starting Line

Religion means many different things to many different people. For some it means an entire philosophy for living; others call upon it as a crutch at times of need. A large proportion of society professes to acknowledge no religion at all; they draw strength from their secular avocations.

William Ralph Inge (1860 – 1954), writing in Idea of Progress (1920):

‘To become a popular religion, it is only necessary for a superstition to enslave a philosophy.’

Perhaps he was right. If that be so, then I personally consider the philosophy underlining Christianity to be a very reasonable way of guiding the conduct of one’s life. However, I then ask myself, can a philosophy on its own cause a spontaneous uplifting of the spirit? Can a philosophy recharge drained emotional batteries? Can a philosophy bring renewed strength when mind and body are failing? There may be some who would answer these questions in the affirmative, though I am not convinced.

I have held a strong faith for the major part of my teenage and adult life. It was not imposed upon me by my parents. It was something I was drawn to by personal desire. Over the years, the influence of religion on my life has varied, but never disappeared. For a while I was strongly drawn towards the priesthood and would probably have continued down that path had it not been for the commencement of a life-changing, personal relationship. The irony is that the relationship which so magically reformed my personal life (and continues to do so) was also contrary to the teachings of my faith. The values of the relationship were (and are) sound; it was just that my religion did not allow one to get it wrong first time round. So the idea of ordination was set aside and, for a while, I lost the spiritual magic I had once felt on entering a church, on picking up the Bible, on gazing at a cross, and so forth. And that troubled me because I was aware of an emptiness, despite the glorious warmth, love and passion of my new relationship. Something was missing.

Time went by and gradually, for a variety of reasons and in ways which were at times imperceptible, my faith was returned without me trying to restore it. I even questioned its validity. It stood the tests I imposed and has under-shored my life ever since, often without me thinking about it. Just as, I suppose, we do not on a daily basis consider the presence of the foundations of our houses; we just take it for granted that they are there doing the job of supporting the rest of the building.

So what makes me so sure that my faith is genuine and not just a reassuring “club membership” where I can find like-minded people? The answer is in happenings such as that which occurred a few Sundays ago.

It was the occasion of my parent’s Golden Wedding Anniversary and we had taken them back to Bromley in Kent, where they had lived as children and subsequently married. On the Sunday, we visited the church where their wedding had taken place, namely, Christ Church in Highland Road, Bromley.

The church has undergone many alterations over the past fifty years, and continues to have a thriving congregation. However, it is no longer the traditional Anglican Church that my parents knew. It has been re-born as an evangelical church. The altar is now in the north, to allow for a re-arrangement of the seating and facilitate the building of a three-sided gallery to accommodate the enlarged congregation. The traditional prayer books are no longer used and the hymns are modern. There is even a gospel choir and band.

For someone who has always appreciated the litany and proceedings of ‘high church’, such a setting might be daunting. However, I sat there and, with an open mind, took in my surroundings. Almost immediately, I sensed something special was taking place in that building. There was something uplifting about it; something which caused an inward excitement, that elevated the emotions and gave strength to a tired mind; something that I had not so readily felt for a very long time.

It was then that my mother whispered a few words which, to her, were a ‘by the by’ but for me were illuminating.

‘Of course, this is also where you were christened.’

Her words entered my ears and, like an electric current, surged through my mind, thumped my heart and fizzled into my limbs. For a moment I felt slightly dizzy as realisation dawned. THIS was where it had all started for me. It was in this very building that I had been first received into the house of God. It was here that I had crossed the starting line on a journey which was to offer all sorts of challenges; challenges which I would rise to and obstacles which I would overcome. For it was from here that I took with me the strength of a living Christ. I gazed towards the west-end of the church to where the old font would once have stood. That is where it all began. And no wonder I felt so positive about the place.

I do not believe that a philosophy on its own has the power to induce the significant and spontaneous surge of emotion and energy I felt whilst I sat in that church. I have no doubt that my faith is true and substantial. I may not be able to rationalise it, but whoever said that God is rational?

Karl Marx wrote in A Contribution to the critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, in 1843:

‘Religion...is the opium of the people.’

Well, if he was right, then I confess to being a hardened addict – and am proud to be so.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (10)

Saturday, 9th February 2008

A delightful meal and good bottle of Barolo last evening at the award winning Italian restaurant, La Locanda, in Gisburn, Lancashire, were in need of being removed from the waistline. With a cloudless sky and temperatures approaching a remarkable 14°C, the stage was set for another walk.

Staying within Malhamdale, our route began in the village of Airton, wandered across pastureland to Kirkby Malham and then on to Hanlith, before joining the River Ayre for the journey back to Airton.

Although only 4¼ miles, the walk was full of interest, not least because of the magnificent views afforded by the clear skies. Rye Loaf Hill, Pikedaw, Fountains Fell, Malham Cove, Malham Moor, Gordale Scar, Weets Top and Hanlith Moor provided the scenery in front of us, whilst behind stood the imposing Pendle Hill. Contrary to the surrounding areas, a light mist circled around the base of Pendle Hill, giving it an air of mystery quite in keeping with the folklore of witches thereabouts.

The route from Airton soon intersected the historic Kirk Gait: an ancient path, trodden by the inhabitants of Otterburn each Sunday as their quickest way of covering the three miles to church. The pastureland was boggy in places and I marvelled at the thought of those devout people tackling this walk in all weathers; the women no doubt in long skirts and everyone without the benefit of the modern waterproof walking boots we take for granted.

Although spring was tentatively making its presence known, with snowdrops in abundance, daffodils making their first appearance, and buds starting to form on the surrounding trees, the scene was still a reflection of the starkness of winter. The bare branches of the trees and bushes, broken only by an occasional splash of vivid red from small clumps of surviving hawthorn berries, provided a skeletal foreground to the wonderful variety of greens and yellows of the pastures of the lowlands and hillsides. The novice artist in me started to imagine mixing the various paints from my palette as, in my mind’s eye, I painted a watercolour of the scene before me.

The age of these small hamlets is advertised by the dates on the lintels of several properties, giving a sense of timelessness to the environs. In Kirkby Malham, a cottage with mullioned windows had a date stone from 1637, whilst in Hanlith, Hanlith Hall dates from 1668, a cottage in Airton bears the date 1696, and the Friends’ Meeting House in Airton was built in 1700. The path re-entering Airton runs between the River Ayre and an old mill-race, once belonging to an old cotton mill (now converted into flats).

As one passes through all these places, a real sense of the past is a constant companion. With the surrounding countryside, there is a continuous reminder that we are mere visitors to this wonderful landscape, which has witnessed centuries of change imposed onto the backdrop of its timeless presence. It is a salutary reminder of our own impermanence and relative insignificance.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (9)

Friday, 8th February 2008

It has been well over a year since my last Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales. This beautiful early-spring weekend deserves the production of another.

The ability to escape from the rigors of the surgery on Thursday afternoon last week, allowed my wife and I to arrive in the Dales that same evening, with the promise of a long weekend ahead. With the dawning of Friday, the promise became reality with weather to match our enthusiasm for shaking out the walking boots.

The village of Gargrave was our starting point. From there, the seven-mile walk took us alongside the River Aire for a short distance, before climbing up to where the Pennine Way awaited. The latter served as the route to East Marton, from where the Leeds-Liverpool canal’s towpath became our course back to Gargrave.

Just prior to joining the Pennine Way, the track took in a bridge over a railway line. The line nestles within a deep cutting, the two sets of rails disappearing into the curves of the hills in both directions. High above, the rolling dales were pre-eminent. Standing on the bridge and gazing down at the line, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the mammoth undertaking that the fathers of the early railways set their minds upon, when the concept of a railway was first envisaged. The task of taming a corridor through this rugged countryside, with the manual digging of cuttings, blasting of tunnels, and levelling of tracks, must have been a Herculean project in those early-industrial days. The presence of the railway is something we now tend to take for granted. However, standing on that isolated bridge, with nothing but the hills and wind for company, one could not help but sense the magnitude of their achievement.

East Marton is a small hamlet adjacent to the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Its major architectural attraction is the presence of a double-arched bridge: not in the sense of twin spans, but one arch on top of the other. The increasing volume of road traffic over the first bridge meant that a stronger structure was required. Instead of rebuilding the entire bridge, a second arched structure was simply placed on top of the first; a concept which now gives the erroneous and initially disorientating impression that the canal must have once run at a level some twenty feet above its present location!

The English canals have long been a fascination for me. It is as though the process of stepping from the towpath onto a canal boat takes one through a time warp. Time itself slows, the frenetic pace of the modern world is banished, and peace and tranquillity reign. I harbour this dream of one day owning a broad-beamed barge (similar to a narrow boat, but twice as wide, and for which the northern-most canals, such as the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, were specifically constructed). My imaginary barge is painted a deep green (of the ‘British Racing’ variety), with its name, The Apothecary, emblazoned on its side in scripted gold lettering. Other gold-painted motifs, drawn from my personal armorial bearings, such as a fox rampant, holding a saxophone and quill pen, would further adorn the sides. I would spend my days gently meandering through the serene countryside of the Dales; whilst my evenings would be passed with The Apothecary moored to the towpath in an isolated spot, far from evidence of modern civilisation. There, I would sit on the roof, playing jazz and blues on a tenor saxophone, with only the sheep in the surrounding fields for an audience. After dark, I would retire to the candle-lit saloon, where I would write deep into the night, accompanied by a crystal glass of malt whisky and my Labrador, Thea.

Et in Arcadia ego.

The Spring Muse Awakes

Writers, poets, musicians, and artists have long looked towards their own personal muse for creative inspiration. The Egyptians had Hathor, the goddess of music, love, and beauty to assist them in their endeavours. Greek mythology offered an entire sisterhood of nine goddesses (‘the nine muses’) who were devoted to stimulating the artistic mind. Whereas the Romans looked to the Camenae who, like the Greek muses, were also water nymphs and hence known as the goddesses of springs.

For me, the first part of winter has often been a low period for creativity. The dull, cold days seem to suppress imaginative thoughts. The coming of the New Year has usually served to reawaken the urge to write, as the turn of the calendar offers the promise of new beginnings. If that does not work for me, then my birthday (at the end of January) usually does. Then, Janus, the Roman God of beginnings and endings (after whom the month of January is named), applies the influence of his two faces (one looking forwards, the other backwards) to allow me to take stock of what has been and what may yet come. This year, that reviving moment did not really have a chance to happen, as I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of other family celebrations.

However, the coming of spring has often heralded a further reawakening of inventiveness and enthusiasm. Such has been the effect of this weekend’s weather. The past two days have seen glorious blue skies and sunshine. Together with two walks in the beautiful countryside of the Yorkshire Dales, the effect of the elements has been one of instant cerebral reinvigoration.

For me, the onset of an early spring has certainly acted as my personal muse. The desire to write has started to bubble up from deep within and I feel spoilt for choice as to where to begin. The Greeks called the Goddess of Spring and fresh beginnings, Maia (hence the month of May). In reality, it may only be February, but I welcome the early presence of Maia with delight. Already, several ideas have started to tumble around the grey matter, with concepts for a poem and short story amongst them. Then there is my partly written novel, and not forgetting to mention this blog.

Now all I need is for Kronos (also known as Cronus), the Greek God of time, to look kindly upon me and bless me with the gift of a little free time in order to bring all these ideas to fruition. Perhaps, Maia could have a word or two with him on my behalf.

A ‘What if...’ Moment

At around midnight last night, the sky in North Lincolnshire was beautifully clear. It was one of those rare times when the stars stood out in twinkling splendour on a background of deepest black. My own knowledge of the constellations is limited. However, I could clearly identify Aries, Pisces, Ursa Major (the plough) and Ursa Minor. To the east of them all, rather as a governess overseeing a scattering of her charges, floated the moon, now approaching its final quarter (on the 31st December).

Venus is best seen in the mornings at around 7am and was therefore not visible to me last night. Scientists, however, are currently studying the planet Venus, as, despite its toxic state today, it is once thought to have had an atmosphere akin to ours on Earth. Indeed, it is thought that its surface once contained water and may have been capable of supporting life. Now, dense clouds of sulphuric acid form an intense ‘greenhouse effect’ and all water has evaporated. It may therefore offer some suggestions as to how we can combat the warming of our own planet and thus avoid an ultimate total catastrophe.

As my wife and I stood mesmerised by the beautiful scene before us, my mind, fuelled by the above thoughts, wandered off into one of those ‘what if’ moments...

The culture of the ancient Egyptians has long been a matter for admiration and astonishment. They had competencies in the fields of engineering, geometrics, astronomy and medicine (just to name a few subjects) which leave us wondering at how they could have developed such skills and knowledge. Certainly, our knowledge of their pre-history is, by the very statement, minimal. Additionally, much of their understanding has had to be re-learned or re-discovered over successive millennia.

So, what if human life had once existed on Venus (or some such similar planet) and had developed into a very advanced and sophisticated civilisation? Then, that planet was subjected to the forces of global warming to the point where the inhabitants were looking at the destruction of their world. Because of their advanced technology, they were able to leave their planet and travel to another, equally hospitable to their biological needs; a planet we now know as Earth.

Of course, the immediate culture arriving on Earth would have the knowledge it brought with it, but limited technology at its disposal. Perhaps then, it would take a further seven thousand years or so before the subsequent generations were beginning to develop and match their predecessors in knowledge and skills... only then to find that they too were confronted with the need to find solutions to the problem of global warming...

As I stood wondering at the immensity of the night sky last evening, it made me think more than ever before about our relative position within the universe and the fact that it just may hold the key to not only our origins, but also our future.

...or was it just the malt whisky speaking...

Thought for the Day

Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
Will Durant, historian (1885-1981)

The Poisonwood Bible

I have just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (Faber & Faber, 2000; ISBN 0-571-20175-X).

It is the story of an American Baptist missionary, who takes his wife and four daughters into the heart of the Belgian Congo shortly before the Congolese wrest their country back from Belgium and come under the influence of America and great civil unrest.The story charts the progress of the family - from its traumatic deconstruction as an American unit with all the values which go with being such, to the reconstruction of their individual lives over a thirty year period.

Told through the voices of the mother and four daughters, the story, taken at face-value, is a well-constructed and interesting insight to a world of which many of us would have no experience. However, the book is far more than that. It contains a depth of lyrical poetry, which resonates long after the book is closed. Many of its thought-provoking passages find an echo in our own lives, raising valid questions about our beliefs and values, our interpretation of what it is to be alive...and dead, our understanding of history and our concept of 'self'. There are many noteworthy phrases contained within its six hundred pages, but for me, one of the most memorable is:

'Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilisation.'

Time is a valuable commodity. However, time invested in the company of this book is well rewarded.

Words Mean What Words Say

Although the work conducted within the House of Commons can, at times, best be described as rowdy, the members operate under a strict code of conduct. One of the rules is that they do not use rude language or make accusations against each other which might be construed as being insulting.

Winston Churchill had a certain way with words and was not to be beaten by such constraints. On one occasion, confronted with a statement which Churchill deemed to be far from the truth, he referred to the member's 'terminological inexactitude' rather than accuse him of telling a lie!

Such are the rich opportunities offered by the English language.

Haiku from the Galapagos Islands

Marine iguanas
trail home through volcanic ash.
Galapagos dusk.



One century old,
a tortoise views our approach:
footsteps of Darwin.


© Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007

Drug Running in Ecuador

‘Dr Tusitala?’

Somewhat sleepily, I nodded in acknowledgement.

Up until that point, I had been minding my own business by happily snoozing in a deep armchair in the Executive Lounge of Guayaquil International Airport. The flight to Amsterdam was delayed by one hour, so my wife and I had two hours to sample Ecuadorian Business Class hospitality. In effect, that meant we were allowed as much coffee as we could drink. However, being South America, tea was nowhere to be found; which is purgatory when you are English, dislike coffee and remain very partial to the odd drop of Earl Grey. However, at least the armchairs were comfortable – at least, that is, until the air hostess from KLM interrupted my dreams.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but Security would like you to open your luggage. Would you mind coming with me please?’

Reassuring my wife that I would be back soon, I accompanied the hostess out into the main waiting area, through the security desk (ominously surrendering my boarding card in the process) and down various corridors until we reached the tarmac, airside.

‘I wonder what has excited them?’ I commented to my silent escort.

‘It is just routine,’ she replied, in a non-committal sort of way.

The process may be routine for her, but in years of travelling the world, it was knew to me.

‘Perhaps my alarm clock has gone off?’ I offered, as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t work.

Beneath the airport main terminal was an open fronted, spartan and somewhat foreboding, grey concrete, service area. A long trestle table had been erected along one-side, behind which stood three uniformed security officers. Another two guards stood on my side. All five had belts bristling with firearms, long truncheons, cufflinks and a variety of other official-looking paraphernalia. I didn’t need to know whether they spoke English. Their adornments translated as “don’t mess with me” in any language. On the trestle table was a familiar silver coloured, Samsonite suitcase. One of two accompanying us on that trip.

Approaching the table, I nodded to the nearest guard, who remained silently impassive whilst I unlocked the suitcase. As I did so, another guard walked up behind me and requested my passport. Handing it over, I watched as he flipped through the pages, whilst a colleague started to unpack the contents of my case.

His approach was slow and methodical.

Starting with the contents of the lid, he unfolded clothing item by item. A model of a giant tortoise (from the Galapagos Islands – well, I thought it would look good on my desk back at home) was unwrapped from its safe-haven amidst the dirty laundry, visually inspected, sniffed (interesting) and then carefully re-wrapped. A similar procedure was then applied to every other object within the lid of the case until, seemingly satisfied, he turned his attention to the main storage area.

Beginning to feel a little more relaxed about the proceedings, I continued to watch as he was equally meticulous with the second half of the examination. Step by step, my washbag was opened, contents inspected (and sniffed), before being replaced from whence it had come. This was followed by my wife’s make-up bag, the portable hairdryer, a small souvenir bag from the outward flight with KLM, and so on.

It was as the officer was sniffing tubes of suntan lotion, after-sun lotion and insect repellent that I glanced at the final, yet to be inspected, corner of my suitcase, spotted the black Vidal Sassoon case, and suddenly realised that matters were about to get a little more exciting. Why couldn’t they have chosen to inspect my other suitcase? I asked myself.

My brother's comments prior to our departure from the U.K. came back to me:

'There are only two things which come out of Ecuador: drugs and Panama hats.'

He was wrong actually, as they are also major exporters of bananas. However, such erudite knowledge was not going to assist my present quandry.

Scenes from the 1970s film, Midnight Express, wherein a young English chap was imprisoned in a squalid Turkish jail, flashed through my mind. Would I be able to persuade the authorities of my innocence? Would they allow me to pass a message to my wife, or would she be forced to board the plane not knowing of my fate? Would the Ecuadorian jails be any better than those in Turkey?

At this stage, I ought to offer an explanation.

Being a physician, it is my habit to carry a small selection of medicines on most trips abroad, especially when journeying to places where western European standards of medical practice might not be easily accessible. Over the years, the number of medications thought to be of necessity, has expanded with experience. I now carry a supply of paracetamol, two or three different antibiotics (suitable for chest infections, cystitis and the dreaded traveller’s diarrhoea), antacids, eye ointment, antihistamines, Imodium, Dioralyte powders, anti-sickness tablets, hydrocortisone cream, antibiotic cream, suppositories, and so on - you name it, I can treat it. All those various white pills, creams and lotions pack very neatly, without their original boxes, into the black Vidal Sassoon case. However, without their original boxes, I suppose it is not quite so apparent, except perhaps to the trained medical eye, that they are relatively innocuous and not the latest designer drug destined for export from South America to Amsterdam.

Wondering whether my membership card for the Royal College of General Practitioners would be accepted as proof that I was not operating an opium syndicate (and only then realising that the card was in my wallet, safely in the possession of my wife back upstairs in the less intimidating surroundings of the Executive Lounge), I watched the officer fold back the last few items of clothing adjacent to the Vidal Sassoon case. I hardly dared breath whilst I waited for the inevitable.

‘Si.’

He waved his hand over the suitcase. For a moment, I was non-plussed.

‘Si,’ he repeated, making a turning movement with his hand. I proffered my keys and he nodded.

Trying hard not to look relieved nor to rush the task in hand, I closed and relocked the suitcase, and then watched as it was loaded back onto a luggage trolley.

‘Follow me back upstairs please,’ said the now smiling KLM hostess.

I didn’t need any further bidding.

Ten minutes later I was reunited with my boarding pass and made my way back to the Executive Lounge.

‘Everything, alright?’ my wife enquired.

‘Yes, no problems,’ I replied. ‘They minutely opened and inspected everything in the suitcase apart from the medical kit.’

Her look of astonishment said it all.

‘You are joking?’

‘No,’ I responded. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it myself. The one bag he would really have got excited about and he ignored it! Strange how some things happen.’

I placed my jacket over the back of the armchair, shrugged and grinned.

‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’

A Matter of Perspective

Metropolitan Police figures have recently shown that 'foreigners commit one crime in five in London' (Sunday Telegraph, Sept 23rd). Presumably, the phrasing of such statistics is meant to alarm us into some form of negative response towards the increasing immigrant population. However, presented from the opposite side, we discover that four crimes in five in London must therefore be committed by people whom we would consider our kinsmen by birth.

Surely the latter statistic is far more worrying and worthy of greater contemplation?

On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister

The following (using quotes from Gordon Brown) is a poem I wrote:

On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister

‘I have heard the need for change.
…now let the work of change begin.’

Footage of journeys along The Mall;
political metamorphosis by Royal Assent.
Traditional photo-shoot at number 10
of this nation’s primary (Scottish) gent.

‘I remember words…which matter a great deal today:
“I will try my utmost”.’

Forgive a somewhat jaded view
from a veteran of decades past.
Successive governments have promised as much;
will your offerings be the ones to last?

‘I will build a government that uses all the talents.’

Are you capable of bringing stability?
Will your changes be climacteric?
Will patients see improvements they seek?
Are your sound-bites empty rhetoric?

(c) Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007

Lord Deedes – In Memoriam

I awoke this morning to the news that Lord Deedes has died.

As I read the headlines, I instantly felt very sad and quite dejected. It is interesting how someone who I have never met can have such an influence over me. However, Lord Deedes, or Bill Deedes as he preferred to be known, was such a person. Indeed, I am sure that I am not the only one he has anonymously influenced over many years.

A charismatic man, he led life to the full, right up to his death at the age of 94 years.It would not be appropriate for me to try and describe the details of his fulfilled existence. Instead, I would refer my reader to the article in Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Deedes, which makes for most interesting study.

My own experience of Lord Deedes has largely been through the columns of The Daily Telegraph, where he wrote a regular column (as well as being a past editor of the paper). His articles were always of great interest, well-written and thought-provoking, even if one did not always agree with his personal views.

Like many, I was impressed with how he continued to work despite his significant age. Indeed, it was he who first led me to the poet, A. E. Housman and his poem, The Shropshire Lad. I can remember reading an article about Bill Deedes from a few years ago in which he cited a few lines from this poem and stated how he used them as his personal mantra. The particular lines are:

Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.

I confess to have taken those lines to heart and have since used them on many an occasion when I find myself tempted to laze in the mornings.

Bill Deedes will have been an inspiration to many others, probably throughout the English speaking world. No doubt they, like me, will be feeling his loss today.

Well, Lord Deedes, your long and colourful journey is finally over. Thank you for what you offered to so many. You have certainly earned your sleep.

A Thrust too Far

The middle aged man shifted uncomfortably in his seat whilst summoning the courage to say why he had booked the appointment.

‘It’s a little embarrassing, doctor.’

I encouraged him to continue.

‘Well, I have this problem with reaching orgasm. It takes so long to get there -although my wife thinks it’s wonderful.’

‘So, why is it a problem?’ I asked, slightly puzzled. 'I know many men would be pleased to have such powers of control.'

The reply left me speechless.

‘I know, Doc. It's just that two hours is a long time to go without a cigarette.'

Thought for the Day

There's so much to do and so much to give today...

In my haste I missed
what was destined for me.

Youssou N'Dour, So Many Men, 2002

Youssou N’Dour

As part of my current studies, I have just discovered the poet, singer and songwriter, Youssou N’Dour.

My introduction to him was by way of a song he wrote in 2002, entitled So Many Men. The reaction the lyrics and music had on me was immediate, leaving me wondering how I have missed knowing about him for so many years!

Youssou N’Dour was born in 1959 in Dakar, Senegal. He describes himself as a ‘modern griot’. A griot or jali (in the Wolof language of the Senegalese) is a West African poet or wandering musician.

N’Dour’s music is a wonderful mixture of traditional Senegalese dance rhythms, saxophone solos, guitar melodies, percussion, lyrics in English, French and Wolof, and Sufi-inspired Muslim religious chant. He draws on influences as wide ranging as samba, jazz, soul and hip-hop. With his versatile tenor voice, the effect is both stunning and inspiring.

(For those, like me, who are not instantly familiar with Sufism, according to Wikipedia it is a mystic tradition within Islam, encompassing a diverse range of beliefs and practices dedicated to divine love and the cultivation of the heart.)

Understandably, the artist is a leading political light in Africa, using his music to address several social and political issues. These have ranged from the release of Nelson Mandela, support for Amnesty International, performing in the Live 8 concerts and staring as the African-British abolitionist, Olaudah Equiano, in the film Amazing Grace, which chronicles the efforts of William Wilberforce to end slavery in the British Empire.

I cannot but recommend this accomplished poet and musician to you. Starting with the song So Many Men would, I think, be as fine a way as any to approach his music. However, he has many albums to go at – many of which are, courtesy of Amazon, already en route to my door.

Russian Affairs

According to the press reports this week, Russia feels that anti-terrorism co-operation with the United Kingdom is now impossible.

Whilst not wishing to appear too cynical, was Russia "co-operating" when it allowed an assassination, utilising a radioactive substance, in a public restaurant in the heart of London?

If so, the Russian President has a strange understanding of the meaning of the term "anti-terrorism".

Place Name of the Week Award

Whilst driving along the B6318 in Northumberland (en route to visit Housteads Fort on Hadrian's Wall)I was delighted to drive through a hamlet by the delightful name of Twice Brewed.

Imagine my even greater delight when I found that the next hamlet is called Once Brewed!

I have absolutely no idea how they came by their names (apart from the obvious assumption that they have at some stage been connected with brewing). However, if anyone can enlighten me, please do leave a comment.

Thought for the Day

The average adult has 100 billion brain cells.

We lose 85,000 of these every day.

If all our brain cells were laid end-to-end the line would be 200 million miles long (from here to the sun and back).

Choleric Musings on the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister

Gordon Brown promises us change. That, I am afraid, is not good enough for an incoming Prime Minister.

In the NHS, we have experienced “change” for the past 30 years. What we need is stability in some areas and improvement in others.

Simply offering “change” is insufficient to maintain morale. Something substantially more than empty rhetoric is required, Mr Brown.

(First Published in The Daily Telegraph, 'Letters to the Editor', 29th June 2007)

Traditional versus Contemporary Poetry

I will stick my head above the parapet and ask the question:

'What is wrong with writing in a traditional form?'

I pose the question for the following reason.

Not so long ago, I had reason to show some of my work to a tutor at the Hull University. His reply was that my style was 'archaic' and I 'ought to read more contemporary poetry'.

I accept this as a valid personal view. However, why is it deemed to be 'wrong' if a modern poet chooses to emulate the style of past masters? Why is it that such devices are now 'only considered in parody'. We do not all choose to shun antique furniture or criticise the craftsman who emulates the same by producing reproduction furniture. On the contrary, the same is often revered and carries a high value. Why then is it considered to be the 'role' of the modern poet to perpetuate contemporary styles and frowned upon when traditional approaches are used?

I ask this, not as a matter of 'sour grapes' but to assist me in understanding the mindset which dictates what is 'right' or 'wrong' with our styles.

If you have a view on this issue, please feel free to comment.

A Tale from Lent

Browsing the April edition of the St Aidan's Church Magazine in Hellifield, North Yorkshire, I came across the following anonymous story which caused me some considerable amusement. I couldn't resist the temptation to share it:


A preacher was coming to the end of a temperance sermon. With great expression he proclaimed: 'If I had all the beer in the world, I'd take it and throw it into the river.'

With even greater emphasis he declared: 'And if I had all the wine in the world, I'd take it and throw it into the river.'

Then finally he thundered: 'And if I had all the whisky in the world, I'd take it and throw it into the river.'

He sat down impressively.

The song leader then rose very cautiously and announced: 'For our closing hymn let us sing number 365: "Shall we Gather at the River?" '

The Epitome of Impatience

My wife likes to claim that I am an impatient fellow.

‘Not so,’ I often counterclaim, citing all sorts of ways in which I exhibit vast reserves of tolerance. (Most of these occasions coincide with shopping trips involving women’s clothes shops, where immense forbearance is required if the maximum number of Brownie Points are to be extracted.)

However, I suspect that my defence has today been severely undermined with an own goal.

For some time I have had my mind set upon achieving the academic heights of a Master of Arts. Having carefully explored the concept, in the early hours of this morning I ordered the entire reading list for my chosen subject.

The on-line book seller, Amazon.co.uk, is very efficient and during the course of the morning I received a variety of e-mails informing me that various parcels have been despatched.

The trouble began some two hours later when I casually enquired of my wife as to whether the postman had been today. Her immediate response was to ask what I was expecting to arrive; a question which made even me think that perhaps I was being just a teeny weenie bit impatient on this particular occasion.

The Concise Oxford English Dictionary defines impatience as ‘lacking patience or tolerance; restlessly eager’. I like to think that the latter of the two definitions applies to me. At least, that is to be my defence from now on.

Thought for the Day

'Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.'

Ralph Waldo Emerson
American philosopher and poet
1803 - 1882

God is in the Detail

I wonder how many people remember this phrase from the 1970s?

'God is in the Detail' was a kind of catch phrase which became widely known and was disseminated by its appearance as graffiti, car stickers and posters. I have no idea where it started or who first quoted it. Indeed, I had quite forgotten it until the curious coincidence of coming across it twice within twenty-four hours.

The first reappearance was last night in the latest episode of the television drama Life on Mars, a rather bizarre, albeit entertaining, police drama set in the 1970s. The second occasion was earlier this morning in a book I am presently reading in preparation for the writing of a review article for a magazine. The Girls, by Lori Lansens, is a novel based on the life of two conjoined girls in America.

An accident, chance, fluke, happenstance - call it what you will. I take great delight in such happenings and like to take time in order to reflect on the circumstances. Call me eccentric, but sometimes I think there is a message to be learned by such events.

The Power of Love

‘I really do not understand how that lady is still alive.’

It was August 1986 and we were sitting in the Sister’s office on the surgical ward of a small district hospital in Kent. I was a newly qualified doctor and this was my first hospital job. I was very proud to carry the title of “House Surgeon” as it represented a major step up from that of “medical student”. However, only two weeks into my six-month post, here I was learning the meaning of humility.

‘She refuses to die whilst her husband is still alive,’ the staff nurse replied.

My first meeting with Mary, as I shall call the lady who was the subject of our conversation, was shortly after my arrival on the ward. I had been called by the nurse to replace Mary’s intravenous line. In retrospect, I hope I managed to hide my feeling of total incredulity at the sight that greeted me.

Mary was an extremely frail lady in her mid sixties. She is the only patient I remember in detail, when I cast my mind back to the six months of working on that ward, as she was there throughout most of that time. Quiet, uncomplaining and undemanding, she held little in the way of conversation apart from requesting the daily report on her husband. Her resilience was impressive.

Mary had been diagnosed, some four months previously, with inoperable cancer of the ovary. An exploratory operation was an “open and shut” case, the surgeon having nothing in his armoury that could halt the relentless growth of the malignancy eating away inside her. Over the ensuing months she had become progressively weaker, being unable to take food and surviving on the occasional sip of tea and the fluids being slowly dripped into her veins. She lay motionless in her bed; a mere skeleton of a human being, her skin appearing to have been wrapped, like cling-film, around every individual curve and contour of her bones. Such was the extent of her
emaciation.

Mary’s husband initially visited her every day. However, in the cruel way that fate often works, he had suddenly suffered a stroke, which left him paralysed and unable to speak. As a result, he had been admitted to another ward within the same hospital. Both being too ill to move, the only contact between them was Mary’s daily enquiry after her husband.

It was 10 o’clock one weekday morning when the telephone call came through to the Ward Sister’s office. Mary’s husband had died in his sleep during the early hours of the morning. I can remember that it was Sister who took on the task of gently breaking this news to Mary, who listened carefully but showed little in the way of emotion. She simply lay there, just as she had for the past six months or so, moving nothing but her wistful-looking eyes.

At 1 p.m. my pager summoned me back to the ward and I was asked to see Mary. A sense of calmness seemed to have descended on her. I knew at once that she, too, had passed away. I stood there, quietly pensive, noting, as the nurses averted their red rimmed eyes, that I was not the only one to be moved by the death of this remarkable lady.

Mary had affected us all. For many month she had survived against all odds, taking strength from the power of her husband’s love and her love for him. Then, within three hours of being informed of his death, she too had simply stopped living.

‘Never underestimate the power of the human spirit,’ said a nurse.

Those words have since come back to me on many occasions. Twenty years ago I marvelled at how the power of love fuelled Mary’s resilience. I still wonder at it and I have become humbler with every reminder.


Footnotes:

The Power of Love was first published in an abridged version in the BMS News, Saturday 10th March 2007.

Patient names have been changed to avoid identification.

Thought for the Day

'Nothing but Art is moral:
Life without Industry
is sin...Industry without
Art, brutality.'

John Ruskin

A Ticket to Paradise

With time to spare before the departure of the Hull Executive train from London’s King Cross station, I strolled past the newly refurbished St Pancras Station and entered the hallowed grounds adjacent to it.

Beneath the erudite gaze of Sir Eduardo Paolozzi’s bronze statue of Isaac Newton who, from his massive plinth of red brick, towers over each newcomer to the piazza as if metaphorically saying, ‘your intellect is but that of an ant compared to my own,’ I paused and considered the action I was about to take.

Steeled by an inner resolve to see the ambition through, I mounted the steps to the entrance of this labyrinthine temple - a silent shrine to the pursuit of complete understanding – and entered its cavernous interior.

Momentarily disorientated, I faltered as if a rabbit caught in the glare of oncoming lights, and scanned the signs for help. Then, seeing the name of the department I sought, walked boldly in its direction with a mounting frisson of excitement.

There were a few more moments of consternation, not least, as I examined the long and demanding list of required personal documents. However, reassured that I had the correct papers upon my person, I submitted my details to the computerised application form and waited to be called.

‘Number 2697.’

I rose and tried to look confident as I approached the steely-eyed interrogator.

‘Your documents, please.’

I handed them across and watched as they were scrutinised, my heart thumping lest they were to be rejected.

‘What is the purpose of your application?’

‘I am a writer and wish to have access for research purposes.’

‘Look into the camera.’

I did, uncertain as to whether to smile. I opted for what I hoped was a look of nonchalance.

‘Sign here, please.’

I did as I was bidden, meekly and without hesitation.

With that, he returned my documents and offered me a small card the size of a credit card.

‘It is valid for three years. Welcome.’

For the first time he smiled and I smiled back. Relaxing, I fingered the valuable green passport, with its red and white lettering, before stowing it safely into my wallet. I had been accepted into their domain without fuss or question.

As I elatedly bounced back down the steps outside the entrance, I could not resist winking towards the inscrutable Sir Isaac. I would have proudly stopped to show him my British Library Reader’s Pass, but I had a train to catch…


http://www.bl.uk

Progress within the NHS

In Ted Hughes, The Life of a Poet by Elaine Feinstein, mention is made of the time when Sylvia Plath was in hospital. The year was 1961 and she had just had her appendix removed. Feinstein writes:

‘…her delight in Ted’s hospital visits and the steak sandwiches he brought to supplement the poor hospital food…’

Forty-six years later, plus ça change!

What a Difference a Vowel Makes!

Recently, my wife and I undertook a walk in Lancashire, commencing from the picturesque village of Bolton-by-Bowland. The walk encompassed several very wet areas of pastureland, which were memorable only in so much as the thick, clogging mud deftly stripped our boots of all layers of waxing. It must be years since we could see the original colour of the leather!

However, the most interesting part of the walk was along a green lane, barely touched by the hundred-plus years which have passed since it was originally fashioned. It was tree-lined for its duration and made for a quite fascinating walk. Everything about it exuded a sense of age. All it required was for a little imagination to bring to life the people, carts and animals which had trodden that same path through the passage of time.

However, it was at the end of the green lane when the guide book started to make the walk really interesting:

‘At the end of the lane, debauch onto the B-road which runs at right angles to the lane.’

How extraordinary, I thought! Turning to my wife, I proceeded to repeat the directions and for the next one hundred yards we amused ourselves thinking about just how we were supposed to debauch onto the road. It has to be said that the fantasies ran wild and with liberated abandonment; but what the heck! After all, we were in the Lancashire countryside and, as Yorkshire people would quickly inform one, there are some strange folks in Lancashire!

Anyway, back at the cottage, I proceeded to muse on the author’s unusual choice of word for his directions and wondered whether there was an alternative meaning to the one I was so quick to assume. Out came the dictionary and with it, a revelation.

True enough, the word debauch is defined as follows:

verb: to corrupt morally; noun: a bout of excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures.

As I thought, there was no alternative meaning. So I picked up the guide book again, the better to consider this bizarre instruction. That was when I realised that the printed word was actually ‘debouch’; i.e. spelt with an ‘o’ and not an ‘a’. Returning to the dictionary, debouch is defined thus:

verb: emerge from a confined space into a wide, open area.

This, of course, within the context of the walk, makes far greater sense; albeit nowhere near as much fun.

Both words are derived from the French, which is a language I have never got on well with. My amusing mistake with the aforementioned words only served to heighten my conviction that it is a language which has the capacity to get me into a great deal of trouble. Perhaps more than I had ever previously imagined.

Best stick to English, methinks.

Inspired by a Snake

Many years ago, whilst living in Kent as a teenager, I would often catch the train up to Charing Cross, London and buy a cheap ‘student ticket’ to whichever concert was currently on in the South Bank concert halls.

As now, there were three to choose from – The Royal Festival Hall, The Queen Elizabeth Centre (containing the Purcell Room) and the Hayward Centre. Outside, the halls are, to my mind, an uninspiring mass of amorphous concrete. However, inside they are world-class concert venues, hosting everything from international orchestras and operas to jazz, popular music and dance.

My teenage mind would be stretched well beyond its boundaries by the magical sounds and sights I beheld there. I have no doubt that the halls played an important part in fashioning the great love for music which has continued with me through life.

The South Bank Halls were also influential for another similar, but slightly different, reason.

On leaving any given concert, one would exit the glittering colour and lights of the halls and step back into the grey world that existed outside. Even the cover of night did little to hide the starkness of the concrete walkways, the grey and foreboding waters of the River Thames and the metal structure and harsh lighting of the railway bridge which stretched across the river, connecting the South Bank with the Charing Cross Station.

It would have been easy to quickly lose the magic of that wonderful music, so eagerly absorbed over the previous few hours. However, salvation was at hand. As one climbed the concrete steps up to the pedestrian bridge alongside the railway line, the mournful but alluring sound of a lone tenor saxophone would, almost without fail, penetrate the gloom of the London night. Instantly, my plummeting soul would be rescued and once again lifted by an unseen melodious hand, this time to soar on the melodies of jazz and blues music. Even now, some thirty years later, I can remember walking across that bridge to the sound of the Pink Panther theme tune or Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.

There can be no doubt that it is because of that, almost invisible, busker, crouched into a corner of the bridge, that I developed the need to learn the saxophone.

Alas, the time for such a venture did not arrive until my fortieth birthday, when my wife decided to put my aspiration to the test and presented me with a tenor saxophone. (An alto saxophone followed two years later). I warmed to the challenge and, with the aid of a masterly tuition book, taught myself the rudiments of playing. Alas, though the spirit is strong, time is pressured. As a result, even though I can knock out a good few tunes, I have not progressed within the past year or so.

That was until last Saturday.

The Sands Venue is a high-class jazz venue in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire (www.the-sands.co.uk), attracting world-class musicians. One of the greatest pleasures is the opportunity to meet and informally chat to the musicians during the interval, as they will often sit on the edge of the stage, signing CD covers. My wife and I frequently attend there, enjoying the sophisticated environment, high quality food and excellent live music. It is where we were on Saturday night for an evening’s entertainment by the Snake Davis Band.

Snake Davis (www.snakedavis.com) is well-known as one of this country’s leading saxophonists. Many people will have seen him as the resident saxophonist on the Jonathan Ross Show and he has additionally played for bands such as the Eurythmics, Smokey Robinson, Amy Winehouse, Lisa Stansfield and Will Young, to name but a few.

The band is a quartet, comprised of keyboards, drums and bass guitar, along with Snake Davis on tenor, alto and soprano saxophones, flute, tin-whistle and shakuhachi (very similar to the Peruvian queena). In short, he is a multi-talented virtuoso.

To say that I was mesmerised would be an understatement. His playing was inspirational and I could once again feel the powerful urge to blow my own horn, so to speak. By the time of the interval, I was a fully-paid member of his fan-club (well, at least in theory) and the proud possessor of three of his CD recordings. However, the best was yet to come. For, on glancing at the back page of the ‘forthcoming attractions’ leaflet, I noted with astonishment that his partner lives in a village only eight miles from me. What is more, Snake Davis is holding a saxophone workshop in the same village in a few months time.

Apparently, he teaches a small group of fifteen for a two hour period, discussing a variety of techniques and allowing an opportunity to try out the same under his watchful eye. All he asks is that you can already ‘knock out a few scales and a couple of tunes’.

Well, it is a fact that, by the time the evening was over, he was only looking for another fourteen students. What an excellent opportunity!

Come Sunday morning, my saxophones were dusted off and the scales were being once again practised. Now, as for the pieces…perhaps The Pink Panther theme and Take Five would be appropriate choices?

The Clue is in the Words

Whilst rummaging through a bookshop in Sedbergh in Cumbria a couple of weeks ago, I came across a biography of the former Poet Laureate, the late Ted Hughes. It is entitled Ted Hughes - The Life of a Poet and was written by Elaine Feinstein shortly after the poet's death.

Ted Hughes was married to the American poet, Sylvia Plath.

It was therefore with interest that I noted an article in today's Sunday Telegraph by Mark Sanderson, writing in the Literary Life section of the Seven magazine. Having read his article, I plucked a copy of Sylvia Plath's Selected Poems (edited by Ted Hughes) from my library shelves and studied her poem entitled Edge. It commences:

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.


On this day in 1963, one week after that poem was written, Sylvia Plath committed suicide.

How often is it that do we not listen to what people are really saying to us?

Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered

The following was sent to me this morning. Whilst perhaps not quite what the doctor ordered, it is certainly ‘food for thought’:


After an exhaustive review of research literature, here's the final
word on nutrition and health:

1. Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.

2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.

3. Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks
than us.

4. Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart
attacks than us.

5. Germans drink beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer
fewer heart attacks than us.

CONCLUSION:
Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you!

Thought for the Day

Man - a being in search of meaning.
Plato

Balmy January

The bird of dawning singeth all night long
William Shakespeare
Hamlet (1601) act 1, sc. 1,

On the 7th February 2006, I entered an article on this blog entitled The Dawn Chorus (see link). I was intrigued by the fact that the local bird life had commenced its dawn chorus so early in the year.

Well, this year sees my earlier comments well and truly surpassed. For, as I write,the blackbirds have been in full melodious song for the past hour. Along with the various trees which are now in blossom, if that doesn't represent a sign of global warming, then I am not sure what does.

These may be ominous signs for many scientists. However, on a personal level, I cannot help but greet the unseasonal warmth and the earlier onset of the dawn chorus as bonuses to be enjoyed whilst one may.

Research I Can Warm To

The independent food research organisation, Leatherhead Foods International, has recently conducted a study on behalf of the Countryside Alliance. The results are music to my gastronomic ears.

Apparently, there are more benefits to eating game than previously realised. Meats such as pheasant, partridge, venison and quail are not only low in cholesterol, but additionally have high levels of selenium. Selenium boosts the immune system, may have an anti-oxidant effect (good in helping to prevent cancers) and can elevate mood.

Bearing in mind that a glass or two of red wine per day is also thought to have its benefits, what better way to ward off the winter blues than to partake in a meal of game, washed down by a decent glass of claret?

I haven’t had breakfast yet…but I am already looking forward to dinner…

Whither the Vocation?

In an increasingly consumerist society, the word vocation does not often appear in the context of everyday conversation.

The word derives from the Latin vocare, ‘to call’. It is defined as ‘a strong feeling of suitability for a particular career or occupation, especially one requiring dedication. As such, it has most often been applied to the professions and, most particularly, to the practise of medicine, the Church and other humanitarian pursuits.

Historically, a vocation has been seen as something which gives great satisfaction to the person pursuing it and equally great benefits to those on the receiving end of that person’s efforts. However, the implication has usually been that the rewards received in following a vocation are not so much pecuniary than an inner sense of fulfilment. This, of course, is precisely where the concept clashes with the modern consumerist society.

As a doctor, I am conscious of the changes which have come about over recent years in respect to the way General Medical Practitioners work. No longer do they have to be responsible for the well-being of their patients for twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week. The new GP Contract introduced a few years ago enabled GPs to opt out of ‘out of hours’ care, thereby freeing up their evenings and weekends. Of course, this was greeted with delight by the majority of GPs. We had never been properly paid for such work and now we had the opportunity to ‘have a real life’, being free to spend time with family and friends or develop other interests. Neither, of course, were we expected to work throughout the night and then go on to tackle full surgeries the following day in a state of near exhaustion.

However, I am also aware that the above welcomed changes in medical practice have brought with them a downside. Many patients will, of course, lament the passing of the twenty-four hour availability of their ‘own doctor’. However, there are downsides for the doctor as well. It was only when I was recently called on a Sunday morning by a good friend and neighbour who, living on his own, was unable to travel thirty miles to the nearest out-of-hours centre in his present poor state of health that I realised what I was missing. Having visited my friend, I was in the process of collecting some medication for him from an otherwise empty surgery in an otherwise empty market town centre, when it dawned upon me that I was actually enjoying that very process. Stopping to think about this revelation for a few moments, I realised that I missed the relative intimacy of caring for patients within their own homes, at odd times of the day and night, along with the concomitant sense of satisfaction that being able to assist someone in a time of need (for no particular personal gain other than that sense of worth) brings with it.

Summarised in one sentence, I was missing that very aspect of my work which engenders a sense of vocation.

Grayson Perry is a well known transvestite artist who, in 2003, won the Turner Prize for his work. As he was being interviewed by Melvyn Bragg on a recent episode of The South Bank Show, Perry came out with the comment “I define myself by my work.”

How true that statement must be for a great many of us.

I see a sense of vocation in many people around me and not least of all amongst those members who work, either salaried or on a volunteer basis, for the charity, The St John Ambulance. One often wonders what drives the volunteers to give up their free time, often for many hundreds of hours per year, to be available to render first aid at public events. It is the same factor which drives many of the salaried staff to put in many hours of unpaid overtime and to be prepared to give up their Christmas and New Year plans (as they were prepared to do at short notice recently) all with the aim of assisting their fellow man in need.

I believe that vocation is that sense of worth which makes our jobs, our lives and the immediate world in which we live, that extra bit special.

We do not have to be persistently driven by what is increasingly termed the disease of “affluency”. As is written in the Bible (Ephesians ch. 4, v. 1):

‘I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.’

One of my New Year resolutions is to re-focus on my personal sense of vocation. If you are finding your own life lacking that certain intangible factor that health, wealth and love otherwise fails to bring, then I would strongly urge you to do likewise. You may be pleasantly surprised by what you discover.

Thought for the Day

It is almost one year since I started this blog. During that time some one hundred and forty two pieces have been posted and the site has attracted almost two thousand hits. Now, I accept that, compared to some blogs, two thousand is not a large number. However, I feel that such a number is a happy start. It is also rewarding to see that some readers stay for anywhere between 5 minutes and one hour, reading many pages at one sitting. I only wish more people would add a comment or two; feedback is always helpful and interesting to have, even if it is sometimes controversial.

The most recent problem has been finding the time to write for the blog. I do realise that writers are always making such excuses. However, I can assure you that it is true! I am reminded of a quote, although I am afraid that I cannot attribute it:

I'm just catching up with yesterday; by tomorrow I should be ready for today.

That just about sums up the current situation. However, one of the New Year's resolutions is to re-light the blogging candle. So, thank you for your interest and, in the words of a certain television programme, stay tuned...

Linguistic Leaders

According to an article by Michael Legat in a recent copy of the Writing Magazine (January 2007, Page 17), it is predicted that the English Language will soon contain one million words.

This compares to 100,000 words in the French language.

I will leave you to draw your own conclusions!

In Search of the Meaning of Christmas

Christmas – a time of excitement for children, greatly anticipated and eagerly awaited for many weeks before. For many adults too, it is a time of joy and happiness; an opportunity to excel in excess without too much of a guilty conscience: ‘well, it is Christmas,’ is the excuse all too often heard. For some, it is not the same unless as many family and friends are invited to participate in a communal festivity. For others, it is spoiled by the absence of those very same people, with new cases of depression reaching a peak during the months of December and January.

Most of these peaks and troughs of emotion are fuelled year upon year by a common falseness of expectation. Whilst Charles Dickens did much to spread the concept of what is required for that cosy traditional Christmas, much loved by the Victorians and promulgated to this day from the fronts of thousands of greetings cards, he was also responsible for building people’s expectations of what the perfect Christmas should be like; to the point whereby any lesser experience is considered to be a failure.

I often wonder whether I am a lone voice in standing out against the falseness of all we have come to expect. I would not go as far as saying that I dislike Christmas – especially as I am in the process of experiencing one of the best I can remember from within my adult phase of life. However, I can remember, since early teenage years, having a recurrent sense of unease regarding the futility of most Christmas activities. Even then, the only parts of Christmas that really seemed to hold anything special for me were those parts where I was expected to be present at the local parish church by virtue of my membership of the choir. The Family Carol Service on Christmas Eve, followed by Midnight Mass and then the Christmas Day Morning Prayer were the events which most pleased me and gave me a true sense of belonging. Everything else paled into insignificance or, at worst, became a trial of endurance.

In order for me to have an enjoyable Christmas I need to escape the commercialisation, the artificial expectations of conformity to traditions, the moral pressures to be with family and thereby suffer numerous conversations about inane subjects about which I have no interest, have probably heard many times before, and really do not want to have again.

For me, Christmas is about regaining my inner self. It is the one time of the year where I want to step away from the world in which I spend the rest of my life pandering to the needs of others. It is a period of time when I want to stop giving and instead wish, quite selfishly, to take; and what I want to take is time itself – time for physical and mental rest, time for quiet reflection, time for the re-charging of my spiritual batteries and, of equally great importance, time for the re-affirmation of my love and commitment to the person who has chosen to accompany me through the rough seas of life – my wife.

As a Christian, I do not believe that my duty of care to my fellow man is just at this particular time of year. Effectively, it is throughout the other three hundred and sixty two days of the year. The rest of the world can have its share of my time and effort after these few days are over. In the meantime, being shut away in the peace and tranquillity of the English Lakes has given me the most relaxing and regenerating Christmas I could possibly desire. For the first time ever at this time of year, I feel content and at ease, not only with myself but also the world around me.

It may not be to everyone’s desire. However, if you ever suspect that you harbour something of the same feelings, have the courage to listen to that inner voice. Stop bowing to the pressures of the masses. Make your stand: refuse to send numerous pointless cards that will only end up in a rubbish bin in a few days time. Instead, make a donation to your favourite charity. Then take yourself and the person dearest to you to wherever you think you will find the peace your heart desires. The experience will be uplifting and change your view against conformity forever after. Your true friends will understand and will still be there on your return. What is more, you will be the much nicer person for it.

I know that I, for one, will be entering 2007 re-energised and with an enhanced sense of benevolence towards my fellow man. Now, surely that has everything to do with celebrating the birth of Christ?

Postcard from the Lake District (3)

Christmas Day – 25th December 2006

Waking on Christmas Day morning to nothing more than the gentle sounds of wild ducks and swans, with the occasional call of a moorhen, a few gulls and the odd rook or two, must rank amongst the most idyllic moments in life. This gentle alarm call from nature is complimented as soon as the curtain is drawn back, when the gentle waters of Lake Windermere appear just fifty yards from the window. Set to a backdrop of the gently rising green fells, their tops just covered by a fine mist, and with one or two white yachts quite still at their moorings, the scene is one of tranquillity and peace.

The Lakeside Hotel commands one of the most picturesque locations on the lake. Situated on the south-western shore of the lake, just one mile north of Newby Bridge, this four-star hotel is the antidote to the fast pace of modern life. Guests have a choice of exquisitely furnished rooms or suites within the hotel itself, or can opt for one of the two Executive Lodges built within the hotel grounds but set apart from the main building and having the advantage of their own private gardens and moorings. Built in the style of a converted boathouse, the lodge in which I now write has been designed as a studio apartment, full of space, light, large picturesque windows and, yes, its own sauna.

Today, the lake is perfectly calm, thereby allowing a perfect reflection of the hills and trees in its glassy surface. Just to my left, on the opposite shore, the slopes of Gummer’s How rise away from the rest of the fells. At 1053 feet above sea level, it is the highest point in this area and, from its top, gives a commanding view of almost all of the ten miles of Lake Windermere. Indeed, when we climbed it two days ago, and despite a fine haze, we could just discern the sands of Morecambe Bay. From the same point, one could look down upon the land of the Swallows and Amazons along the lakeshore, whilst further south is Fell Foot. Now owned by the National Trust, Fell Foot was once part of a large Victorian Estate with extensive lakeside lawns and gardens.

The small, grassed garden of the lodge is like a meeting place for 'Woodland Friends'. A rabbit is usually in evidence, quietly grazing the lawn, unperturbed by our presence at the window. Just above the rabbit, on a piece of wooden fencing, sits a robin. Occasionally joined by a second robin, it flits back and forth, capturing the odd tasty meal disturbed by the rabbit. Within a few feet feed a cock blackbird and song thrush, whilst in a tree nearby, a chaffinch moves from branch to branch with a flick of white feathers.

A few miles to the south lies the village of Cartmel. Famous for its pocket-sized racecourse at which races are held on only six days per year, Cartmel is also home to Cartmel Priory. Built by Augustinian monks around 1200 A.D., the priory church survived the Dissolution of the Monasteries and now serves as a wonderful parish church, with fine Renaissance screens and delightful misericords in the choir. It is a fitting venue for the celebration of Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, as we discovered for ourselves last night. The warmth of the church itself, combined with the collective voices of a full congregation and choir, help one to touch base with the spirituality within us, reminding us as to what this time of year is really all about and building resolve for the forthcoming New Year.

With the excellent food of the hotel’s restaurant and some fine wines from its cellars (including a Chateau Chasse Spleen 1983, Chateau Leoville Barton 1993 and a Chateau Talbot 1994 and not forgetting an exquisite bottle of Tokay), accompanied by the resident pianist and a small jazz band, the celebration of Christmas 2006 will certainly leave this writer suitably refuelled with a sense of goodwill.

A very happy Christmas and healthy New Year to all my readers.

The Power of the Human Mind

I was simply astonished when I came across the following. It demonstrates how extraordinarily clever the brain is.

Try reading this without hesitating:

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg.

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy: it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteres be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Now tell me that you are not amazed!

Ploughing a Straight Furrow

One of the great delights of being a country G.P. is the opportunity to become involved with wider areas of the community, often under circumstances that have little to do with the practise of medicine. However, there are also pitfalls for the unwary.

When I first joined the practice, a retired partner gave me some sound advice:

‘Become involved with the local community,’ he said, ‘but never, ever agree to judge the “Bonny Baby Competition” .’

His reasoning, of course, was that there was no way I could make the “right” decision. I would immediately become the focus of hate for all those mothers who considered themselves (and, more importantly, their “darling little coochy-woochy”) overlooked and deprived of first prize “which really ought to have been theirs”.

He was right, of course, and it was advice that rang in my ears several years later when asked to judge the “Miss Slinky of the Year Competition” by the proprietor of a local slimming club. Not only was the aforementioned person my patient, but I was aware that several of her members, who had been working hard on their slinkiness for the past year, were also female patients of mine. How was I ever to make a decision as to whom the first prize should be awarded and hope to be alive by the time I reached the car park? Furthermore, if I did escape the braying mob, there would be the inevitable ninth-degree from my wife on my arrival home. Questions such as ‘why did you select that particular woman?’ and ‘do you fancy her then?’ interspersed by long periods of awkward silences, were just not worth the five minutes of playing the local celebrity role. I gently declined the invitation.

The prospect was very different when I was approached by a District Nurse and asked whether I would be willing to present the prizes at the local ploughing match. Following a quick risk assessment, I decided that I was on safe ground (so to speak) with this one and accepted.

The irony of the situation, however, did not escape my wife:

‘You? A ploughing match?’ she asked in-between wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘What do you know about ploughing? You can’t even cut a loaf of bread in a straight line!’

‘They want me to present the prizes, not judge the quality of the furrows,’ I replied, slightly wounded at this sleight on my practical abilities.

She was right, of course. Straight lines and me just do not go together. Loaves of bread assume a wedge shape in my presence; likewise pieces of wood when brought in contact with a saw wielded by my hand. The strange thing is that I do have a critical eye for the precise levelling of a picture on a wall. It is when the hands become involved that things seem to go haywire. Which is one reason why I opted to be a G.P. and not a surgeon.

I guess I was also concerned at any allusion to my really being a “townie”. I vehemently defend my country pedigree. After all, I am a Kentish Man. (See A Matter of Identity - 23 Jan 06 - on this blog). That is most certainly not the same as being a Londoner, as my wife assumes all people born in the South East of England to be. However, even there I have to concede a point. A Kentish Man I may be, but that is clearly not the same as being the daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer - which my wife is. More to the point, she has recollections of ploughing fields using a crawler. Now, that is serious prior-knowledge when it comes to attending a ploughing match. There was nothing for it – she had to come with me to ensure my respectability amongst the rural folk.

Thus, it was that we attended the 29th District Ploughing Match on a wind swept expanse of farmland one October Sunday afternoon.

To be truthful, the afternoon was enjoyable and informative. Of course, I started by not being able to visually tell the difference between one furrow and another. However, after a few hours I found myself boldly uttering words of criticism and praise as I moved from one competition site to another. I even developed a superficial interest in the different types of tractors, which for me, being someone who, as a child, spurned anything resembling Mechano, was a major leap in my lack of fascination for all things mechanical.

The afternoon’s feverish activity soon done, I was positioned by the organisers in front of a large crowd of burly farmers, all eagerly awaiting the announcement of the results whilst trying to look nonchalant as though they did not really care for such trivialities. It was a formidable moment and I tried to look my confident best as a gentleman of the country. In that respect, I am sure I failed miserably. After all, it was most evident that, apart from on the feet of my wife and I, there were no other green wellies to be seen. A dead give away if there ever was one. ‘He’s really a townie,’ was what I feared they were whispering to themselves.

Class by class, the winners were named and each stepped forward to receive his trophy and rosette amidst polite applause. The only one who was sure his name would be called was the single entrant in the Crawler Class. He would have won even if his furrows were the shape of figure-of-eights. However, I thanked him for giving my wife a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

Interestingly, the one abiding recollection I have of the prize ceremony itself is not the crowd or the bitter wind, or the speech I had to give before presenting the prizes (which my wife inevitably said was too long). It is the size of all those hands I shook. They were enormous bunches of Lincolnshire sausages attached to rough, hairy lumps of muscle the size of spades. They looked as though they had been hewn out of the local bedrock. Another giveaway, I thought. By comparison, my own hands looked so small and soft as to make it clear to the farmers that the most strenuous undertaking I must subject them to is the occasional piece of embroidery. (Actually, I don’t know one cross stitch from another – honestly!)

However, the joking aside, there is a serious message behind all the fun and competitive demonstration of farming skills at such an event. The English countryside is only the marvellous place it is because of the labour of love, which those farmers and their ancestors have applied to it. They are the true trustees of what is at the heart of England. As I said in my speech, when I drive around the countryside in autumn and see the neat latticework of expertly ploughed fields, I intrinsically know that all is well in the world.

Coincidently, the night before the ploughing match, I happened to come across a television programme, which was part of a series of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Scotland. Connolly made a comment that seemed most apt in view of the impending ploughing match. He said:

‘People in cities rarely get in touch with the countryside. However, when they do, it does something to them. If we truly have a soul, then it is our souls that the countryside gets in touch with.’

As I said to the farmers at the ploughing match, they are the, often unsung, guardians to that which lifts our souls and makes us feel alive. May they forever continue to take pride and pleasure in ploughing their straight furrows.

Art in the East End in Aid of the St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem

The 5th November 2006 promises to be extra special for lovers of art, especially if they also enjoy good company, fireworks and the opportunity to support the Order of St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem (see my entry on this blog 'The St John of Jerusalem Eye Hospital' 14th May 2006).

The flyer gives further details. Do come and have an enjoyable evening whilst supporting a wonderful cause.

(Those interested in the Bankruptbank.com will apparently find the website live as from the 24th/25th October.)

www.stjohneyehospital.org

Thought for the Day

People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them.
- George Bernard Shaw

Machu Picchu, Peru

...instils with awe, inspires, expands the mind...

The Dash

I was sent the following link by a friend. Whilst slightly on the 'twee' side, I think it is worth looking at (with the speakers turned on).

It strongly reminded me of the sentiments I wrote within an earlier piece on this blog (see Reflections after the Memorial Service - 05 Feb 2006).

The question I ask myself is 'why do we constantly need reminding about such an important aspect of life?' Do we ever learn?

http://www.thedashmovie.com/

Thought for the Day

Most toilet cisterns flush in the musical key of E flat major.

The Dales' Perspective

Sign seen above the front door of a cafe in the Yorkshire Dales:

The Dalesman Cafe

Welcomes

Cyclists, Walkers and Civilians

Words, Glorious Words

Well, that long awaited moment has arrived. This very weekend I took delivery of the Folio Society’s facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary. (See Lexicographic Seduction, May 2006, for the background to this particular piece of debauchery). In two enormous volumes, beautifully bound in calf-leather, the dictionary is every much the delight it had promised to be.

One of the first pleasures on opening volume one is to be able to read Samuel Johnson’s own preface. Once one has become accustomed to the portrayal of the letter ‘s’ in the style of an ‘f’, it makes for fascinating reading. Here, Johnson depicts his life as a lexicographer in terms which suggest that he came to see his great work as a ‘drudge’ and expected little thanks for his efforts. He believed that he was:

“…doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths of Learning and Genius, who press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress.”

The compilation of the first dictionary of the English language was clearly a far greater task than Johnson had initially believed it was going to be. However, the result was worth the effort. Indeed, many of Johnson’s own definitions have withstood the test of time and are to be found in the modern day Oxford English Dictionary.

That said, there were times when Johnson had to admit defeat. In his own words:

“Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them…”

- a wonderfully honest statement from someone in his position.

It is probable that only someone with an immense love of books and words would share the spine-tingling pleasure achieved by the holding of one of these volumes. The delight and wonder comes from the fact that this is, as truly made as it can be, the next best thing to holding the original dictionary. That, and the overwhelming fact that the work was only published in 1755: a mere two hundred and fifty years ago. Bear in mind the significant works of literature which had been brought to the world by writers in the English language for several hundred years or more before that (Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on) and it becomes even more astonishing that nobody had written a dictionary before 1755. Equally astounding to the modern writer, armed with a whole armoury of dictionaries, encyclopaedias, electronic spell-checkers and the odd thesaurus or two to help him on his literary way, is that some of our country’s greatest writers were completely devoid of such lexicographical assistance. A thought for which I, for one, am all the humbler.

Johnson’s Dictionary promises to be a treasure box in which the most delightful of nuggets will be found. Only the repeated perusal of its pages will uncover them all: a task that will happily fill any wet, wintry afternoon for years to come. Thus far, I have only uncovered two such amuse-gueules.

The first relates to the word ‘twank’. ‘Twank’ is not a word to be found in the latest version of the Oxford Dictionary of English. No doubt, those with a Freudian disposition will take pleasure in the fact that this word, amongst thousands of others, stood out to me on my first perusal of the dictionary. However, putting aside such school-boy witticisms, it was the definition which first caught my eye, relating, as it does, to Freemen of the City of London; a status which I have the honour of holding. According to Johnson:

“A freeman of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street with twanking of a brass kettle”.

I never knew I was so lucky – I must put it to the test sometime!

On a more serious note, the second enchanting entry for me relates not to a single word but to the whole section dedicated to words beginning with the letter ‘x’. There is not one! Samuel Johnson, for all his literary research, had to succumb to the following entry:

“X is a letter, which, although found in Saxon words, begins no word in the English language.”

…letter dismissed!

Times have, of course, moved on and language does not stagnate. The Oxford Dictionary of English now lists ninety-three entries under the letter ‘x’, which is good for the richness of our language, but detracts nothing from the quaintness of Johnson’s own entry.

Enough for now. The volumes must be re-cased and put away for another day. One can only cope with so much excitement in one go. I will bring future discoveries to you as and when they arise.

The Saint and the Sinner: Two Lives – One Faith

Mr Ernest Prendergast is a gentleman of what is commonly known as “the old school”. A devoutly Christian, octogenarian widower, he routinely attends the surgery to have his blood pressure checked and his medication renewed. On each occasion, regardless of the weather, he is dressed in a tweed suit, complete with waistcoat, tie, polished brogue shoes, a raincoat and cloth cap.

As he enters the consulting room he habitually hesitates, the cap being nervously fingered by both hands, gives a slight bow and apologises for having to bother me. The consultation itself is, at least on his part, a study in politeness, subservience, and respect. He always thinks deeply and speaks quietly and slowly, with great consideration given to the grammatical construction of each sentence.

I have known him for over fifteen years and have thus come to understand him very well. He has evidently led a life steeped in moderation and, as certain difficulties have shown, cannot be classed as a man of the world. Religion plays a central role within his daily activities. He has often expressed the opinion that he is merely a humble person whose soul will be claimed in due course by the Lord, whence he will have to answer for how he has spent his life in this world. His stated hope is that he has been sufficiently dutiful in the eyes of God so as not to suffer his future wrath. I have no doubt that God will not find him lacking.

At the end of the consultation, he routinely thanks me for my valued time, apologises for having taken up so much of it, offers me his hand, looks towards me with a depth of expression that only eighty years of life can replicate, and says ‘Thank you for your kindness. May God be with you’, before leaving the consulting room, head bowed, shoulders hunched, and the cap once more being gently kneaded with both hands.

Today, a few consultations after the one with Mr Prendergast, I entered the waiting room to call Lisa Jones. I spotted her in one corner, eschewing the spare chairs and choosing instead to squat cross-legged on a low window ledge. Her bleached-blond, dreadlock-styled hair, the centre of which is dyed a contrasting bright red, fell in an untidy mass around her as she rocked gently to and fro to the music on her ipod. Calling her name had no effect and it required a gentle touch to her arm to return her attention to the present.

I followed her into my consulting room, noting the sharply contrasting colours of her purple leggings, grey-denim miniskirt and dirty yellow blouse; the outfit being completed by a pair of heavy, black walking boots and a gold cross, three-inches in dimension, hung from her neck by a long gold chain of equally considerable weight.

I have known Lisa since she was eleven. She is now twenty-seven. Her life to date can only be described as one of wild, drug-fuelled debauchery. Commencing with glue sniffing, she rapidly progressed through smoking cannabis, popping ecstasy tablets, snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, with liberal quantities of alcohol thrown in. The final mixture would frequently be topped up with the odd three or four barbiturates for good measure.

Having closed the consulting room door, I sat at my desk and waited for a few moments whilst Lisa paced nervously back and forth across the floor. Finally, she grabbed a chair, pulled it as close to my desk as possible and started drumming her fingers on its surface. Still I waited, knowing that, in her own time, she would tell me why she had come. Experience had taught me that if I attempted to speed the process along, then she was just as likely to jump up and leave without a word being said on her part.

Finally, she looked towards me in a wild, unfocussed manner and tried to explain her problem. Although she is now clean of drugs, her brain has suffered more than its fair share of abuse. As a result, her sentences are disjointed as she struggles to find the appropriate words. Expletives are frequently resorted to as substitutes for verbs, nouns, and adjectives, making the whole process of listening to her an experience as colourful as her clothing, whilst the task of extracting the details of her problem can only be described as challenging.

Despite all the above, Lisa is a success story. Until a few years ago, her lifestyle was close to prematurely killing her. She was unable to care for herself, let alone her young daughter. As a result, her daughter was taken into care by the social services and Lisa spent long periods on the local psychiatric ward. However, it wasn’t modern medicine that cured her of her addictions. It was Christianity. Finding a deep faith finally gave her a focus within her life and helped her escape from the black hole in which she had, heretofore, psychologically dwelt.

The start of her new journey in life first came to my attention one morning at the end of a village surgery. She arrived without an appointment, just as I was packing away the laptop and various medical paraphernalia. However, it soon became apparent that she was not there for medical advice. As she showed me the brochure for a drug rehabilitation centre run by a Christian group near to the Welsh Borders, she expressed the view that there was nobody else she felt able to talk to about such matters. Coming from Lisa, that was a surprise as, although I have often stated that the role of the modern GP is part physician, part social worker, and part priest, I had never previously had any form of conversation with Lisa about spiritual matters. She needed my opinion on two topics. First, did I think that the rehabilitation centre would be useful to her, as she had never previously had any contact with church or Christian groups; second, which book would I recommend that she read, as the centre stated in their joining instructions that each resident should bring at least one book which would help them through their process of rehabilitation.

The book I finally recommended to her was The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson. It is the true story of how a priest entered the streets of New York and started to work with the young, drug-addicted, knife-wielding gang-fighters. So many found salvation through accepting Christ into their lives that a new counselling service, known as Teen Challenge, evolved. The ministry now has centres in more than 70 countries. I thought that Lisa, as someone who would not normally read books, might find a sense of kindred spirit with some of the characters within Wilkerson’s book.

The rehabilitation was successful and the start of a new life for Lisa. Subsequently, she was able to obtain a lease on a small house in the village and the social services agreed to return her daughter to her care.

For Lisa, Christianity is now central to her life. Her faith is prominently displayed around her neck; she frequently refers to how God is her support in life, and never leaves the consulting room without glancing back to me and saying ‘Thanks. God bless you.’

After the morning’s surgery, I was left pondering on how a deep-seated faith was so important to the lives of two very different people. Old Mr Ernest Prendergast, in all of his eighty plus years, would not have even touched upon the type of life Lisa Jones has led in her twenty-seven years to date. Meeting in the street, they would probably not have even given each other a second glance. However, there was the very real (and somewhat surreal) possibility that, one Sunday morning, the tweed-suited Mr Prendergast might turn in his pew in Church and find himself offering the sign of peace to the wild, hippy-dressed, dreadlocked Lisa Jones: two different generations, leading very different lives, but ultimately united by a shared belief.

Charles Péguy, the French poet and essayist (1873 – 1914), is quoted in Basic Verities (1943) as writing in Un Nouveau Théologien (21st December 1899):

‘The sinner is at the heart of Christianity…No one is as competent as the sinner in matters of Christianity. No one, except a saint.’

I think that Lisa Jones and Ernest Prendergast are very good examples of the “sinner and the saint”. It would seem that Péguy’s analysis could not have been more correct.


(Author’s note: The names of the patients have been altered to protect their identities.)

Literary Snippet – Mark Twain

There is always something interesting to learn.

Whilst browsing the latest catalogue from The Folio Society, my attention was drawn to the new Folio edition of Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain.

I hadn’t previously known that Mark Twain (whose other well known books include The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer) was a pseudonym; after all, there are many American names which sound unusual to the English ear. Further investigation revealed that his real name was Samuel Clemens.

There are two quoted possibilities for the origin of his pseudonym. The author claimed that it came from the time spent on riverboats. In order to test the depth of water, a weighted line was let out into the water. A depth of twelve feet was considered safe and the crewman would shout out ‘mark twain’.

However, there are some who maintain that his name came from time spent in the bars. On each occasion he ordered a double, he would instruct the barman to ‘mark twain’ on his account.

Either way, the knowledge will no doubt provide for a few moments of intellectual chat around the occasional dinner table.

Some of my favourite quotes attributed to Twain are:

• Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.
• Golf is a good walk spoilt.
• It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.
• Respect your superiors, if you have any.
• I have been complimented many times and they always embarrass me; I always feel that they have not said enough.
• Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

A Miscellany

Partially by chance, although on one occasion as a result of the need to research a chapter for my book, I have found myself of late wandering around various monastic ruins. I previously mentioned Mount Grace Priory and, although not a ruin, the ecclesiastical retreat at Parcevall Hall in North Yorkshire (see In Perspective, 31st July 2006). Since then, I have added Byland Abbey in North Yorkshire and, as of yesterday, Thornton Abbey in Lincolnshire.It takes imagination to mentally rebuild these once magnificent edifices. However, with a little research it becomes easier to do, especially as many have a similar floor plan. What requires a greater depth of imagination is to feel what it must have been like to live in one of these places as a monk in the 12th, 13th or 14th Centuries.The one predominant sense for me on each occasion I attempt such a spiritual regression is the overwhelming feeling of peace and contentment. Presumably, this is what the intended purpose of the place was when first built. What is perhaps surprising is that such historic sites can still induce the same emotions albeit some seven hundred years on and in their present traumatised state.

The Encyclopaedia Britannica (Vol. 26, Pg. 1017) defines the purpose of monasticism as the ‘discovery of the true self’. It expands the idea by saying ‘all monasticism has its mainstay in theologically based convictions that the present state of things leaves much to be desired’.

Sometimes, life is a kind of madness. It becomes the head-on pursuit of, to a great extent, material possessions. However, they often fail to give the total pleasure and sense of contentment which is so eagerly sought after. As time progresses, many come to realise that it is a much deeper satisfaction which is yearned for. For me, that deeper contentment is found by taking to the hills or, as with the benefit of recent experience, when wandering around monastic ruins. It is then that I start to see a reflection of my true self and can develop a focus which reflects a sense of destiny.

****

A Handful of Dust

Take a handful of dust from the side of a road. In it you will see many small pebbles. Look closely – each one is a mountain in miniature.

John Ruskin

* * *

I recently purchased a CD entitled A Night in Vienna by Oscar Peterson. This octogenarian jazz pianist has produced many splendid works over his lifetime. However, for me, one of the most moving pieces is his own composition called Requiem; a tribute to all the departed jazz greats. It is the most beautiful, haunting and melancholic pieces of music I have come across for many years.

In Perspective

It is often said that the pace of modern life is faster for most of us than many of our predecessors would have known. It is difficult to know whether that is actually true or not, as we have no direct way of knowing. All we can do is to look back at the historical detail and form an impression as to how life once was in respect to the influence of time. I suspect that the truth lies somewhere in-between; that for many, life was frantic, with business to conduct, deadlines to meet, crops to be brought in against the threat of a turn in the weather and without the benefit of modern machinery and so on. For others, for example, those who were wealthy and could afford servants for the menial and more arduous tasks, the days were possibly as leisurely as they are for those who are in the same financially sound position in life today.

For, what tends to be the driving factor behind the speed at which our lives are led is probably no different now than it was one, two or three hundred years ago: that is the need to feed, clothe and house ourselves and our families, along, for many, with the innate desire to improve individual living conditions. The latter, however, usually requires the acquisition of wealth and thus the pressure builds.

The true problem we face in a modern society is perhaps not knowing when sufficient is enough. When do we decide that the standard of living we have achieved is sufficient? At what stage do we step back from the conveyor belt of work and decide that there is more to life than the incessant toil of self-imposed challenges?

Holidays are often a good time to take stock and reflect on such matters. For a short period of time one is excused from the daily turmoil of labour and allowed the luxury of spending the hours of the day entirely as one wishes. It is, as Shakespeare said about another form of escape, ‘a consummation devoutly to be wished’ (Hamlet, Act 3, Sc. 1).

Over the past two weeks I have had the chance to visit a variety of places in North Yorkshire and the Lake District which have given rise to such reflection. As a group, they are diverse: The acres of beautifully landscaped gardens at Parcivall Hall, the well-preserved ruins of the Carthusian monastery at Mount Grace Priory and Brantwood, the former home on the shore of Lake Coniston of the Victorian writer, painter and poet, John Ruskin, to name a few. What these places have done is to reinforce that sense which many of us already know but often do not heed: the concept that in life, it is the journey that matters, not the destination.

Some people never have the opportunity of understanding the true priorities of life. For those of us who do have the luxury of being able to take time to gain that valuable insight, the task ahead, when the daily conveyor belt of work-related demands again starts up, is not to forget. More to the point, the mission should be, wherever possible, to put that knowledge into action. In the words of John Ruskin, it beholds us to remember that:

‘There is no wealth but life.’

Au Revoir

Dr T's unfinished novel beckons to him. He will return in a couple of weeks time.

Word of the Week – Discombobulate

I do enjoy words which have a sound which befits their meaning. Discombobulate is one of those very words.

Derivatives of the word include discombobulation and discombobulated. It is thought to be a 19th century jocular alteration of the word discompose or discomfit. Its meaning is to disturb, upset or disconcert. A ‘discombobulating thought’ is therefore one which could be said ‘makes your brain hurt’.

Dear McScotland…

I recently enjoyed watching a documentary by Andrew Marr entitled Age of Genius.

The programme illustrated how 18th century Edinburgh was transformed by a group of enlightened Scots, whose ideas opened the eyes of people across the World.

This was all the more remarkable when one considers that there is on record the fact that, on at least one occasion during the 18th century, the mail coach from London arrived across the border with just one letter for the whole of Scotland!

I hope the letter’s contents were worth the effort of every man and horse involved in getting it there!

For Lexophiles

Unfortunately, time pressures have recently prevented me from writing for this blog. I therefore apologise for falling back on someone else's work (anonymously). That said, I am sure that at least some of the following will summon a wry grin for a few readers:

1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.
2. A will is a dead giveaway.
3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
4. A backward poet writes inverse.
5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count that votes.
6. A chicken crossing the road: poultry in motion.
7. If you don't pay your exorcist you can get repossessed.
8. With her marriage she got a new name and a dress.
9. Show me a piano falling down a mine shaft and I'll show you A-flat miner.
10. When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.
11. The guy who fell onto an upholstery machine was fully recovered.
12. A grenade fell onto a kitchen floor in France resulted in Linoleum Blown apart.
13. You are stuck with your debt if you can't budge it.
14. Local Area Network in Australia: The LAN down under.
15. He broke into song because he couldn't find the key.
16. A calendar's days are numbered.
17. A lot of money is tainted: 'Taint yours, and 'taint mine.
18. A boiled egg is hard to beat.
19. He had a photographic memory which was never developed.
20. A plateau is a high form of flattery.
21. The short fortune-teller who escaped from prison: a small medium at large.
22. Those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.
23. When you've seen one shopping centre you've seen a mall.
24. If you jump off a Paris bridge, you are in Seine.
25. When she saw her first strands of grey hair, she thought she'd dye.
26. Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead to know basis.
27. Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.
28. Acupuncture: a jab well done.
29. Marathon runners with bad shoes suffer the agony of de feet.

Note: No trees were killed in the sending of this message, but a large number of electrons were terribly inconvenienced.

Postcard from London (3)

Thursday 29th June 2006

I have the honour of being a Commander of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem. In addition, I have the privilege of sitting on the Chapter of the Order’s Priory of England and the Islands (www.sja.org.uk/history ).

Several times per year the Chapter meets in the Chapter Hall at the historic St John’s Gate in Clerkenwell, London. Following a morning of deliberating business appertaining to the running of the St John Ambulance (www.sja.org.uk ), the Eye Hospital in Jerusalem ( www.stjohneyehospital.org/ ) and the St John Care Homes Trust (www.osjct.co.uk ) , the members of Chapter re-convene after lunch in the Priory Church for the investiture of new members of the Order.

The Order is the oldest Order of Chivalry within the British Honours system, with membership of the Order being bestowed following approval by the Queen. As with other Orders under the Crown, there are various grades of membership, namely, Serving Brother and Serving Sister (both soon to be replaced by the title ‘Member’), Officer, Commander and then Knight or Dame. Knights are further divided between Knights of Justice (who are armigerous and have the right to appoint two Esquires) and Knights of Grace (who are not armigerous and have the right to appoint one Esquire). The highest honour within the Order is to be appointed a Bailiff or Dame Grand Cross.

The occasion of an investiture is one of glorious pomp and circumstance. It is a ceremony which never fails to delight and impress all those who attend.

At the opening of the ceremony, the members of Priory Chapter are announced and process into the Church, dressed in the traditional black sopra vests (a form of cassock) and black mantles, the latter bearing the white, eight-pointed cross of Amalfi on the left side. They take up their positions in two semi-circles in the north-east and south-east of the Church, there to await the arrival of the Prior.

Within a few minutes the Director of Ceremonies announces ‘The Prior of the Priory of England and the Islands’ and everyone stands for his procession. Preceded by the Church Cross and the Sword of Justice and accompanied by the Principle Priory Officers (Dean, Chancellor, Chief Commander, Chief Commissioners, Hospitaller and Almoner) and the Chapter clergy, the Prior’s procession make its way to the East of the Church, each armigerous member being followed by an Esquire bearing a banner depicting that individual’s Coat of Arms. It is a display of colourful, but solemn, pageantry which encapsulates so much of the historic significance of the Order of St John under the English Crown.

Following opening prayers, the National Anthem and a few words of introduction by the Prior, each postulant (i.e. a person to be invested) is summoned in turn and is invested by the Prior with the insignia of his or her grade within the Order.

For the postulants, as for many of their family members and guests within the audience, it is a moving occasion representing the recognition of years of outstanding service to the Order in one or more of its charitable arms. For all recipients, it is a moment to take pride in and one which will never be forgotten.

After the completion of the ceremony, the postulants and their guests are able to mingle with members of the Priory Chapter amidst the splendid surroundings of the Chapter Hall and partake in afternoon tea.

Finally, before departing from the St John’s Gate, visitors may take the opportunity of visiting the Priory’s Museum, where the Order’s 900 years of history, dating back to the Knights Hospitallers of the Holy Crusades, is displayed. The museum is open to the public, details of which can be found at: www.sja.org.uk/museum/visit .

Today’s investiture was of particular significance for me as a close friend, who is also a colleague within the St John Ambulance and will already be known to readers of this blog as ‘Harlequin’, was invested as a Serving Brother of the Order. Needless to say, it was a matter for celebration. Accompanied by our wives and following champagne in the garden of Over Seas House (www.rosl.org.uk ), overlooking Green Park in St James’s, we adjourned to Le Caprice (http://www.le-caprice.co.uk/ ), a restaurant which has previously featured in this blog (see Dinner with Melvyn Bragg, 11th May 2006).

As always, this popular rendezvous was packed with diners well up to midnight. Although not an evening for the presence of either of the Lords Melvyn Bragg or Jeffrey Archer (both devotees of Le Caprice), we did notice Sir Alan Sugar with a party of guests on the table adjacent to ours. The evening must have pleased him as well as us, for none of the waiting staff was fired before the night was over.

Principles for Life

Last Saturday (24th June) the Priory of England and the Islands of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem held its Annual Service of Commemoration and Re-dedication in St Paul's Cathedral.

The ceremonial aspects of the service are always an impressive sight and it is a delightful honour to participate in the event. For the past two years, the event has been particularly pleasurably following the completion of the cleaning of the inside of St Paul's Cathedral, which in itself is now beautiful and awe inspiring.

Traditionally, Christian services end with The Blessing. It occurred to me several years ago that the words used in the first half of The Blessing at the end of this particular service in themselves form a creed which could be well-followed by people from any faith or even those who are without faith; they could be termed Principles for Life:

Go forth into the World in peace;
be of good courage;
hold fast that which is good;
render to no one evil for evil;
strengthen the fainthearted;
support the weak;
help the afflicted;
honour all people.

I, for one, find those words thought-provoking and motivating on each occasion I hear them.

Carpe Diem

On mornings like today, when the sun is streaming though the curtains at an early hour and the birds have seemingly been singing all night, it is very easy to rise and make the most of the available hours. Winter does not make it quite so easy. However, getting up at an early hour has never been a great problem to me and with good reason. I am a great believer in making the most of every available minute. Indeed, on the basis that life is too short, the one pill I would happily take above all others would be the one which renders sleep unnecessary.

W. F. Deedes, the former editor of The Daily Telegraph and one time Member of Parliament and Cabinet Minister, is still, at the age of 93 years, working as a journalist. In this respect, he is a man I admire. In an article by Stephen Robinson in yesterday's The Daily Telegraph (19th June 2006), the question is put to Deedes as to 'why, at the age of 93, he still switches on the laptop each day'. Apparently, Deedes's reply, whenever such a question arises, is to quote from the poet A. E. Housman's A Shropshire Lad (1896) no. 4:

Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.

It is an adage to be well abided by.

Confused Words from a Living Temple

The above title is taken from Les fleurs du mal (1857), by the French poet and critic, Charles Baudelaire. He wrote:

Nature is a temple, where, from living pillars, confused words are sometimes allowed to escape.

Although I very much doubt that Baudelaire had the American Presidency in mind when he wrote those words, they do strike a certain chord today. By contrast, Shaw and Wilde certainly had the American people in mind when they said:

England and America are two countries divided by a common language.
Attributed to George Bernard Shaw

We have really everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language.
Oscar Wilde The Canterville Ghost (1887)

The above quotations sum up that which continues to be very evident in our two societies today. Unfortunately for America, their current President has done nothing to improve our view that Americans have a poor grasp of the English language. The following quotes were sent to me by email. They have all been attributed to George W Bush:

The vast majority of our imports come from outside the country.

If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure.

One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one word is 'to be prepared’.

I have made good judgments in the past. I have made good judgments in the future.

The future will be better tomorrow.

We're going to have the best educated American people in the world.

I stand by all the misstatements that I've made.

We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a part of NATO. We have a firm commitment to Europe. We are a part of Europe.

Public speaking is very easy.

A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls.

We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur.

For NASA, space is still a high priority.

Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children.

It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.

It's time for the human race to enter the solar system.

As the writer of the original email commented, ‘God help America!’

Birthday Blues

Today is the birthday of a very good friend of mine. In the time honoured fashion, I have congratulated him and wished him a very happy day. Indeed, two days ago my wife and I, along with some other friends, spent a most enjoyable day assisting him in celebrating his birthday two days early…well, it was Sunday, the sun was shining and it seemed like a good idea.

The aspect which always intrigues me is that the aforementioned birthday boy doesn’t like to celebrate birthdays. The fact that we did so this year was more the result of an arm-twisting by his wife than a joyous desire of his own. As I understand it, he would rather just forget about birthdays altogether. I know that he is not alone in this feeling as I have heard many others express similar sentiments in respect to their own birthdays. For such dejected souls, it is just a day which reminds them that they are yet another year older.

I take the opposite view. As we cannot escape the biological fact that we are ageing, why not use that special day to rejoice in the miracle that was our own birth and celebrate the fact that we are still alive? At the very least, it provides an excellent excuse for opening the odd bottle of champagne! By all means forget the precise number of years, but let’s not lose the opportunity for a good party.

For the past ten years or so, I have decreed that my own birthday should be a day of personal indulgence. It is a day on which I refuse to work. If it happens to fall within the working week, then I will take a day’s leave. The day is my own and I spend it in whatever way pleases me, which often means a mix of book shops, sight-seeing, a leisurely lunch, time for quiet personal reflection and a celebratory dinner in a quality restaurant. From my perspective, too many people allow their own birthday to whiz by without a second glance and then it is off on the frantic 365-day race to the next one.

Indeed, so highly do I rank the importance of celebrating birthdays that my wife and I have just recently celebrated our joint centenary. Having realised that our birthdays this year add up to one hundred years and, acknowledging the fact that neither of us is likely to make it to one hundred on a solo basis, we decided to party now. As I said, any excuse to open the champagne!

So, I believe my friend ought to take a leaf out of the book of the former American financier and presidential advisor, the late Bernard Baruch (1870 – 1965) who was quoted in Newsweek (29 August 1955) as saying:

‘To me, old age is always fifteen years older than I am.’

I am sure that it is an adage well worth adopting.

Happy Birthday Harlequin.

Word of the Week – Sesquipedalianist

This beauty of a word was discovered in the Books section of The Daily Telegraph (Saturday, 20th May 2006).

For the article A Writer’s Life, the journalist, Helen Brown, interviewed the author Will Self. I quote from her article:

‘In the public imagination, Self is a freak-show sesquipedalianist.’

Somehow, I think that is attributing too much to the public’s intellect. I would not mind betting that the majority have no idea as to the meaning of the word ‘sesquipedalianist’. I admit to being in the same category until I delved into the New Oxford Dictionary of English (NODE). Before then, it took me about ten minutes to even say the word with any degree of fluency!

According to the NODE, the adjective, sesquipedalian, means ‘polysyllabic, characterized by long words, long-winded.’ It originated in the mid 17th century, being derived from the Latin, sesquipedalis, meaning ‘a foot-and-a-half long.’

Rather an appropriate word for such a meaning. However, anyone reading this article can now consider him or herself to be a sesquipedalianist by virtue of their newfound knowledge. I am reliably informed that one cannot be arrested for it.

The Revival of Enid Blyton

Having been born in 1960, I was blessed with the chance to read Enid Blyton’s books before they were frowned upon by the educationalists. I thus thrived during my formative years on a diet of (amongst other titles) The Famous Five and The Secret Seven.

For me, The Famous Five were the winners and I followed each adventure with avid attention. How delighted I therefore was when The Daily Telegraph last week offered its readers the opportunity to obtain seven audio books of The Famous Five stories. With true dedication, I collected all the tokens and now wait for the parcel to arrive.

One reader enquired within the letters page of The Daily Telegraph as to whom the audio books were targeted, ‘us or our grandchildren?’ Well, I have no doubt as to the answer to that. Indeed, I would have thought it was obvious. Armed with my portable CD player and headphones, I, for one, will be taking a trip down memory lane the next time I have to endure a train journey to London. The very thought causes amusement as I can see now the scenario: a carriage of men, complete with pin-striped suits and copies of the Financial Times, with Dr T. amidst them all, listening to Five Go To Mystery Moor. I am sure they would understand if they knew – well, at least they would if they are more than forty years old.

Education versus the Art of Learning

The present Government has a bee in its bonnet regarding education: witness Tony Blair’s emphasis on ‘Education, education and education’ at the Labour Party Conference in 1996.

I have great difficulty with such dogma and would prefer that young people were not "educated" but taught the "art of learning", a subtle difference perhaps, but an important one.

By consulting the New Oxford Dictionary of English (NODE) we are presented with the following definitions:

Education: ‘The process of giving or receiving systematic instruction.’

Learning: ‘The acquisition of knowledge or skills through study, experience or being taught.’

The former implies a passive process and does not necessarily result in the desired outcome. The latter, however, is very much an active process and does ipso facto achieve the aim. I ask you at the outset, whom would you consider the more intelligent or wisest of men: the "educated man" or the "learned man"?

It could be construed that education is a process of loading the brain with the specific information the teachers, schools and, increasingly, the Government (consider The National Curriculum) wish the population to be programmed with. This has shades of George Orwell’s 1984, wherein the state controls every aspect of daily life.

This was touched on by John Dryden who, in The Hind and the Panther (1687) said: ‘By education most have been misled…’

On the other hand, being taught the art of learning implies being given the ability to acquire information for oneself, perhaps in accordance with one’s needs and desires. It implies the ability to think for oneself and fosters curiosity. This in turn can prove to be a valuable asset throughout life and not just a process undertaken whilst at school.

Naturally, guidance does need to be given to young people in the earliest days of their schooling. They do need some essential foundations upon which they can then build their own knowledge base. The manner in which the teachers put across those key skills is all-important. Consider the following words from William Arthur Ward:

‘The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.’

The first three teachers are able, with varying degrees of success, to fulfil the need of educating their pupils. However, the fourth teacher is the one who will instil within them the art of learning.

The film Dead Poets Society (1989) touched on the subject of teachers who could inspire, demonstrating the heights to which the pupils could intellectually ascend if unconstrained by rote learning. In the film, the teacher, Keating, exhorts his pupils to ‘Seize the day’ and to ‘Make your lives extraordinary’.

In one particularly memorable scene, Keating says to his pupils:

‘You are souls at a critical juncture. Either you will succumb to the will of academic hoi polloi, and the fruit will die on the vine – or you triumph as individuals….learn to savour language and words because no matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas have the power to change the world.’

He continues:

‘You must strive to find your own voice. Most men lead lives of quiet desperation. Why be resigned to that? Risk walking new ground…never be ordinary.’

As the American poet, Robert Frost said in his poem The Road Not Taken (1916):

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I argue that education alone does not empower people to achieve the ability to be those individuals. It is the willingness to constantly question and learn which does. There is a danger that we fall into the trap of believing that, because we have educated our young people in accordance with The National Curriculum, then our job is done. It is not. It has only just begun. Have a National Curriculum. However, do not make it the end-point. Rather, our task should be to ensure that education is simply a means to the far more important aim of arming our youngsters with the skills and ability to undertake life-long learning and thereby have the courage to take the road ‘less travelled by’.

I leave the final words to Oscar Wilde in The Importance of Being Ernest (1895):

‘The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately, in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever.’

Perhaps those who decide on the political agenda of this country should take note and be prepared to think again.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (8)

Thursday, 25th May 2006

Harrogate, a delightful Georgian spa town to the east of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, was to be the location for today's excursion. It was, of course, a shopping trip - a matter that often strikes fear into the heart of most men. However, in Harrogate it is possible to turn the event into the most civilised of activities, as I will endeavour to demonstrate.

The first priority is to set free one's wife. Usually, that is not difficult, being of great mutual benefit. Then, having set a rendezvous time several hours hence, one can begin to really enjoy oneself.

Today, I started with a visit to Jenny's Tearoom, set within the stylish Montpellier Mews. There is, of course, the alternative of the famous Betty's Tearooms. However, the latter does not have the facility for sitting outside. On a warm sunny day (as was today), Jenny's Tearoom has a secluded courtyard which is most pleasing and, at ten o'clock in the morning, almost deserted. There I spent a refreshing half hour, imbibing Earl Grey tea and an enormous toasted teacake, whilst writing notes for a later piece (on the subject of 'Education versus Learning') for this blog.

Suitably refreshed, an amble though the spacious, randomly arranged streets (taking time to appreciate the architecture of the buildings above one's usual line of sight), led me to Waterstones Bookshop. Not the largest of this chain, the Harrogate branch is nonetheless of great interest and the staff pleasant and helpful.

One hour later, I exited carrying the spoils of the Book Hunt:

i. The Jesus Papers by Michael Baigent. (An act of charity - he has an expensive legal bill to settle after the failure of his recent case against Dan Brown in respect to The Da Vinci Code.)

ii. The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. (Sub-titled, Unlocking the Poet Within, who can resist Fry's wit, coupled with a deep intellect, as he meanders through the complexities of writing poetry? His foreword opens with the line: 'I HAVE A DARK AND DREADFUL SECRET. I write poetry.' Great stuff!)

iii. The Lost Luggage Porter by Andrew Martin. (A novel about which I know very little other than it was offered to me free of charge with my other purchases. It would have been churlish to reject it.)

iv. Talking Heads by Alan Bennett. (An audio book of the first six classic monologues.)

v. The History Boys by Alan Bennett. (Another audio book, this one of the recent BBC 3 production of his award winning play.)

After a lightning raid on M&S for a re-supply of socks, underwear and silk ties (the problem with not having a bountiful supply of present-giving aunts is that I do not receive a year's supply each Christmas), I made for the Parish Church of St Peter, set in the heart of the shopping area.

St Peter's Church is attractive and spacious, with an abundance of stained-glass windows and an intimate side-chapel for private prayer. After the hubbub of outside, it presents an oatranquilityand tranquillity.

Spiritually revived, I shunned the lure of the second bookshop (Ottakers), the numerous antique shops and the tourist attractions of the Royal Baths and Pump House (both of which I have visited in the past), to relax in the sunshine whilst overlooking the war memorial gardens. Finding a quiet bench, I whiled away another half-hour perusing the contents of Fry's book.

Finally, the time of reunion arrived and, in the company of my wife, I adjourned to the Drum and Monkey, a highly rated fish restaurant, where we partook of a delicious cold fish platter accompanied by the, most acceptable, house dry white wine.

Of course, after such a delightfully alcoholic lunch, there is nothing better than to retreat home for the obligatory afternoon's eyelid inspection.

Several hours later, I sit here writing this postcard, with the light of the day slowly fading, surrounded by the aforementioned books (amongst others), armed with a glass of whisky and listening to Bach's Brandenburg Concertos.

A civilised day or not?

Thought for the Day

I came across the following in an introductory video at the museum known as The House of Manannan, the museum that tells the history of the Isle of Man:

‘A story is the tale of a journey told by a traveller to a traveller. For, although he may be thousands of miles away, he who is prepared to listen also undertakes that journey.’

Postcard from the Lake District (2)

Wednesday, 24th May 2006

After heavy rain overnight, the day started by looking very wet and grey. However, owing to the recent acquisition of a new electronic gadget, I am now in a position to gaze into the future and matters were definitely going to improve by lunchtime.

One of the great facets of our cottage in the Yorkshire Dales is that we have shunned modern technology, in so far as we do not have a telephone (well, no land line anyway) and no television. The downside of such an arrangement has been the inability to access the Internet. A little magic box called a Blackberry has changed all that. The Internet can be accessed by wireless means and thus, courtesy of the BBC, I can tell that the weather is going to be fine this afternoon. Cue journey to the Lake District.

The object of our desires today was Lake Coniston. This particular lake, of course, is famous for Donald Campbell's ill-fated attempt to break the water speed record in 1967. The village of Coniston is also famous for the Ruskin Museum and, further along the lake, on its eastern shore, is Brantwood, the former home of the 19th century writer and art critic, John Ruskin. His grave can be found in the churchyard at Coniston.

However, all that was to be saved for another day. Today, we were to undertake a delightful walk along the western shore of the lake and then up through the woodland and over the fell above the lake.

One of the great delights of Lake Coniston is that, compared to Lake Windermere, there is almost a total absence of tourism. No hoards of people in over-filled car parks, no ice cream vans, no packed marinas with yachts and motor launches and very few buildings amidst the lakeside woodlands. Indeed, we saw one small boat throughout the entire walk (no sign of the National Trust's Venetian Gondola today) and met no one else save for a horse rider up on the fell. We were in a state of delightful solitude.

The path alongside the lake passes in and out of woodland, where, many years ago, iron ore used to be brought by barge to be smelted using charcoal produced from the coppiced wood. At this time of year, the gorse bushes are coated in bright yellow flowers and the heady aroma of the white May blossom intermittently wafts past. Beside the path, the fresh, light green tips of young ferns are starting to push through the soil, their small curly heads gradually unfolding to reveal delicate fern leaves.

The lake itself was smooth and blue, with just a slight ripple occasionally breaking its surface, causing a sparkling effect in the spring sunshine. Multiple streams tumbled off the fell side, down through the woodland and across our path before ending their journey at the lake's edge; the water lapping alongside the pebbly beaches being crystal clear. It was a scene possibly unchanged for generations and certainly one that Ruskin would recognise.

Leaving the lake after about one and a half miles, we entered Torver Common Wood and began ascending to the fell. The wood is mainly deciduous with just the occasional conifer. As a result, it is alive with bird life, chaffinches being the most vocally obvious today. That said, the call of a male cuckoo (or perhaps more than one) was with us for most of the journey, the distinctive sound always well into the distance. Why that should be so, I do not know. They are the most frustrating of birds, as, despite being an avid birdwatcher for almost thirty years, I am yet to knowingly see a cuckoo in the wild.

Breaking out of woodland into pastureland to the east of the village of Torver rewarded us with the sight of a low flying buzzard within one hundred yards of where we stood.

The pastureland had other delights of a botanic nature. Alongside the edge of the woodland, primroses were still in flower (their botanic name, primula, being derived from two Latin words meaning 'first rose'). Bluebells were also in abundance, whilst in the grass meadows, buttercups and daisies were omnipresent. Where the land was boggier, swathes of Common Cottongrass sported their white, cotton wool flowers. Really of the sedge family and not a grass at all, the flowers of these plants used to be utilised in making candlewicks and stuffing pillows.

Briefly passing through Torver village, we entered Torver Common and continued up past the Torver Tarn. Torver Tarn is a small reservoir, now redundant, as so well supplied is this area with water. (My apologies to readers residing in the drought-hit southeastern areas of England for rubbing that one in!)

The final leg of the journey passed down through a beautiful tree lined valley called Mere Gill, at the base of which the Torver Beck, swelled by the recent rain, tumbles noisily on its way. Here, horse chestnut trees are in flower; a tree I take particular delight in at this time of year, as the flowers look like large conical candles, giving the trees a decorated 'Christmas tree' appearance.

Just before reaching the road, as if taunting me, a cuckoo calls from away across the opposite side of the Gill. One day I will catch sight of one!

Call me Sentimental, but…

Every now and then one comes across something that tears unexpectedly at the heartstrings. Such an event occurred whilst recently driving on the Isle of Man.

It was as I rounded a bend in a small village just south of Douglas that I caught sight of the fresh remains of a mallard drake lying at the side of the road. Feathers still scattered the road around the lifeless body.

Moving over to avoid hitting the corpse, it was then that I caught sight of the drake’s mate, standing aimlessly on the pavement in between making small movements towards her late partner. It was a scene of instant poignancy and sadness that has since remained with me.

As I said, call me sentimental, but…

Thought for the Day

Learning is the fine raiment of the rich man – and the riches of the poor man.
Manx Proverb

Postcard from the Isle of Man (4)

Monday, 22nd May 2006

The final day of this current trip and the morning opened with the omnipresent rain. However, the agenda for the day consisted of two museums, both of which were indoors. So, undaunted, we set off for our second visit to Peel, over on the west coast.

Apart from Peel Castle (about which I have already commented in a previous postcard), Peel is home of the award winning House of Manannan.

Manannan is the ancient Sea God, worshipped by the earliest of the Manx peoples. He is used at the House of Manannan to narrate and guide the visitor through the history of the Isle of Man from the earliest of Celtic days, through the arrival of the Vikings and on into the modern era. It is a concept that works very well.

Indeed, the entire museum works very well and is probably the best I have personally come across anywhere in the world. Utilising the most modern of computer technology, reconstructed, walk-through settings of life in a Celtic roundhouse and a Viking longhouse are brought vividly to life, as are scenes of the old 19th century quaysides and kipper factories, etc. Additionally, the museum is home to Odin’s Raven, a reconstructed Viking longboat, which was actually sailed from Norway to the Isle of Man as part of the Millennium of Tynwald celebrations.

The entire tour (which again we made as almost the only two visitors – which we were for most of the time) takes about three hours and I can honestly say that it is worth every minute. Every step of the way captivates and holds your imagination.

One spin off for me was the prompt to learn more about the Celtic races as a whole, a matter about which I previously had only sketchy knowledge. As a result, I am in the process of reading a book entitled The Celts, First Masters of Europe by Christiane Eluère, which gives a most informative overview of the Celtic history.

* * *

The afternoon was spent back in Douglas, visiting The Manx Museum. Compared to The House of Manannan, the Manx Museum is a more conventional and dry museum. However, that said, we were treated to a most interesting film (in a modern auditorium and as the only two viewers) regarding the history of the island and its people. Perhaps if we had visited this museum on our arrival to the island, we would have found it of greater interest.

What is certainly true is the fact that the Manx National Heritage has put together an island-wide historic trail (known as The Story of Mann) in a way which is most inspiring, educational and entertaining. It cannot be praised too highly. Indeed, the judges of the European Museum of the Year Award (just one of the many accolades won by the island) are quoted as saying:

“Now and again one comes across an achievement which is truly revolutionary and which is capable of having great influence on development elsewhere in Europe…and the Isle of Man has become an essential place to visit for anyone who wishes to see how to do the job better.”

I know that we will most certainly return, for we have only just begun to scratch the surface of what this gem of an island has to offer.

Postcard from the Isle of Man (3)

Sunday, 21st May 2006

When writing about the Isle of Man, it is difficult not to sound like a tourist information guide. However, the island is so rich in heritage sites that it leaves little option.

The southern half of the island was to be the focus of attention today, with the first port of call being Rushen Abbey at Ballasalla.

Rushen Abbey was once the seat of Manx Christianity. A Cistercian monastery until 1540, the abbey later fell into disrepair and was badly neglected over several centuries. For many years, the grounds served as a dance hall, market garden and even had a nightclub built over the ruins. Acquired by the Manx National Heritage in 1998, it was then subject to intensive archaeological investigation and preservation. In 2000, the site was opened to the public to great acclaim and rightly so, for it is now wonderfully presented. It comes complete with an extremely helpful indoor display giving the history of Manx Christianity and explaining every facet of Cistercian Monastic life. Additionally, there is a video presentation showing how the archaeological team unearthed, with painstaking care, the ruins we now see today. As we wandered amongst the remains, my wife remarked on the attractive wallflowers, which can be seen growing from various nooks and crannies; a remark which unwittingly reflected the diary entry of Dorothy Wordsworth (sister of the poet) following her own visit to the abbey many years ago. For me, a walk around the cloister was brought to life by the tolling of a nearby church bell, which very much gave the impression of an echo from the past.

* * *

Castletown, the principal town in the south of the island, was once the seat of government, both in medieval times and more recently.

Castle Rushen, within Castletown, is ranked as one of the best-preserved medieval castles in Europe. The oldest part of the castle dates back to the time of the last Norse King of Mann, who died in 1265. In later times, it has served as the island’s mint, administrative centre, law courts and, until the late 1800s, as a prison. Much work has gone into providing spectacular displays of life in the castle during the 17th Century. Some rooms are decorated with wall hangings, figures in medieval costumes, displays of medieval banqueting tables and soundtracks of contemporary music and speech, giving the visitor an inspiring insight to the period.

One discovery of great interest was a Fuddle Cup. Made of porcelain, the cup is really a group of four tall cups joined together, each with its own handle. When all four cups are filled with wine, it is then offered to a guest who has the challenge of draining one of the cups (without spillage of the others) before being able to hand the cup on to the next guest. What is not immediately apparent is the fact that the cups are internally joined by small holes deep within. Thus, the first guest would be tricked into drinking the contents of all four cups – and thus become ‘fuddled’. Unfortunately, they do not reproduce these as a traveller’s souvenir!

* * *

The Old Grammar School in Castletown was initially built in 1200 as the town church. In 1570, it became the Grammar School and functioned as such until 1930. Having the accolade of being the oldest roofed building on the island, it now houses a display of a small Victorian classroom.

Interestingly, along with so much else over the years, the island was the first to promulgate the concept of a basic education for every child, regardless of sex or wealth.

* * *

Across from the Old Grammar School, in a small square adjacent to the castle walls, is The Old House of Keys. The House of Keys is the Manx Parliament, now situated in Douglas. The Old House of Keys is the original, well-restored 19th century home of the parliament before it moved to Douglas.

Visitors are able to join in as representatives of a mock sitting of the House of Keys. Conducted through a clever mixture of technology, the model of the speaker comes to life through a projected face and various portraits become animated and make speeches to the house (rather like the portraits in the Harry Potter films).

The debates range through important facets of Manx history, including whether to give women the vote (introduced fifty years before mainland Britain), whether to allow motor racing on the island and, currently being debated, whether the island should apply for full membership of the European Union (with the possible loss of its tax haven status). The outcome is that the visitor leaves with a greater depth of knowledge and understanding regarding certain areas of the island’s history.

* * *

In the southwest corner of the island, overlooking a much smaller island (the Calf of Man) is the village of Cregneash.

Another first for the island, Cregneash was the first outdoor living museum within the British Isles. It now presents a working illustration as to how life was during the 19th and 20th centuries in a Manx crofting village. The various buildings display woodturning, weaving and spinning, life in a farmhouse of that era and, most interestingly, life in a small, thatched, two-roomed cottage (lived in by the late Harry Kelly until his death in 1936). Justice cannot be done within a few words here to the real value of this village, which needs to be visited to obtain its full value.

It is possibly the right moment to mention the Manx poet, T. E. Brown, who had his collected works published in 1900. What is special about his poetry is that it captures in dialect verse the life and times of the Manx people during the 19th century. The Collected Poems has been re-published by Manx Heritage. The poetry is most accessible, very informative and quite often humorous. For example, the opening lines to the eighty-six-page poem entitled Tommy Big-Eyes commences thus:

I never knew a man in my life
That had such a darling little wife
As a chap they were callin’ Tommy Gellin’;
So how he got her is worth the tellin’.

Who could resist such bait? From the opening lines, it is clear that a good yarn is going to be forthcoming (and so it is). Based on such, I now possess my own copy and look forward to much entertainment.

* * *

Throughout our tour of the various sites described above, we could be forgiven for thinking that we were the only two visitors to the island. On most occasions, we had the site/museum/castle to ourselves to the point that we felt that we were on a privately organised tour (for example, we were the only two for the Old House of Keys presentation). However, at every location we were made most welcomed by the staff, who went to great trouble to make our visit worthwhile and enjoyable. We cannot praise them highly enough. If they are representatives of the Manx people as a whole, then they are a delightful race and deserve to be hailed as such.

Postcard from the Isle of Man (2)

Saturday, 20th May 2006

The day was spent exploring the heritage sites in the northern half of the island, the first stop being the town of Laxey, where The Great Laxey Wheel resides. Built in 1854 to pump water from the lead and zinc mines, it is in working order and remains the world’s greatest industrial water wheel. Even for someone like me, who usually claims little fascination for things mechanical, the Laxey Wheel is a marvellous feat of engineering.

One of the mines is accessible for a short distance. Inside the narrow shaft, water drips from the ceiling forming large puddles between the rails for the mine carts. It is hard to imagine working down there for hours on end, with nothing for light but a candle (secured to one’s helmet with a lump of clay). The hardship and suffering endured by the miners is reflected, outside the mine, by a large photograph of the workforce from the late 1800s. It is mesmerising and somewhat haunting to look at the faces of these long-dead men and see nothing but sadness, weariness and despair stare back. For several minutes, I could do nothing but gaze intently with a mixture of curious wonder and admiration for the people behind the images (the evocative sense produced by old photographs of people being similarly portrayed by the characters in Stephen Poliakoff’s excellent television play, Shooting the Past, about a country house, situated in the London suburbs, housing a photographic collection going back over the last decade).

* * *

Just north of Laxey, is King Orry’s Grave, a unique pair of megalithic chambered- tombs from 5,000 B.C. They represent what was once the island’s most important burial site. Two large standing stones have been excavated, the low, narrow gap between them forming the entrance to the first chamber (now collapsed and open to the air). It is just possible to squeeze through the gap, which I did with a sense of awe, knowing that people had done the same some 5,000 years ago in the process of burying their dead.

* * *

Further still along the northeast coast is the village of Maughold. Here, in a sheltered display area within the churchyard, is a fine collection of ancient Celtic and Viking carved, stone crosses. The low-roofed church is also of great interest, being small but well proportioned. Inside, beneath a diminutive organ loft, one central aisle leads past wooden pews (each able to seat three, maybe four parishioners) to the chancel, where the usual church furnishings (lectern, pulpit etc) have been scaled down to fit the small space. Behind the chancel is an equally reduced, but beautifully decorated altar. It is as though one has walked into the ecclesiastical version of a dolls house; all very cosy and comforting.

The exterior of the church at Maughold presents two additional surprises.

To the north side of the entrance is what at first glance appears to be a large mounting block (of the variety used by equestrians). However, further consideration indicates that it is really a set of steps leading up to an external door set at head height – the only way into the organ loft for the organist; a sort of tradesmen’s entrance for the secular staff.

The second surprise is the realisation that the church bell is hung outside the church above the main door, between a stone A-framed gable. Even more surprising is the heavy bell rope, which coils down over the porch and is tethered to one side of the entrance. Being appointed bell-ringer on a wet, cold winter’s Sunday, with an icy wind driving across the Irish Sea, must be a form of local punishment; a penance perhaps undertaken for having the temerity to miss the previous week’s service.

One final point of interest is the churchyard at Maughold. An ancient burial site, one could call it ‘well-stocked’, so numerous are the graves. The gravestones are mainly of stone (rather than marble), many standing five or more feet in height. Looking around at the expanse of these stones, the thought occurred that each one of these stones represents a person (or in some cases, many people) and I had a sudden and curious sensation of standing amongst a vast, silent crowd gathered on this hillside overlooking the sea.

Examination of headstones is an interest long held. Much can be learned of the people once populating the area: here lies a blacksmith, over there a priest, here a male hair dresser (perhaps unusual in 1865) and so on. Sometimes, many people have died around the same time, no doubt due to some form of infection bringing sadness and ruin to many families.

The most poignant of the headstones are those depicting families, as they often portray a life of sadness and despair. One such example consists of three adjacent graves belonging to a specific family. Between 1832 and 1847, William and Jane lost no less than eight children, their ages being as follows (it is interesting to note that some Christian names were used more than once):

Margaret Jane – in infancy
John - 1½ years
William Thomas - 7¼ years
Edward - 4¾ years
Margaret Jane – 11 months
William Thomas – 7 months
James – 8 months
Sarah – in infancy

Three more children were lost at later ages:

Christian in 1868 aged 19years
Jane in 1875 aged 32 years
Isabella in 1875 aged 23 years

What makes the whole history even more poignant is the fact that the father, William, died in 1887 aged 80 years; his wife, Jane, predeceasing him in 1884, but herself reaching the fine age of 79 years. What was it that gave the parents such fortitude, but failed in respect to the children? One can only stand and wonder.

* * *

Even further north lies the town of Ramsey, where a well-preserved house, called The Grove, tells the story of a Victorian merchant’s family. The Gibbs once owned a shipping fleet and initially developed The Grove as a summer residence to escape the risk of cholera in Liverpool. Later on, two spinster daughters continued to live out their lives there, both dying in their nineties. The contents of the house are intact and as depicted in photographs of the family during the Victorian era.

Today, visitors can take afternoon tea (served in old fine bone china) in the conservatory, itself having the same timeless charm. All in all, I couldn’t help feeling that we had stepped back one hundred years, perhaps leaving the Tardis parked just up the road!

* * *

The final destination for the day was Peel, over on the west coast, which entailed a drive around part of the road course for the TT (Tourist Trophy) motorbike races. With the races scheduled for early June, preparation is already taking place, with thick straw bales padding out stone walls, lampposts and trees on risky bends.

Peel Castle is sited on St Patrick’s Island, once only joined to the mainland by a spit of sand visible at low tide. It is the well-preserved ruins of an ancient fortress and early centre of Christianity, with much to whet the curiosity of the visitor interested in history and archaeology.

Today, the main risk of attack is from gulls nesting high up on the ramparts, coupled with a constant battering from a bitterly cold wind. We were the only two people looking round it and whether that says something of our hardiness or foolhardiness, I am yet to decide. Nonetheless, undaunted, we completed the tour, marvelling at the fortitude of those who had once lived there and feeling, with a sense of righteousness, that we had added another piece to the mental jigsaw called education.

Indeed, the events of the whole day had been one long voyage of discovery of what is proving to be a fascinating island.

Postcard from the Isle of Man (1)

Saturday, 20th May 2006

6 a.m.

Wet.

No…very wet.

In fact, even that is an understatement, as the Promenade and Douglas Bay, over which our hotel room looks, is presently being lashed with rain, the ferocity of which leaves only one word to describe the day: sodden.

As I stand at the window watching a jogger in shorts and running vest battle his way head on into the wind, two thoughts simultaneously pass through my mind. First, whether all tourists are mad and, second, that the view looks depressing like the seafront at Brighton, or Cleethorpes or even Blackpool for that matter, which is to say, grey and depressing.

The crossing yesterday afternoon was not so bad. The Irish Sea was officially described as ‘moderate’, which means you have to walk in a staggering, zigzag fashion but can still make headway without clutching the nearest secure object. It is also sufficient to subdue the majority of passengers without causing a mass outbreak of vomiting. Overall, ideal conditions for people like me, who, unaffected by the rise and fall of the waves, simply wish to convert the enforced three and a half hours at sea into a valuable reading opportunity.

For some time, I have been meaning to read some of the late Dame Iris Murdoch’s work. I have a small selection in Yorkshire, harvested from Waterstone’s bookshop in Harrogate one idle afternoon last year. I did start to look at The Sea! The Sea! which won her the Booker Prize. However, for some reason I never quite got into it. I am now trying a different tack: that of reading about the author before reading her works. I do believe that it is often helpful to understand something of the writer in order to fully enjoy the literary output of that person. John Bailey’s memoir of his wife, simply entitled Iris, is easily accessible and paints an endearing picture of their life together. The crossing of the Irish Sea yesterday enabled me to get through about one third of the book without interruption. Perhaps The Sea! The Sea! will be given a second chance.

That is to say more than I would give the Hilton Hotel in Douglas. I hope that the lack of hospitality, culinary standards and choice of malt whisky will be compensated for by other attributes of the island.

At least there is now a suggestion of a break in the clouds…even if it is still raining.

* * *

7 p.m.

Clear blue skies, a calm blue-watered bay, golden sands and the promise of a splendid sunset.
As I stand at the window, a horse-drawn tram slowly trundles its way along the Promenade, as such trams have done ever since the late 19th century. The scene is most attractive and nothing like that of this morning. To be fair, the weather improved from about mid-morning as did the hospitality of the islanders, for we have met with nothing but friendliness and courtesy ever since.

As the words of the song say, what a difference a day makes.

Dinner with Lord Melvyn Bragg

I arrived at the Lincoln Drill Hall last night and immediately felt that I had been transported to heaven. Such was the sight and sound that filled my senses.

In front of me was a table piled high with books - Melvyn Bragg’s Twelve Books that Changed the World to be precise. As for the sound, connoisseurs of jazz will instantly understand just what the sound of a tenor saxophone does in so far as playing spine-tingling havoc with one’s nervous system. All I needed was a glass of wine to complete the sensual impact. It wasn’t long in coming.

The occasion was the Lincoln Book Festival Literary Dinner with Lord Melvyn Bragg, as you will have already perceived, as the guest speaker.

I have previously commented on how one can draw threads through life’s experiences, providing a continuum between seemingly arbitrary events (see Threads through Time on this blog). Last night provided two such connections.

The first was whilst ordering the wine for the table. Picture the scene at the bar:

Dr T. ‘May I see the wine list please?’

Barman: ‘We have red, white or rosé.’

He indicates three different coloured bottles lined up by the till. The choice is merely that of colour; no more, no less.

Dr T. (Hesitating as he absorbs the complexities of the decision he is about to make):
‘Ah, well, I think I’ll have a bottle of red please.’

I was instantly transported back to the early 1990s when, as President of the Mess Committee for the Officers’ Mess of 250 Field Ambulance RAMC(V), I was responsible for stocking the bar for our annual camp. I duly paid a visit to the NAAFI armed with a wish list:

Major T: ‘Good morning Sergeant. I am looking for some good claret, Rioja Reserva, Chianti Classico and a selection of whites; Chardonnay is a must and perhaps some Sauvignon Blanc.’

Sergeant (in gruff, no-nonsense voice):
‘We have two type of wine here, Sir: red or white. How many bottles of each do you want?’

Fortunately, the rest of last evening was held at a higher intellectual plane than the simplicity of red versus white.

I have yet to read Lord Bragg’s book. Which is not surprising since I only bought it last night. However, I have sat through the entire television series of the same name and would recommend it to anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure. The twelve chosen books are not Lord Bragg’s twelve favourite books or the world’s twelve most popular novels and so on. They are twelve English books which have, undeniably, been responsible for altering the way we think or do things throughout the World.

I am not going to go into detail about the books. That you may discover for yourselves. However, I will say that Lord Bragg is as interesting and erudite in person as he is on the screen or when his thoughts are encapsulated in the pages of a book. For about an hour, he kept his audience spell bound and hanging on every word. It was a great pleasure to listen to him.

Naturally, after dinner he undertook the time-honoured role of all authors; that of signing his books. It was then that my second time-connecting thread materialised:

Lord Bragg: ‘Ah, a man who wears a handkerchief in his top pocket…’ (as does he).

Dr T: ‘And also dines at Le Caprice.’

(Le Caprice is an elegant restaurant in Mayfair, London and is frequently patronised by celebrities. Lord Bragg had been dining there on the occasion of one of my own visits last year.)

Lord Bragg: ‘Yes, a delightful little place. I haven’t seen you there.’

Dr T: ‘No, but I have seen you.’

…which rather sums up our relative positions on the literary ladder. Perhaps next time I will say ‘hello’.

Lincoln Book Festival Literary Dinner

Dr T is off to the Literary Dinner this evening at the Lincoln Book Festival. The guest speaker is Lord Melvyn Bragg, so an interesting time is anticipated! A report will appear in due course.

Thought for the Day

Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.
Origin unknown

The St John of Jerusalem Eye Hospital

The St John of Jerusalem Eye Hospital is run by the Order of St John and relies entirely on voluntary donations. The medical and nursing staff treat everyone regardless of race, sex or creed. It is truely a marvelous organisation. Indeed, when I visited the hospital a few years ago, the experience brought tears to my own eyes, it is that emotive.

Below is a section from a recent letter from the Chief Executive of the Eye Hospital:

'Many Palestinians live without access to medical care. Most cannot move freely to see family and friends. Nearly half live below the poverty line. Last year we treated over 64,000 patients, including 3,000 major and 1500 minor operations.'

Perhaps I could encourage you to take a few moments to visit the website for this wonderful hospital and to consider how you might be able to help, even in some small way:

www.stjohneyehospital.org

Tales from a Literary Doctor

Short stories rescued from the forgotten depths of the bottom draw

http://www.DrTusitalastories.blogspot.com

Why I Blog

You may be reading this as a result of the very kind article in the latest edition of Writers’ News (Blogging Joy for Robert, Vol 17, No 6 June 2006), for which I am grateful to Mr Jonathan Telfer. Either way, I thought I would add to what has already been said.

Up until January this year I had not heard of blogging. Although I like to think of myself as being reasonably computer literate, this particular modern publishing phenomenon was completely unknown to me.

All that changed one rainy weekend afternoon in the middle of January as I sat browsing the latest editions of various writing magazines. It was then that I came across an article in the February 2006 copy of Writers’ News, written by Jonathan Telfer and entitled Blog Show Case Opportunity. It was about to send me off on a project which has since become an addiction.

One weekend later, I had set up my first blog and, with great trepidation, posted article number one. Just over three months later, I have posted ninety eight articles and logged almost nine hundred visits to my site (from as far away as the USA, Korea and Australia).

Why do I do it? The answer is simple. It is an exciting way to place articles, which wouldn’t easily find a home elsewhere, into the public domain. The fact that people are interested enough to read them is both rewarding and encouraging. Blogging also helps to develop one’s writing skills and, who knows, there might be a book out of it one day!

Last month I decided to start a second blog dedicated to my attempts at poetry. This was undertaken with a considerable degree of apprehension, as I acknowledge my obvious shortcomings in that particular area. However, at some stage a writer needs to be bold, crawl from under the bushel and expose himself to possible criticism. The risk is that the writer also exposes his inner self to public scrutiny. However, is that not what poets have always done?

A third blog is in the planning stages. This one will be a window for all those short stories which have either served their purpose or fallen by the wayside. It seems such a shame to leave them languishing in a filing draw.

In a short space of time, blogging has become an invaluable addition to my spectrum of writing and I would recommend it to any writer who is trying to develop their craft. In the meantime, my only regret is that visitors rarely feel encouraged to leave comments. It would be pleasing to receive constructive feedback or to spark off some thoughtful debate from time to time.

You may also be interested in following the link below to an earlier article where I explain why I write (Writer's Itch, January 2006), and possibly another article Success by Osmosis (January 2006) which explains why I have chosen this particular pseudonym.

Thought for the Day

Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.

George Orwell
Why I Write (1946)

Laughter through Adversity

The ability of people to be humorous when faced with enormous dangers is one of the most endearing characteristics of mankind.

For the past fourteen days, two miners have been trapped deep within the Beaconsfield Gold Mine in Tasmania following a rock fall on the 25th April, which killed one of their colleagues. Messers Russell and Webb, both in their thirties, have survived through the protection of a small steel cage.

Once rescuers had managed to bore a pipe through to their location, the men were asked what they would most appreciate being provided with. As quick as a flash, the reply came back from one: ‘a copy of the day’s newspaper so I can apply for a new job.’

Later on, one was heard to remark that he intended to claim a “living away from home allowance” for the time spent trapped underground.

Finally freed today, they were asked by reporters as to what was the first thing they were going to do. The reply: ‘put in an overtime claim.’

Who couldn’t but rejoice on hearing that they had been freed, after having shown such great fortitude and courage? They deserve every penny of the estimated £800,000 their story is going to bring them from newspaper, book and film rights.

Retreating from the Real World

Last week my wife and I went to the cinema to see The White Countess. For those who are yet to see it, then I strongly recommend the film. Indeed, I would quite happily sit through it again to catch some of the deeper nuances, which I may well have missed the first time around.

The White Countess was written as an original screenplay by the writer, Kazuo Ishiguro, whose previous film success was from the novel, Remains of the Day.

The story is about an American called Jackson, living in Shanghai during the late 1930s. He is an ex-diplomat who was blinded during a terrorist explosion in which he also lost his daughter. He builds a nightclub (called The White Countess) in which he hides away from the world outside. Various components of the nightclub make it a tightly controlled miniature of the world at large, all carefully managed by Jackson. The club revolves around his main hostess, the Countess Sofia, one of a family of impecunious Russian aristocrats who have fled their home country. The tension within the club is reflected by the inevitable, yet restrained and almost denied, romance that grows between Jackson and the Countess Sofia. Various other facets make the story an interesting cameo on the plight of refugees, both Russian and Jewish, as well as the tense relationship between the Chinese and the Japanese prior to the second Sino-Japanese War in 1937.

What intrigued me the most was the concept of building a world (in this case the nightclub) in which the architect hides away from reality, whilst the very world he has built continues to occupy its own place within reality. It struck me that many of us have similar defensive mechanisms by which we retreat from the real world. For me it is our home in the Yorkshire Dales. Some of our friends run away to the North York Moors, others to their boat. In each case, we carry with us only those elements we wish to be a part of our alternative lives. We leave behind all that causes us unrest, work or displeasure. No longer are we troubled by time, the imposition of deadlines, the need to make a living or to pay bills etc. We live a fantasy life albeit within a real world and on terms that do not make demands upon us. It is as though we take off the mantle of responsibility and concern when we step through our own version of C J Lewis’s wardrobe.

The White Countess is a splendid reflection of the need many of us feel in respect to controlling our environment and hiding from reality. By doing so, we remain sane and more capable of coping with the stresses of the real world. Perhaps it is true that, from time to time, we all need, in individualistic ways, our own personal Narnia.

Word of the Week – Solipsistic

Nothing gives me greater delight, when reading a book or article, than to come across a word that I not only do not know the meaning of, but also have never heard of before that moment. It is a momentous occasion. The discovery of a new treasure!

Today’s word is enunciated in a flowing manner, which, by itself, gives it an immediate appeal. Said slowly, it just rolls around the tongue, lips and mouth rather as an echo bounces off the walls of a valley. It could perhaps even be thought of a sensuous word.

I came across the word whilst reading an article in The Daily Telegraph on blogging (See the world though our bloggers’ eyes, April 28, 2006). The sentence ran thus: ‘They do not do so in solipsistic isolation’.

Cue the New Oxford Dictionary of English (NODE). According to this knowledgeable tome, in the form of a noun, solipsism is ‘the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist,’ or ‘the quality of being self-centred or selfish’. Solipsistic is the adjective, solipsistically the adverb. The word originates from the late 19th century, from the Latin solus (alone) and ipse (self).

Returning to the article, blogging is an isolated activity at source. However, the blogger knows that his work is to be potentially exposed to the entire world through the medium of the Internet. Thus, he does not blog in ‘solipsistic isolation’. Nicely put. I am very glad I read the article as the attainment of a new piece of knowledge tunes my psyche to a level of contentment for the rest of the day.

Initiating Change

Whilst speaking at a conference this weekend, I tried to paraphrase from memory a quotation from Machiavelli's work, The Prince. For the benefit of those who may have been at the same conference, the original quotation is given below. For those who were not present, you may still find it thought provoking and perhaps useful should you ever be tasked with initiating change:

‘…there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct , or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things. Because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new.’

The Driving Force Behind James Patterson

According to an article in The Daily Telegraph (Friday 28th April 2006) James Patterson is “the author of more new No 1 bestselling titles in the past five years than Dan Brown, J K Rowling, Tom Clancy and John Grisham put together”. His books allegedly earn him $40 million a year.

When the reporter, Cassandra Jardine, asked what drives him now, his reply was “a desire to provide for his family”.

All I can say is that, with $40 million per year, his family must be very demanding!

Postcard from Cumbria (1)

Sunday, 30th April 2006

I am standing on a path behind the northeast corner of the church of St Mary in Kirkby Lonsdale. In the mid 19th century, when the view before me was immortalised in words and watercolour, this part of the country was known as Westmorland, only much later to be amalgamated with Cumberland to form the county of Cumbria.

The scene I am visually and mentally absorbing was once described by John Ruskin, the artist, writer and thinker who lived from 1819 to 1900, as ‘one of the loveliest scenes in England and therefore, the world’.

Ruskin’s View, as it is now known, was captured in watercolour by the artist Turner early in the 19th century. The scene has changed very little since then. What we can now behold is that which first entranced both Turner and Ruskin. (As I stand here, I am amused by the passing thought that Freemasons would perhaps share with me a quiet satisfaction that something so perfect should be viewed from a vantage point looking towards the northeast.)

Below is a wide valley of meadowland through which a broad river, the River Lune, wends its way in a U-shaped curve. Above the pasture is a deep band of woodland, behind which, dry-stone walls climb the heather-clad slopes of the fells of Barbon. Cattle and sheep graze the hedged grasslands, flocks of birds feed at the water’s edge, and small farmsteads and old Halls dot the landscape. The various components of meadow, river, woodland and fell form a composition of perfect harmony, topped today, by sunshine, a blue sky and the occasional white cumulus cloud.

Simply standing there, with nothing but the sound of bird song and the chiming of the church bell to disturb the silence, I am left with an intense feeling of inner peace and contentment. It is impossible for me to imagine being more relaxed. Ruskin was correct; it is a scene of perfection.

* * *

Descending a long flight of steps enables the riverbank to be reached. From there, the most pleasant of riverside walks stretches to the Devil’s Bridge at the road junction to Kirkby Lonsdale. Large rocks allow one to sit and gaze in contemplative mood at the waterside scene, made even more pleasing by the presence, at this time of year, of Orange Tip butterflies.

I am aware that, beyond the Devil’s Bridge, a car boot sale is in progress, with hoards of cars and people. There they can stay. The real attraction is here amidst the solitude and beauty of nature. For me, this is the true value of being alive.

Lexicographic Seduction

Thou strong seducer, opportunity!
John Dryden
The Conquest of Granada (1670) pt. 2, act 4, sc. 3

I have, this very evening, been seduced. Not only that, the event has taken place in the presence of my wife and with her wholehearted assent.

It was a matter of lust at first sight. No other word can describe the shear, unadulterated desire that surged, like an electrifying pulse, through my entire being the very moment I gazed upon the countenance before me. Oh, how I longed to hold this most beautiful of creations in my hands; to caress the layers that clothed the delights within; to inhale the heady perfume that is common to all of this nature. As soon as I held the photograph in my hands, I knew this beautiful thing had to be made mine.

Thus, I ordered a copy of the Folio Society’s exact facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary and now await its arrival with eager anticipation.

Readers of the past postings on this blog will know the power that such books hold over me (see The Noble Sport of Book Hunting, February 2006). This one is an absolute treasure. If you have not been fortunate enough to be offered the chance to buy one of the limited edition of 1,000 copies, then let me take a few moments to describe it to you:

Containing the definitions of 40,000 words, along with examples (amounting to 120,000 quotations) of their usage, the Dictionary is in two volumes, measuring 16¼" x 10¼" with 1,164 pages to each. One third bound in calf leather, the spine has raised leather bands and gold-blocked titles on separate leather labels. An exquisite marbling adorns the paper edges and front and back boards. With the addition of two ribbon markers per volume, the completed works are encased in a buckram-bound box with scalloped edges and a volume divider. What a feast! Those who share the passions of the noble sport of book hunting will immediately know why I have been so readily seduced.

Dr Samuel Johnson wrote his Dictionary over a period of nine years, with the first edition being published in 1775. Even today, the Oxford English Dictionary contains definitions that were first suggested by Johnson. Some of his original work gives an insight to his personal beliefs and politics, as well as the attitudes of the day. Examples such as those that follow are particularly memorable:

Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland, supports the people.

Pension. An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England, it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.

Curtain-lecture. A reproof given by a wife to her husband in bed.

Nappiness. The quality of having a nap.

Tory. A cant term, derived, I suppose, from an Irish word signifying a savage.

At just under £600, the dictionary is not cheap. However, great works of art never are. Besides, someone must patronise such endeavours for the edification of future generations (making the assumption that these books will long outlive me). As I said to my wife, I feel I have a duty to my country to add this great work to our library!

The postman cannot arrive too soon.

Thought for the Day

Seen on a bookmark in a craft fair in Hawes, North Yorkshire:

Life is Short - Eat Your Pudding First.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (7)

Saturday, 29th April 2006

Haworth, home of two of the greatest of English novels, namely Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, sits amidst the area south of the Yorkshire Dales, known as the South Pennines. Internationally famous by virtue of the three Brontë sisters who, in the mid 19th Century, lived with their father in the Parsonage, it is also home of the famous Worth Valley Steam Railway, which featured in The Railway Children.

Above the village sits the wild expanse of Haworth Moor with its brooding rocky outcrop known as Ponden Kirk (Penistone Crag in Wuthering Heights), the ruins of the remote farmhouse, Top Withins (home of the Earnshaw family in Wuthering Heights), Brontë Bridge and Brontë Falls. Once a working area of quarries, the moor is now the playground of walkers, literary tourists and, within season, grouse-shooting parties.

This was my third visit to these moors, the first two occasions being in my late teens, some twenty-nine years ago. The changes are subtle, but noticeable. The most obvious is the increased number of visitors. My first pilgrimage across the moor to Top Withins was unaccompanied and with no other soul in sight for the entire journey from Haworth Parsonage. The path beyond Brontë Bridge to Top Withins was indistinct and I can well-remember needing to orientate myself with the aid of a map and compass, picking out the landmark of a solitary tree at the ruins of Top Withins with the aid of binoculars. Now, the paths are well trodden and, at times two, three or even four people in breadth. Way markers (complete with Japanese wording – we met one Japanese lady en route) have also sprung up in a profusion, which, although helpful to the new arrival, detracts from the beauty of the area as an imagined wilderness.

Despite these ravages of modern tourism, it is still possible to enjoy the rugged beauty of the moors and envisage the scenes, wind swept and rain-lashed, which were foremost in the mind of Emily Brontë when she placed her lovers, Cathy and Heathcliff, in their encounters out here.

An indirect walk to Top Withins involves climbing up through an area known as Ponden Clough. Covered with heather, it must be a wonderful sight later in the year when the heather is in flower. Two tumbling becks divide the Clough, providing the important source of water for the Ponden Reservoir at the base of the valley. Having reached the heights of Ponden Kirk, one is rewarded on a clear day (such as today) with a panoramic view of the reservoir and of moorland and hills, which simply stretch for mile upon mile in every direction.

A mile or so further on, Top Withins is the ruined remains of a remote farmhouse. Pausing for lunch, we sat on the broken walls and took time to ponder how harsh life must have been for those who once lived here some one hundred and fifty years ago. How alien today’s visitors would seem to them, not least of all with the occasional mobile telephone making an unwelcomed intrusion. Even the sheep are tame; with only the firm pressure of a walking boot holding them off from approaching close enough to steal the sandwiches!

Literature however, such as that written by the Brontës, is not about describing reality. It is about opening windows in the minds of the readers through which they are able to see an imagined world. Despite the imposition of the modern tourist, the world the Brontës drew from and extended within their own imaginations is still out there. All one needs to do is open those windows in our own imaginations. Contemporary intrusions instantly disappear and we can be transported back to a dark, storm-lashed moor and two desperate lovers. It is the ability to make that cerebral connection with the mind of an author, living one hundred and fifty years ago, which makes today’s journey worthwhile. However many centuries pass, Top Withins will, for the literary mind, forever be the formidable Wuthering Heights.

* * *

Postscript:

The walk back from Haworth passes through a small settlement called Stanbury. It is perhaps worth noting that Stanbury was the home of Timothy Feather, or ‘Owd Timmy’ as he was locally known. With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, the development of steam-powered mills within the West Riding of Yorkshire caused the demise of the old cottage industry of handloom weaving. However, undeterred, ‘Owd Timmy’ continued at his craft until his death, at the age of 85, in 1910.

St. John Ambulance: National News & Events

St. John Ambulance: National News & Events: "Thousands Treated by St. John Ambulance at London Marathon

St. John Ambulance treated a total of 4229 people at this weekend’s Flora London Marathon; 78 were transported to hospital for further treatment or examination and one person was successfully resuscitated. No fatalities have been reported.

Over 1,200 St. John Ambulance volunteers were on duty to provide First Aid support. Amongst other supplies, the UK's leading First Aid charity provided 51 ambulances, 45 treatment centres, 100 defibrillators, 5,000 foil blankets, 200 bottles of baby oil and 88 lbs of petroleum jelly.

'Our volunteers are trained and equipped to deal with everything from blisters to heart attacks,' said Seamus Kelly OBE, St. John Ambulance Commissioner London. 'We're confident that everyone who needed our assistance will have received the best possible care and wish them a swift recovery.'

The charity has provided First Aid cover at the Marathon since it started in 1981 and the vast majority of runners treated by St. John Ambulance go on to finish the race."

Thought for the Day

The following thought was sent to me anonymously:

Experience is something you don't get until just after you needed it.

Dedication Against All Odds

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.
Mid 19th Century Proverb.

Too often one hears phrases such as ‘if only I could …,’ ‘I wish I could…’ or ‘I would like to, but I can’t…’ as excuses for having not achieved something. Such dismissive platitudes are frequently poor attempts to justify someone’s failure to attain a certain level of success in a matter which, when analysed objectively, is well within their reach if they would only dedicate themselves to the task. The true reasons for such failure are more a lack of motivation combined with unwillingness to persevere once the going becomes difficult.

The more successful characters in life would no doubt attest to the idea that anything is possible if one is willing to pay the price to see it come true.

If ever there was an excellent example of how dedication and single-minded determination can bring about success, then it is the tale of the concert pianist, Janina Fialkowska, highlighted today by the journalist, Elizabeth Grice, in The Daily Telegraph.

At the age of fifty, Janina Fialkowska was diagnosed with cancer in her upper left arm. A combination of surgery and radiotherapy successfully treated the cancer. However, muscle loss and nerve damage left her with little movement of her left arm. Many people, presented with her diagnosis and disability, would simply have given up. However, two years later, following the re-routing of a muscle from her back, intensive physiotherapy and a focussed mind that would not accept defeat as an outcome, Fialkowska is again playing the piano at a professional level. This is despite a residual palsy, which prevents her from holding her arm sideways away from the body, or raising it above shoulder height.

If Fialkowska can once again play a repertoire including Grieg, Mozart, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt and Beethoven to a concert hall standard, then it should be an inspirational lesson to anyone who aspires to even a mere fraction of her talented skills.

As my early teachers used to preach, there is no such word as ‘can’t’. For many of the highly successful in life, the maxim is ‘failure is not an option.’ All one needs is determination to make a dream come true. All too frequently, our only obstacles or limitations are those we tend to set for ourselves.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (6)

Easter Day, 16th April 2006

What more could one ask for than blue skies and sunshine on Easter Day? Along, of course, with the ability to enjoy it all.

The centre for today’s chosen excursion was the charming village of Austwick, situated to the west of Settle. Known to locals as ‘Cuckoo Town’, in memory of folklore concerning the arrival of the cuckoo as heralding good weather, this ancient village sits amidst splendid limestone hills. The immediate area also has an impressive network of green lanes and it was along these that we made our walk.

The nearby hamlet of Wharfe, which was soon reached, has the advantage of being in an elevated position. From there, we were able to look down on the intricate pattern of dry stone walls, which are so characteristic of the Dales. Largely dating back to the Enclosure Acts, the walls have no easily recognisable plan, the result being fields of various sizes and shapes, delineated by the crazy geometry of the walls. In places, walls have been built into another field, only to rapidly turn and run back out again, thereby leaving a U-shaped field. One can almost hear the question being asked of the original waller:

‘Na’ then. Why didst tha do it like that, lad?’

‘Nobbut, jus t’mak it look pretty.’

‘Ah, that’s awlreet then.’

Cynical of me, perhaps. However, the result is pleasing to the eye.

Along with the walls, the sheep must rate as the second most associated feature of the area. At this time of year, they are well into the process of lambing. The bleating of the lambs makes for a noisy environment, albeit one that gives a pleasurable sense of well-being. On one occasion, three lambs bleating at different pitches, followed by the deeper bass-like sound of the parents, sounded rather like an ovine choir tuning in preparation for an open-air performance. That said, I couldn’t help but compare the sound of the lambs with the crying of human babies, thereby reflecting on my ready acceptance of the one (that of the lambs), compared to my innate desire to excuse myself from a noisy baby clinic as quickly as possible!

Such musings aside, the discovery, alongside a wall, of the dead carcass of a stillborn lamb, together with the fresh after-birth of another, vividly served to remind us that this is a harsh, working environment and not one that is sanitised for our leisurely enjoyment.

The bridleway to Wharfe is signposted to Crummack Dale, a name that is pleasing to the ear in a mildly amusing way. As we walked, my mind set to with a quick poem:

T’was in the village of Crummack Dale
Where old Tom lived beyond the pale.
‘He is far too old,’ said his wife,
‘To be riding that horse.’
But Tom took no notice
And fell off, of course.

(The Poet Laureate has no cause for concern.)

Every now and again, the green lanes cross small streams, one in particular by means of a clapper bridge; a popular construction in this area. The latter is a simple bridge consisting of stone slabs laid across a series of rocks or piles of stones.

At this time of year, within many of the streams, as well as in the banks alongside, are rows of Butterbur plants. With their broad leaves and clumps of violaceous (almost orchid-like) flowers, they are difficult to miss. The leaves can grow to thirty-six inches in diameter and were once used for wrapping butter; hence the name. The Middle Ages apparently saw an additional use for the roots. According to the herbalist, Culpeper, once powdered, they could be used to remove spots and skin blemishes.

Back at Austwick, the Game Cock Inn serves an excellent pint of Thwaites bitter, which gave us a marvellous excuse to sit outside and enjoy a little more of the much-welcomed April sunshine, whilst allowing the rest of the world to go by.

Rejoice in the Mid-Life Crisis

It happens to so many others that, having passed the age of forty several years ago and with no identifiable mental relapse in sight, I decided that it was time to manufacture my own mid-life crisis.

I didn’t want anything too drastic. Nothing which might lend my medical partners to think I was becoming unhinged and thus cause them to collectively secure my accommodation in the nearest psychiatric ward. Neither did I want to cause my long-suffering and devoted wife any further difficulty in trying to understand the nuances of my labyrinthine mind. No, I just wanted something that would send out a message advertising a slightly new me; a personal upgrade, so to speak: a relatively harmless, private revolution, which, nonetheless, would signify that there was still life and ambition in this particular individual.

Thus, it was that I did away with the side parting of my hair and stopped having the traditional short-back-and-sides that had been my wont for the past twenty-five years. Yes, I decided to let my hair grow long, or at least enough to sweep it back on top and the sides. For a former army officer, a mutinous act, if I have ever heard of one. However, for me, it was all the statement I needed to make to announce my ‘re-birth’ so to speak. Overall, it was quite exhilarating.

In his book, Untold Stories, Alan Bennett describes how at puberty his colleagues ‘abandoned their fringe’ and ‘put their hair back’, a process which required the endurance ‘of a few weeks of mockery whilst they looked like hedgehogs’. I can relate to that, as, on returning home from the hairdressers on that auspicious day of change, I was left with the overriding impression that I resembled Sonic the Hedgehog.

‘I’ll get used to it,’ said my wife in a resigned voice.

‘New hair style?’ said my senior partner, eyeing me for signs of madness.

‘Brisk wind outside?’ said two colleagues at the Lodge, both sporting wide grins.

‘Nice bouffant,’ remarked the Chairman of a local charity committee.

‘It’s my mid-life crisis,’ I proudly replied to them all. ‘Everyone else is having one, so I thought, why not me?’

The only patients who commented were ladies in their seventies, for whom it was the talking point for every visit to the surgery. Seemingly, from the nature of their comments, the new me had found favour there. So, that was it, my mid-life crisis had made me attractive to septuagenarians. Not quite the effect I had been looking for, but at least it was a positive result of sorts.

It was many weeks later that one of the receptionists greeted me with what can only be described as a cross between a bemused smirk and an evil grin.

‘I’ve just had a teenager come to the desk to make a follow-up appointment to see you,’ she said.

That is not an unusual occurrence in a medical practice, so I waited for the significant part of the statement. It was not long in coming.

‘She asked for “the cute one with the ‘tasche’”.’

So, what does that tell me? It seems that my mid-life crisis has ‘succeeded’ in making me the ‘darling’ of certain septuagenarians and appearing ‘sweet’ to the younger population. A sort of aged no-mans land. At least my wife has got used to the change; or at least I think she has. If not, then I foresee a real mid-life crisis looming on the horizon, and not one for rejoicing over, either!

Postcard from Lancashire (2)

Saturday, 15th April 2006

Lying a distance of ten miles south of Settle, in what used to be the old West Riding of Yorkshire but now residing within Lancashire, is Gisburn Forest.

Gisburn Forest is an immense area of woodland adjacent to the northern shore of Stocks Reservoir and is jointly run by the Forestry Commission and North West Water. Most of the forest is composed of conifer trees, maintained for commercial purposes. However, closer to the reservoir, large areas are now being cleared to allow for the replanting of mixed deciduous woodland.

Several car parks within the woodland allow access for picnickers, walkers and cyclists. However, they are not overcrowded, as there are no amenities of the type usually associated with touristy areas. The many paths and tracks leading off from the car parks also allow one to quickly escape and soon there is not another soul in sight.

Our route initially ran along the northern shore of the reservoir before climbing up into the woodland. The conifer trees make for dense woodland and there is little light filtering down within them. However, the tracks between the trees are broad and, today, were gloriously sunlit. The fact that they are often muddy is not surprising, since the whole area serves to drain the surrounding hills and supply the reservoir with a constant flow of water.

After about two miles, a grassy area adjacent to a fast flowing stream, rather quaintly known as Bottoms Beck, was reached. The temptation to pause and savour the area was too great and we spent an enjoyable half hour or so sitting on the bank of the stream, the enjoyment supplemented as always with a sandwich and a flask of tea.

It was here that we enjoyed hearing the loud laughing call of the Green Woodpecker, followed rapidly by some drumming on a nearby tree. That said, I do wonder whether the laughing call and the drumming came from the same bird, as, whilst the laughing call was definitely that of the Green Woodpecker, it is my understanding that it is the Spotted Woodpeckers that drum. Perhaps both were in evidence?

Bird life was certainly in abundance and our entire walk was accompanied by the constant singing of a variety of woodland birds high up in the treetops. Chaffinches were definitely about, as were various tits, pheasants, crows and, from the nearby farm known as Hesbert Hall, a cockerel. The fast flowing water of Bottoms Beck was an attraction for other bird life and, as we sat, we were treated to the sight of a dipper flying swiftly up stream.

Further on, we delighted to come across two Roe Deer. The smaller of our native deer, being only two feet tall, they are normally very timid. However, these were seemingly untroubled by our presence and continued feeding amidst the ferns and scrub, with just the occasional glance in our direction.

The final track back to the car park gave up one further surprise in the form of a Natterjack toad, which I would have unsuspectingly trodden on but for its sudden evasive leap at the last moment!

Overall, the area offers much enjoyment and a pleasant change from the harder landscape of the dales. I have no doubt that it will not be long before we return.

Abandoned Souls in a Sea of Life

It is a sad fact that living in a large town or city can be one of the loneliest of experiences. Despite the many thousands or millions of people, everyone goes about their life without a glance towards or thought for any other. The result is that some people become abandoned by default. Nobody sees that they are alone and lonely, that they may need a little help or just a kind word.

Such circumstances rarely occur in areas that are more rural, where there tends to be a greater awareness of one’s neighbour and a heightened ability to know if all is not well.

The blight, which affects cities, was vividly demonstrated these past two days by successive reports of two deaths.

In the first, a forty-year-old woman was discovered in her flat in north London, some two years after her death. It is though that she died around Christmas of 2003. However, she remained undiscovered until January 2005.

The second report was of a fifty-two year old woman in Liskeard, Cornwall, who was found in her flat some three years after her death.

What is so sad, apart from the circumstances of their death and the delay in finding their remains, is that evidently nobody cared about them in life. There were no relatives who kept in constant touch, no friends who missed their contact, no neighbours who were close enough to know their routine and thereby ask questions when circumstances changed. They were alone in the world and nobody cared. Thus, they died, abandoned.

Easter is a time of Christian celebration of life. Let us use the messages of Christianity to look around and see who, of our own neighbours, is reaching out for our friendship and care. Let it be our responsibility to ensure that they do not become just another abandoned soul amidst a sea of life.

Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (5)

Good Friday, 14th April 2006

The pub at Tan Hill sits in isolation, like Noah’s Ark amidst a sea of heather and grass moorland. The simile is apt. Often in pairs, weary walkers, straight off the Pennine Way, pass through the pub’s doors looking for warmth, sustenance and more often than not, simply shelter from what is a bleak and potentially hostile environment.

Situated at 1,732 feet above sea level, The Tan Hill Inn is the highest pub in the British Isles. If reaching it on foot means traversing miles of rough and boggy landscape, then the journey by car is only fractionally easier. All road routes are tortuous and, in winter, often impassable except by tracked vehicles. (The pub has two bobcat type tractors with trailers).

This was to be our second visit, the first being almost three years ago to the day. On the 19th April 2003, the weather was far worse than the brisk wind and cloud studded blue sky of today. On that previous occasion, it was bitterly cold, with a gale force wind and heavy-laden skies. Snow still sat in vast patches, lending credence to the claim that winter often lasts for six months up here. The decision to re-visit this outpost today was a happy coincidence as far as the precise date was concerned, being chosen more to allow us to escape the convoys of tourists flocking to the more popular honey pots on this Good Friday holiday.

Our chosen route from the southern dales was the most scenic rather than the most direct. It began with a drive northwards through Wharfedale. This dale never ceases to please the eye and must rank as one of the most attractive dales in North Yorkshire; it is certainly one of my favourites. I often dream of owning a property set on the southern slopes of the dale, where I can sit in the early evenings with a malt whisky and watch the last of the day’s light gradually close down the dale for the night.

At the meeting of Wharfedale with Langstrothdale, just past the village of Buckden, the slightly more rugged country of Bishopdale is entered. This also means leaving behind the last of the visiting traffic and we soon had the road to ourselves, allowing for a leisurely ascent and enjoyment of the many waterfalls tumbling off the limestone escarpments.

At West Burton, a most scenic village set around a large central green, surrounded by hills and complete with everything the perfect village ought to have, we turned towards Aysgarth and drove past the series of falls there. At this time of year the latter are simply awesome, with vast quantities of water crashing over the rocky platforms. The spray bounces several feet into the air, forming a curtain of mist amidst a deafening roar of white water.

Beyond Aysgarth, we headed up to Castle Bolton. Built in the reign of Richard II, the castle was once a Royalist stronghold and in 1568, Mary Queen of Scots was kept there for six months. From the Castle to Reeth, where the truly picturesque Arkengarthdale commences. This finally delivered us to Tan Hill where the isolation of the area is immediately emphasised by a demonstration of dry Yorkshire wit. For, on crossing a cattle grid on the approach to the Inn, one is cautioned by a yellow sign announcing that this is a neighbourhood watch area!

At Tan Hill, there is really no restriction to where one walks. The moorland extends in every direction for as far as the eye can see, with no trees to break its starkness. Apart from the occasional isolated stone barn and the sheep, which are to be found in small flocks scattered over the hills, the area is otherwise deserted. Most people arriving by car stroll along sections of the Pennine Way, as that avoids the danger of the many old mine shafts, now water filled, which are liberally scattered around the area.

We chose a four-mile circular route, making part use of the Pennine Way towards the south and a small B-road back up to the Inn. The route allowed us to marvel at the richness of the land, as in places where water has dug deep channels, the peat can be seen to extend to some four or five feet in depth. In some of the watercourses, Common toads were in evidence, both in body and with their spawn in frequent clumps along the freshwater streams.

A humped-backed bridge, across a small river halfway around the walk, presented an ideal opportunity to shelter from the wind and take refreshments. Even on short walks, it is important to take time to savour one’s surroundings. As the Welsh poet, W H Davies said:

‘What is this life if, full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?’

What better way than over a cup of tea and a sandwich?

* * *

With its yard-thick stonewalls, roaring coal fire, home-cooked food and best Yorkshire bitters, the The Tan Hill Inn is an excellent place to rest from the elements outside. A blackboard beside the entrance warns ‘Beware of the Landlady – she’s a nutter.’ Inside, the truth of this announcement rapidly gains credence as the landlady introduces everyone to a small brown dog (which looks like a cross between a dachshund and a terrier) accompanied by a blue-collared, orphaned lamb called Tan. The latter is evidently not house-trained. However, the landlady quickly attends to the problem, afterwards giving the carpet a liberal spraying from a bottle labelled ‘oven-cleaner’. Winter must cause strange things to happen to the mind at this altitude.

After suitable fortification, the route home is the slightly shorter way across Stonesdale Moor to Keld and Thwaite. The descent is often greater than 1:5 and the road less than four metres wide, which lends to a fun drive. We stopped several times en route to watch from a distance whilst a farmer and his dogs shepherded a flock of sheep down the road to new pastures. (He has a hard enough job on his hands without us causing his sheep to scatter onto the surrounding fell sides. Consideration for those who have to work this land must be paramount in such rural areas.) Finally, we dropped down to Hawes (now packed with tourists) and escaped west to Ribblesdale, where the viaduct acts as another crowded hotspot. As we passed each one, we reminisced about our previous ascents of the three peaks, Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen Y Ghent, the summits of all three being clearly visible on this wonderfully clear day.

Ultimately, we reached Settle and from there, it was but a short drive to our home village and tea with hot-cross buns.

Beware the Common Cold

I now have undeniable evidence which confirms that which every man has known for decades and, quite possibly, for centuries. I speak of the dangerous effects of the common cold.

Women are always quick to scorn when their men folk succumb to the onslaught of this insidious disease. ‘He has only got a cold,’ they will say. ‘Slightest sign of a sniffle and he thinks he is dying,’ they relate to their female friends with a degree of disdain for their (supposed) loved one.

To my male readership: I must plead with you to take no notice of such derision. The common cold is dangerous and we ignore it at our peril. Let me explain further.

One week ago, I had the grave misfortune to develop a sore throat. Within the course of a day, it progressed to all the usual symptoms of fever, sinusitis, headache, cough and general malaise. As usual, in true manly fashion, I dosed myself with paracetamol, staggered to work and kept the shoulder to the wheel for the entire week. By the weekend, I was feeling considerably improved and there the story would end if I had not then developed conjunctivitis.

It wasn’t obvious at first. The eyes were a little sore and tired, no doubt due to the added strain of working throughout the week when so patently unwell, I mused. However, by this morning it was clear that it was more than just that and I would have to start the antibiotic drops.

It was then that the real danger loomed – and hence the proof of my theory. You see, if I hadn’t succumbed to the common cold I would not have developed conjunctivitis. If I hadn’t developed conjunctivitis I would not have tried to cut my left ear off whilst shaving. Proof enough, if ever it was needed.

What at first seemed like the tiniest of cuts, turned out to be a shaven earlobe. Minus skin, such wounds do not stop bleeding very easily, as I found out despite the application of firm pressure and a trial of styptic pencil. In the end there was nothing for it. I spent the day with a plaster firmly adherent to my ear.

Now, people vary in their response to such situations. Most patients gave nothing more than a mild smirk and then tried to pretend that they hadn’t noticed. My medical partners were slightly more forthcoming with ‘are you wearing an earring?’ and 'Van Gogh was depressed when he did that; do you need to see a psychiatrist?' to simply stating the obvious such as ‘you have got a plaster on you ear!’

It was one’s so called loved ones who were the cruellest. ‘I haven’t been able to stop laughing all day,’ related my wife on my return home this evening. Then, when I said that I hadn’t heard something, as quick as a flash she was back with ‘I am not surprised – you have only got one ear! I’ll have to start calling you Vincent!’

Even my mother, having heard the jungle drums, got in on the act with a mid-morning text message asking ‘Do you need me to donate a pint of blood?’ and ‘Have you got a self-portrait?’

I shall take no notice. To every man I say, beware the common cold and what it can lead to. My advice is to take the week off work and break out the port and brandy. Oh, and best grow a beard until you are absolutely sure that the danger has passed.

As for me, I have this sudden urge to go and paint some sunflowers…

Win the Lottery and Save a Life

It gives me great pleasure to help in the promotion of a new lottery partnership for St. John Ambulance.

St. John Ambulance will be one of 70 charity partners to benefit from a brand new online lottery, to be launched in May 2006, which is fairer for players and charities alike.

How does it work?

• Set up in partnership with Chariot (UK) plc, the new lottery hopes to raise over £150 million for UK charities each year.
• Charities will get 30% of every ticket sold: more than five times what they get from every National Lottery ticket.
• Players benefit with increased chances of winning a jackpot and better prizes for matching fewer numbers.
• Chariot will be running the lotteries and selling the lottery tickets.
• St. John Ambulance will have five lotteries a year with the potential to earn up to £600,000 from each lottery.
• You'll soon be seeing lots of promotions for the new lottery everywhere, including TV, Radio and the Press.
• When buying a ticket, participants will be asked to choose which of the five listed charities each week they would like to 'donate' 30p of their ticket cost.
• The first St John Ambulance lottery draw will be taking place on Monday 22nd May, with the opportunity to vote for St. John Ambulance during the week of 16th - 22nd May 2006.

It could potentially raise up to £3million for St. John Ambulance each year. Please help us to make it a success.

For more information go to:
http://www.sja.org.uk/default.asp

Reality – Illusion or Delusion?

Last evening my wife and I had the great pleasure of attending, at the University of Hull, the Annual Dinner of the Hull Magicians’ Circle. We were the guests of a long-standing member and former Vice President of the Hull Circle known, within his own profession rather than mine, as Nutty Norman (see http://www.nuttynorman.co.uk/).

Before dinner, we were entertained by a 1950’s sideshow known as ‘Miss Phitt – The Living Half-Lady’. Miss Phitt is the apparent upper torso of a living lady who has supposedly been cut in half. Visually convincing it was, too. The after dinner entertainment was provided by extremely talented magicians who performed some fascinating feats of illusion.

Now, I have never been a great fan of magic, although I find myself increasingly taking interest and even some delight in acts of illusion performed well. My wife, on the other hand, confesses to always having been entertained by such trickery. However, having witnessed some very clever showmanship last night, I have not only warmed to its entertainment value, but have been led to ponder the relative meanings of reality, illusion and delusion.

Reality is, of course, that which most of us understand to be the way things are. Illusion on the other hand is a false or deceptive appearance. The problem comes with delusion, i.e. when one starts to believe as reality that which is truly an illusion.

It is interesting to consider that Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955) would consider the majority of us as being deluded in respect to what we perceive as reality. Most of us have some knowledge of the past, understand the concept of the present and sense that intangible state called the future. We draw connections from events of the past, using them to explain the present state of things and to predict the events of the future. However, according to Einstein:

‘The distinction between past, present and future is only an illusion, however persistent.’
Letter to Michelangelo Besso, 21 March 1955

Furthermore, philosophers would not only undermine our entire chronological timeframe, but lend arguments to unhinge what, for a great many, is the last bastion of retreat, comfort and solace. By that, I refer to religion:

‘If we take in our hand any volume; of divinity or school of metaphysics, for instance; let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or number? No. Does it contain any experimental reasoning, concerning matter of fact and existence? No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion.’
David Hume 1711 – 76
Scottish Philosopher
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1748) sect. 12, pt. 3

What then, when we are confronted by performances such as those witnessed last night, whereby our understanding of reality lends us to consider the performances as being illusionary. If we are, according to Einstein, deluded by what we consider to be reality, how do we know an illusion when we see one?

Joni Mitchell, Canadian singer and songwriter (1945 - ) summed it up very well in her 1967 song, Both Sides Now:

‘I’ve looked at life from both sides now,
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall;
I really don’t know life at all.’

Perhaps what stands as reality is actually different for us all. Maybe reality is an individual’s acceptance of a set of illusions. As long as a significant number of the population share a belief in the same illusions we thus avoid the accusation of being deluded.

By making us question the very basis of our understanding of what we perceive, maybe these magicians know a lot more than just a trick or two?

Vita Brevis

It always fascinates me to see how people discern time.

For some, it means nothing. They amble along from day to day without thought to what the time actually is or how they are utilising it. Others rush from one matter to another, constantly checking their watches as though some great disaster is looming. For us all, I suppose that big disaster is actually death, although not everyone sees it in the same way.

I confess to being a mixture of both. During the week, I am driven by the clock – time to start surgeries, time for visits, time for meetings, etc. At weekends, I am very different. On a Friday afternoon my watch is taken off and does not resume its place on my wrist until Monday morning. I spend the weekend semi-oblivious to the precise time of day.

That said, I do not like to waste time. Not even at weekends. I am very conscious of the finite amount of time we have in life. I am driven by an urge to make every minute count for something, even if it is by relaxing with a good book. Rudyard Kipling’s If comes to mind:

‘If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run…’

For me, the need is to ensure that I do everything I wish to do here and now. After all, although I hope to live healthily into my eighties or even my nineties, there was no guarantee of longevity issued when the stork delivered me. I am constantly reminded through my work as a physician that death has a nasty habit of creeping up on people of all ages when they are least suspecting it. I am uncertain as to who first wrote the following lines, but I came across them in The Dead Poets Society:

‘I do not wish to find, when I come to die
That I have not lived.’

As I said at the start of this piece, not everyone sees the subject in the same way. Take, for example, a lady I was treating during the last week. She is a lady in her late fifties who suffers from nothing more than a few trivial complaints. She happened to remark on the number of different activities I am involved with and questioned how I find the time. I remarked that I take the view that life is short and that one must make the most of it whilst one may. Her response was immediate:

“Oh, how can you say it is too short? I think it is far too long. I don’t think we ought to live beyond forty.”

The lady in question has no suicidal tendencies. Neither is she suffering from a serious illness. She simply has (and has had) no interest in what life can offer. My response was along the lines that if I had the good fortune to be able to extend my life by another lifetime, I would only then achieve about half of what I would really like to do. This led me to think that it would be nice to be able to purchase ‘extra years’ from those who felt they had surplus available!

The final word goes to Hippocrates (a Greek physician, c.460 – 357 BC) who said:

‘Time is that wherein there is opportunity, and opportunity is that wherein there is no great time.’

Regulating Bath Water Temperature

Last week I was vehemently against any statutory regulation of our bath water temperature (Daily Telegraph News, March 30th). Now I am unreservedly supportive of Labour MP Mary Creagh’s campaign.

A few days ago, I treated a one-year-old girl for severe scalding, she having fallen into a bath of very hot water. Only her head has been spared. At best, she will need skin grafts and be extensively scarred; at worst, she will die.

Unfortunately, allowing natural selection to take place and thus improve our gene pool, as suggested by Jonathan Phillips (Daily Telegraph Letters, 31st March), does not select out the immediate problem, i.e. the parents. Meanwhile, the innocent have to endure unspeakable suffering.

Finding Oneself

I have been commissioned to write another book review. This time it is The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. (No, the spelling of the title is not a mistake; the book is American.) At the start of the book is a poem that brought me up short as soon as I read it. It struck such an accord that I have returned to it repeatedly over the past forty-eight hours. It is as though someone has written a poem to describe precisely what has happened to me over the past few years.

From about the age of twenty-five, when I qualified in medicine, I started to lead a life which was almost singular in its pursuit. For most of the time, I was engaged in developing my professional career and enhancing my business opportunities. I went from one goal to another, establishing myself within various societies and charities, achieving a comfortable level of financial existence and gaining various offices, which gave me rank and position within society.

At the age of forty, I began, as many do at that age, to reassess where I was, what I had achieved and where I was going for the rest of my life. I began to realise that I had, for some fifteen years, pushed a major part of myself to one side in order to achieve what I had. In essence, it was the artistic and philosophical side of me; the side that guided me through the more spiritual days of my teens and early twenties. As a result, I found myself looking at my reflection within mirrors and asking myself rhetorical questions. As I did so, I enjoyed what I found. I began to make changes which slowly allowed the ‘old me’ to re-surface. I started to make more time for activities that gave personal pleasure. It was like a re-awakening, as though I had suddenly been given permission to once again be my true self. Six years on, the process continues and I have to say that, at this period of my life, I could not be happier or more contented.

The poem at the beginning of The Time Traveler’s Wife is entitled Love After Love. It is by Derek Walcott, who won the Noble Prize for Literature. Love After Love comes from his 1976 collection entitled Sea Grapes and can be found in his Collected Poems 1948 – 1984, published by Faber & Faber.

It is a poem about the discovery of oneself. It begins:

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door…

That time has come for me and I have indeed greeted the arrival home of myself.

I recommend the poem to you. It can be found in its entirety at: www.sbc.edu/seminars/walcott.html

Friday's Fascinating Fact

Men who live in the United Kingdom and share the same surname have a 1:4 chance of being blood relatives.