Paka

I have just wandered down to the beach, as one does, in order to investigate the possibility of a nice cool drink in the evening sun.

The cool drink, in the form of a large mug of iced lime tea, was forthcoming at the princely sum of 30p (50cUS) but the evening sun was not.

After several days of glorious brightness from the heavens the late afternoon, when I chose to forego writing training reports in my hotel room, greeted me with grey clouds.

Still, it was cool. It was pleasant. It was exhausting.

I am not now accustomed to walking so far. The distance must have been well over two hundred metres of exacting conditions—sand and such, that would sap the energy of the fittest person.

It may have come to your attention by now that the words ‘fit’ and ‘Leyman’ are uneasy bedfellows.

However, let it not be said that rigorous conditions such as these will deter an ardent explorer of strange and exotic places such as I.

At one point I even stopped en route, as they say, to take a photograph of some flowers growing in the sand. Thus the flowers are recorded for posterity. There are, I suspect, unkind persons out there who may suggest that I also stopped to gasp for breath but this is not the case.

This is a long, sandy beach. It is fringed partially with Coconut Palms and also some odd-looking trees whose roots begin up near the top and cascade out to dig into the sand away from the main trunk.

The World is full of peculiar things if we stop and look for them.

Those flowers, for example. They, too, are growing on sand. What nutrients could they possibly get from well-washed sand? Yet they thrive and flower.

Why do they flower? I observed no insects near them but maybe there are insect at other times of day. There also appeared to be no seeds. So why have flowers?

I feel I should talk in hushed tones, thus pretending to be David Attenborough.

The sea is calm. There is only the slightest ruffling of the surface and almost no surf. It is, possibly, the most surfless sea I have ever witnessed. Is it the lull before the storm? Are we about to be inundated with a tropical downpour that will threaten to sweep the hotel and all of us hapless patrons out to sea?

Unlikely, but I am donning my waterproof underwear just in case. No point in being unprepared, is there?

And so back to the room. There is work to be done. Preparation for tomorrow’s class. It will not teach itself and, sadly, it is yet to become an automatic function.

Perhaps there will come a day when I can imagine my lesson in some sort of helmet that the students can then fit on their heads and absorb the information directly into the brain.

Maybe this is not so farfetched. We already have speech recognition although they have yet to build a software programme that recognises my particular speech patterns!

Perhaps it will not be too far into the future when they build something that will convert brainwaves into usable communication devices.

Of course this will need to be used with considerable care; reading some people’s comments on ‘Facebook’ may invoke some sort of unwarranted mental exclamation that may get printed before you have a chance to amend the comment.

On balance it may be better to stick to the keyboard even if some commentators on ‘Facebook’ would benefit from the improved English that an automatic system might provide.

That brings me to my final thought.

I have been called a ‘Grammar Nazi’. That’s good. I regard that as a compliment. If people mangle the English language then they deserve a pat on the back of the head with a large volume of ‘The Concise Oxford Dictionary’ travelling at pace.

But.

Does this happen with other languages?

Do the Germans have ‘Grammar Nazis’, for example—although, in all conscience, they could probably benefit from an alternative name!

What about Chinese? One wonders if you get the characters in the wrong sequence have you changed a political comment into an order for shark fin soup?

Peculiarities abound. You just have to look.

Far Away and Far Ahead

This is a faraway place. It is far away from my home and from my family. It is that second part that is worse for me.

It is not ‘far away’ in terms of huge distances but it is too far to go home each evening; thus I am deposited in a hotel.

The hotel is adequate. If I am to be fair I will say that it is more than adequate. The food is excellent, the rooms are clean and the bed is comfortable. The TV coverage is a little sparse but that is, probably, only to be expected of hotel TV’s.

There is internet but it is so slow that the computer tells me that I am not connected to it or that the server for the page I want is ‘not responding’!

The staff tell me that if I go to the café there will be better access to the internet. Possibly there is but the café has a buffet in the evenings. I have seen it. It is magnificent.

There is a danger that I should overeat if I go there and then not be able to sleep at night.

Then I should, very likely, become even fatter.

The doctor, who is a really lovely man for whom I have the greatest respect, told me that there are certain foods I should, at my age, avoid.

It seems to me that the foods to be avoided are all those dishes that one eats in total enjoyment.

You will be familiar with that feeling of pleasure and contentment when certain choice morsels cross your lips and hit the tongue.

Malaysia, where I live, is full to the brim with such wonderful tastes.

Doctor tells me not to eat them. They are, he says, if not actually inimical to my health then dangerous to a high degree.

What is left?

The tasteless, the bland, the pap. That is what remains.

What to do? Spend the rest of my, now lengthened, life in misery watching others masticate the choicest morsels while I eat gruel and porridge? Not, I add quickly, that there is anything wrong with either gruel or porridge cooked correctly; but, taken as a sole diet after sampling the treats on display they could get somewhat boring.

The alternative?

Eat everything and live a shorter life that is full of joy and pleasure.

The doctor and I have now come, I do believe, to some sort of agreement. The root of it is that I shall eat what I like and then, should I become ill, he will fix it.

He gets paid for this so we will both be happy.

Failing that I shall be dead but, then, we all have to go at some point—nobody, as they say, gets out of this alive!

One wonders how this thought will extend into the future. There is a loud calling for people to eat more vegetables. Perhaps this is to the extent of eating exclusively vegetation. The thinking seems to be that growing plants is a more efficient method of using the available land than using animals to process the plants into meat.

Will our space pilots of the future be exploring the wide black yonder on a diet of rice, maize, alfalfa and soybean? Perhaps they will, after a time, phase out the pseudo-meat flavoured soya products and make pretend broccoli instead.

Were does it end. No more fried eggs for breakfast? If there’s no veal and no beef from whence do we get our milk? Soya milk is very nice but it gives me terrible gas!

It is said that there is not much that is worse than a fart in a spacesuit! Can you imagine a ship with a soya fed crew?

 Hopefully there will also be no smokers, “Don’t light that…”

Grandfather's Chest

I have been away for a while due to pressure of work from several directions.

Sorry about that.

While I was away this song came to mind. I have no idea why, but it did.

“Oh, Soldier, Soldier won’t you marry me

With your musket, fife and drum.

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannae marry you

For I have nae blouse tae put on.

So, off she went,

To her Grandfather’s chest

And she bought him a blouse of the very, very best.

And the soldier put it on.”

Her ‘Grandfather’s chest’, eh?

Let’s have a look at that.

chest (n.)

Old English cest "box, coffer, casket," from Proto-Germanic *kista (cf. Old Norse and Old High German kista, Old Frisian, Middle Dutch, German kiste, Dutch kist), an early borrowing from Latin cista "chest, box," from Greek kiste "a box, basket," from PIE (Proto-Indo-European) *kista "woven container." Meaning extended to "thorax" 1520s, replacing breast (n.), on the metaphor of the ribs as a box for the organs. Chest of drawers is from 1590s.

Now we know what a ‘chest’ is what is the relevance to her ‘Grandfather’s chest’?

Years ago, in the olden days when steam trains were still lighting their fires, the master of the house kept all the money.

The master was, in all probability, Grandad.

There were no banks to speak of for the middle class or poor people. When a domestic servant was paid sixpence a month for their labour the employer would hold the money in care. This was because the poor person could not be trusted with large amounts all in one go.

Some time ago I read a book about the local master, a Laird, of a region in Scotland the centre of which is called Kirriemuir. There were notations of his accounts in places so that we could now see what he spent and on what he spent it.

Travelling, for instance.

He was inclined, at times, to go to Edinburgh. This is no great distance by our standards but, then, it was a considerable journey that required a lot of planning.

He would start the journey by walking nearly twenty miles on foot. There was no point in taking the horse because he would have to pay for its upkeep for several days while he was away.

Once in Dundee he would then take the ferry to the far side of the River Tay at Newport-on-Tay where he would obtain lodgings for the night.

The next day he would catch the post coach South to North Queensferry where he would take lodgings again for the night until, the next morning, he might get a ferry over to Queensferry and then another coach into the city.

The total cost of this trip would be in the order of £2=50d. Then, of course, he would have to pay the same to get home when he had finished his business.

Compare this with the servant getting 6d a month. He was quite lavish when it came to travelling.

He was, incidentally, caught up in the political riots in Dundee at the end of the 1800’s but that, as they say, is another story.

With no banks available to ordinary people the only recourse was to keep the money in a lockable container – known as the ‘Chest’.

Even now we speak of ‘War Chest’ especially when it comes to elections!

If you hear the song now you will understand that she didn’t get the clothing from her ‘Grandfather’s Chest’ but she got the money from the chest and then went off and bought the clothes.

Sometimes I wonder if we should not still keep our money in a secure box!

Newspaper Padding

Don’t you ever become tired of newspaper reporters ‘padding’ their articles?

Quite apart from the bias shown in most stories there is also, very often a complete lack of any ‘credible evidence’ that the journalist’s stories are actually true.

This is in spite (or because?) of the fact that they went to a special school and did special courses to instil the virtues of journalism into them. Perhaps the vices were installed more than the virtues.

In some countries—no names no pack drill, as they say, the journalist’s endeavours are swayed by the ‘powers that be’; thus they report what the controlling body requires them to report rather than actual truth. The threat is, of course, that the reporter can lose considerably in life and the media outlet, whatever it is, can lose their licence to broadcast or print.

Let’s have a look at the ‘padding’ that goes on.

This was printed in 'The Globe':

“Cynthia Small, 33, a mother of two from Dyke’s Cross, was assaulted in Manor Gardens on her way home from crochet class last night.

She was treated in Carrickmoor Hospital but released after a couple of hours into the care of her husband, Michael, 45, who was taken to the hospital by police.

The police are following several leads and have warned Mr. Small against taking the law into his own hands.”

The news story:

“Last night, Mrs. Cynthia Small was assaulted in Manor Gardens by an unknown assailant.

She was treated in hospital then released into the care of her husband, Michael.

Police are investigating.”

The condensed version removes her home location and their ages since both are irrelevant to the story. There are other details, which are also irrelevant, and so we reduce the story down to the actual, known, facts of the situation.

The real story:

“Last night, around nine pm, Mrs. Cynthia Small was viciously assaulted by a, so far unnamed, thug in Manor Gardens—a location known locally as a hot spot for dealing in drugs.

Mrs. Small, who has two small children from disparate fathers, has been known to procure drugs from several sources in Manor Gardens, particularly from ‘Manny the Turk’. This drug dealer has been known to assault purchasers for non-payment of debts but has yet to be arrested on the grounds that there has been no evidence to support a conviction.

The Carrickmoor Hospital were conscientious in their duty to contact the reporter of this newspaper immediately upon Mrs. Small being admitted; the police were kind enough to wait until the reporter had completed their interview with the victim.

The husband of the victim, Michael Small, was brought to see his wife by the police. He remarked to the reporter that he would find the (person) who did this to his lovely wife and bury the (person).

The police then cautioned Mr. Small to beware of taking the law into his own hands as the assailant was, very likely, an illegal immigrant who would have considerable legal and financial power available making a charge difficult.

Following a brief statement from Mrs. Small, the police went in search of the possible culprit to warn him that he could be in personal physical danger from the victim’s husband. Mr. Small has served several years in prison for assault occasioning actual bodily harm.

The Chief Constable informed the media in a prepared statement that there was little evidence as to the perpetrator of this assault; the deployment of personnel on this case was not in the best interests of the public or the best use of the police budget. An arrest is unlikely to be made in the near future.

Mrs. Small was released from hospital against the advice of doctors but following the advice of her husband. She was last seen folding her wheelchair and putting it into the back of a Mercedes estate car and asking her husband if he had brought the insurance forms.”

Padded, condensed or factual.

Take your pick. It’s the same story.

Understanding and Apples

As a small child we were, and I am sure this applies to us all, told by our parents that we ‘should understand when we are older’.

Things that were mysterious then should, magically, reveal themselves to us at some key point in our lives.

We wait, apprehensively, for that dazzling moment when all will be revealed.

Nothing.

There was never a moment of radiance in my life when the puzzlement I felt as a small person was erased by some all-embracing burst of knowledge.

In a small lane near our house there lived an elderly lady. She was a delight. One day, as we were coming up from the school, she was leaning on her gate watching us approach.

When we drew level she sighed deeply and, to no specific person, said gently, “Nobody goes scrumping any more. How times have changed.”

She stood up as straight as she could get and went into her house.

I should explain. ‘Scrumping’ is a word that denotes the collecting of apples (specifically wind-blown/fallen) and making off with them under one’s woolly or hat; these apples collected illicitly, of course, from another person’s orchard.

The lady had a few trees in her back garden.

That evening some of us crept through her hedge, I remember lots of Fuschias, and stole a few bags of apples from her trees. From the corner of my eye I thought I saw a face with a smile on it at the kitchen window but that could have been my imagination.

This story is only setting the scene—it has no relevance to the main theme. I thought I should explain that in case you were getting a little mystified by my digression!

Some time later, still a youngster, I asked her if she was an ‘old maid’. At that stage in my life I had no idea what it meant but had heard the term used by senior members of the family.

“No, Dear,” she informed me quite proudly, “I’m a spinster.”

I thanked her for the information and moved on. Physically and in life.

It was many years before I realised what it was that she meant by that. Now I, too, can smile.

The difference between ‘spinster’ and ‘old maid’ is one of those secret things that small people are not to know. It will be revealed to them later.

I am now tottering on the edge of the grave, as they say, with one foot (potentially) in it.

Still there are things that are unknown to me but that were, clearly, understood by those around me when I was small.

No doubt you have the same thoughts. Perhaps it is that you, too, have deep mysteries lurking in the depths of your mind that await the coming of ‘The Light’.

Of course, there are some mysteries that are resolved. But all these answers are found one at a time; little dribbles of information that creep into our heads at some, now forgotten, point in our past.

I don’t want that. I am too old to wait any more.

I want a blinding flash of some non-theological inspiration that tells me everything I ever wanted to know about life and ‘what people meant when they said...’!

I want to know why a dog will stick its head out of a car window at thirty miles and hour and get obvious delight from it but it gets angry when you blow in its face.

Lack of Civilisation

It seems I must apologise so apologies proffered and, hopefully, accepted.

Someone took exception to the idea of “Dogsh** Aftershave”. I wasn’t quite clear on whether the problem was with the terminology or if it was just the imagery conjured up in the mind by the juxtaposition of the two words.

Having used the phrase again in the apology I suppose I shall be taken to task once more; I am looking askance at the person objecting, textually and not literally of course, to see if there is an alternative form of apology that might exclude the re-use of the offending phrase.

My friend Jim will know. He is good at receiving apologies; people do tend to beg his forgiveness when they are, clearly, in the wrong. Jim has a very convincing way of explaining to people that they should, if not actually grovel, then at least kneel...

We often think as one, he and I.

Not that I should advocate violence. Not in public, anyway.

However...

I have just read yet another horrifying story that, to me, screams out for the deployment of some radical thinking in terms of criminal punishment.

A four-year-old girl has just died as a result of being raped.

Unpleasant thought, isn’t it? Not the sort of thing one wants to read about on a sunny afternoon when cruising down a shiny river with a flask of iced lemonade and a hamper of cucumber sandwiches and cold roast chicken drumsticks.

I suspect it was even more unpleasant for her.

Yes, yes, we have covered this subject before—at length, indeed.

But it continues. It is utterly reprehensible and yet it goes on.

Why?

Because the political will to do something is not there.

Let’s think about India, for example.

Many of my friends are Indian or their ancestors came from India at some point. They are nice people, good people, intelligent people. They are the sort of people that seem to make great doctors and computer scientists. These are people who care, deeply, for others.

And yet...

When India is described as the oldest civilisation in the World I have to take a pace back and squint a little bit at the words used.

‘Civilised’? Is it?

The British, hated though they were, kept ‘Widow Burning’ down to near zero (as far as we could tell). The Great Raj was an oppression of the Indians; they were happy to release the yoke of British domination.

The moment that the British left India ‘Widow Burning’ started up again. The very moment.

Honour killing is rife as is judicial rape—and this occurs across a wide swathe of Indian society. Nobody can raise their hands and say that it is only the lower castes or it is that religion or this area’s tradition/custom/culture.

As is foeticide. The killing of unborn children. Female children, of course.

Modern technology has brought about modern solutions to the problem of having daughters.

Now Doctors can see the sex of a child before it is born the parents (father?) can determine if it should be born at all.

Female babies are dumped or killed—something that amounts to the same thing, of course.

The result of this is that there are more men than women in India.

It is entirely possible that this is also the case in China where female babies are buried (often alive!) because they are not wanted.

The rest of the World has more women than men in their populations. Good for the fellows but not so good for the women who will have to make do with whatever they can get in the husband stakes if they want to get married at all.

Not India. India has more men than women. Is it for this reason that rape appears to be tolerated there more than anywhere else? Note: ‘appears’. Of course it is not tolerated by the women-folk.

It should never be tolerated by the men, either. But the will to do something is lacking.

Punishment, generally, for most crimes is lacking; prison is often seen now as a soft option. There is no deterrent in it. Prison, of any sort, would be a deterrent for me because I should dislike to be separated from my loved ones for any length of time; I should dislike not being able to pop out to my favourite restaurant or cinema.

There are those amongst us who see prison as something glorious—something to boast about. Such people are called ‘rappers’.

Because prison is not, for them, a deterrent. They seem happy to spend an indeterminate percentage of their life locked up as if the crime is considered ‘worth it’!

Am I picking on India for some reason? It is true that the worst rape statistics seem to emerge from South Africa where they, possibly, have different reasons. One of them is surely the tribal mentality and another is the practice of witch doctors who have proclaimed that AIDs can be cured by having sex with a virgin!

The four-year-old was from India. Yet another 'death-by-rape' from the sub-continent

For this reason there must be special punishments for special crimes.

Rob an old lady at gunpoint and you should get life. That means life—not some sort of long holiday from which you can retire on full benefits and National subsidies.

Inflicting AIDs on an innocent young girl should require death at the very least.

Rape should also be life. Rape someone under a certain age and cause physical damage or, even, death, and the punishment should match that.

Rape is not an ‘assault with a friendly weapon’ it is an acute invasion of a person’s privacy, it is a chronic battery on a person’s life to the point where they will never be the same, mentally, again.

It is a physical violence that cannot be tolerated.

I don’t care if you have some sort of movement or petition against someone else’s belief system or you think certain countries should stop eating dogs.

I do care if you are ignoring torture.

Get your priorities in order.

Using the phrase ‘Dogsh** Aftershave’ is not going to tip the World over on its backside but letting people get away with cruelty to other people is indicting those victims to a life of suffering.

That is intolerable.