pumpkinstrokemarrow

Must need a proper infusion of Newky, having been unusually irritated in two ways over the last couple of days.

Firstly, walking around Epsom Common, aroused to anger by the flattening of yet another chunk of the common at the altar of some eco-management fad or other. Composed stiff letter to the Epsom & Ewell Countryside Management Team (copied to our Lib Dem councillor, perhaps to our MP (the former television journalist, now the shadow Home Secretary. Does his partner watch porn any more?)) as I stomp through the devastation. Now while my annoyance is genuine, and related to similar concerns in my own garden and elsewhere, the devastation has been going on for years. So why does it still make me so angry? Why on this particular day? Am I just going to have to stop using the common, hitherto regarded as an attractive amenity? Hav'n't yet gotten around to writing to the Management Team. But I think I ought to; nothing is likely to come of it, but at least I will have registered my vote, not just whined unheard on the margins.

Secondly, watching an episode of 'Lewis'. Oxford snobbery flavoured detective tosh, as advertised on the timetable. But strangely annoyed by the handling of the main sub-plot, whereby the said Lewis finds himself up close and personal with the chap who had (fatally) run down his wife some years previously. The behaviour of Lewis and his side-kick was not believable. The behaviour of the cuddly lady superindent - the sort of person who would think that hugging courses were a good idea (although entirely unnecessary in her own case) - was not believable. Lewis being allowed anywhere near the chap was not believable. Why did it bother me so much that this bit of human drama was so stupidly enacted? Detective tosh is just that, so why should I be surprised or bothered? Perhaps detective tosh doesn't usually contain people at all, so this bad effort jarred.

And strangely moved while turning the pages of Beevor on Berlin again. I was reminded of the huge slaughter of the last days of the war; such waste after so much waste had gone before. The Germans had lost the war but would not knock Hitler on the head and surrender. They just went fighting, somehow more or less holding it together untill the very end. At huge cost. And the Russians were just as bad. They were terrified that the Americans might get there first and were detirmined to have their flag on the Reichstag for May Day or something. So they crashed in at full speed, seemingly without any regard for the very heavy cost. Doing things like sending infantry straight over minefields as it would take longer to have the mines cleared by engineers. It would all have been so much cheaper if they had taken their time. So, taking the two sides together, there must have been several hundred thousands excess deaths, for what? One can see in detail why it was so, but I was saddened by the folly of it all.

Folly on a smaller scale in the form of a cyclist on Lavendar Hill. I had nearly crossed the road to get into the (as it turned out) just shutting charity hospice shop, when I was nearly run down by a chap all done up in cycling gear on what I presume was a posh cycle. A bit dazed, it dawned on me that he had been cycling, next to the kerb, but on the wrong side of the road. I had been looking, as taught, the other way at that point and completely missed him. He did not stop, shout or ring his bell. So quite apart from being a dangerous prat and bringing honest cyclists into disrepute, he had rather poor reactions. Not as if it was dark or as if I was moving either fast or erratically. There not being a policeman to hand, had to settle for agreeing with a passer-by what a prat the cyclist was.

Lastly, afficionados of the surveillance state will be interested to hear that a helicopter (ground to air searchlight not deployed) circled the 'Jolly Gardners' in Black Prince Road three times last night before heading off east at 2242. Now were those bright young Germans who have taken over the Jolly G's been up to something, have their customers been up to something or was the helicopter simply waiting for a landing slot on the top of Canary Wharf?

Notice a modest correspondance in the TLS about the quality of the CUP edition of Beckett's letters, as a peice of book production that is, rather than the quality of the thing as a whole, taken in the round as it were. Opinions are divided. Knowing nothing of the book and next to nothing of Beckett, my half penny worth (halfpennuth?) is that, in my limited experience of such matters, CUP books are not as pretty as OUP ones. The latter put more effort into paper, layout and so-forth. Their productions are usually pleasing, although it is quite possible they are not as cheap as those of their rivals. Never thought of either house as being cheap and not sure about their relativities.

Yesterday, despite no moon being visible (it was close to the night of no-moon for March), to 'Dancing at Lunacy' at the Old Vic. Spelt Lughnasa for those from the Gaeltacht. Started the evening badly, learning that Wimbledon Station had been taken out of service for most of the weekend, thereby stuffing all the trains to Waterloo from our part of the world. As it turned out this was not a big deal, connections at strange parts of Clapham Junction Station working well. Although tiresome neighbours on both trains on the way home. In the first, two nine or ten year old boys (this being at 2230 mind you) who were a bit overtired or overexcited or both and who thought that it was cool to carry on a childishly coarse conversation for the duration. F-words and S-words everywhere. They smelt of escape for the evening from very proper homes. Should I have pulled them up? In the second, we had a posse of twenty or thirty year old boys who had clearly been on the booze all day. They may have been to the footer. One of them drivelled all the way from Clapham Junction to Epsom. Not coarse or even loud; just common or garden drivel. But half an hour of it did become very tiresome. The patience of even his companions was wearing thin by the time we got off.

But before that, interesting evening at the Old Vic. First discovery was that it had become the New Vic, in the sense that the auditorium has been remodelled since we were last there. The long old auditorium with its massive proscenium arch is now theatre up front and personal in the round. What was the front of the auditorium is now the stage, what was the stage has been converted into auditorium and the back of the old auditorium is a bar. Not qualified to comment on the theatrical qualities of theatre in the round - although it seemed to me to have pluses and minuses. Some things worked well and some things not so well - I did not like the very visible corruption of the original design. Like in one of those clubs in a converted cinema, one is all too aware of what went before. What brought this conversion on?

Second discovery was that Lunacy was the shortened form of the name for a sort of harvest festival, pagan in origin. I had assumed that it was the name of a place. This Irish writer was clearly interested in the grip of the church on the land, and on the antecedants to that grip. He was also a prolific chap with thirty plays and adaptions listed.

Third discovery was that it was a ladies play, but one of interest to gents. as well. Rather good in fact. Reminded that life in the country in the olden days could be pretty grim, despite the big bits of fun poking out from time to time. Not wot like you would think from a diet of heritage soaps at all. I thought that most of the cast did well, some of them reminding me of people I know quite well. Hon. menches. for Niamh Cusack as Maggie and Finbar Lynch as Jack. The former made ample use of that strange (and only) exemption in the smoking laws to smoke several wild woodbines on stage. Probably not too happy with the overpaid adminstrative staff who managed get her sister's, rather than her, name on the outside of the very glossy and expensive (£4) programme. Me not too happy with Peter MacDonald as Michael, although not sure how it could have been done otherwise.

It would be interesting the see the film now. Don't suppose it will reappear on the big screen but presumably out on DVD if we can't wait for it to be recycled on ITV3 or whatever.

The other day we found ourselves with a modest amount of left over chicken (on the bone) and a modest amount of pork (off the bone). Neither was enough for a meal on its own. A problem. But much musing on the bicycle led to an entirely satisfactory conclusion. Harking back to our days of camping in the Vendee, took four slices of organic back bacon from Mr S. Gently fry in about an ounce of butter. Add several onions, finely chopped. Some minutes later add several large tomatoes, finely chopped.

Meanwhile strip the chicken carcase, crunch up the bones and boil them up with a few more onions, mashing occasionally with the potato masher. After a while one has some decent stock, which one adds to the foregoing. Add some carrots sliced at 5mm intervals. Simmer them for about 15 minutes then add the coarsely chopped chicken meat and pork. Warm through and add some coarsely chopped mushrooms. Serve with white rice and white cabbage. A heart-warming savoury farm-house stew. Just as mother used to make. Worthy of inclusion in the range of tins supplied by Mr. Campbell.

Not so impressed to see from our local free paper that there is some gang in Leatherhead which nurses damaged foxes back to life and releases them back into the wild, that is to say into our suburban gardens. We make rules about lots of other things, why can't we make rules about these people?

Not so impressed either by my driving skills. Attempted a car park in Kingston with the new vehicle and scored ten tyre hits out of twelve ramps. Mystery how people with bigger cars - of which there are lots - manage. But from our new driving seat, I can't see the end of the bonnet and find it hard to judge the turns. I think about one of those gizmos which beeps when a corner of the car gets near something, but I am not sure that it would help in the case of the car park ramps. It is not going to beep at the kerb, rather at the concrete wall a foot or so behind the kerb which is not going to be much help at all. I can manage not to hit the wall already. A driving lession perhaps? Would a driving instructor take my problem seriously? Would he be able to help with it? More reflection needed. In the meantime, the mitigation is not to go shopping, so that might no be too painful.

Whereas,

in ancient China it was considered bad form for a lady of any standing to let the doctor see more than a hand, the rest of her being concealed behind a curtain. Partly because of this, Chinese doctors can diagnose all kinds of surprising things from your finger nails. I recall that ridges running up and down the nail are bad, maybe something to do with kidneys. Presumably doctors' wives did not have any standing, by definition, and so they could get with their lives without worrying too much about this particular form;

in present-day France I believe that doctors will try to explain all problems in terms of livers, while in Germany doctors will try to explain all problems in terms of hearts; and,

as noted in a previous posting, the same basic processes make toenails and livers tick.

I get to musing. If one has some kind of a health problem, it is quite possible, likely even, that there has been some disturbance of one of these basic processes. In some organs, the disturbance may not be material. In others, there may be symptoms. Sometimes one has to do something about a symptom. Perhaps because the symptom is pain somewhere or perhaps because the symptom - say the thickening of artery in some important part of the body - might have untoward consequences. It then might be that the disturbance which results in thickening of the artery also results in a recognisable pattern on the toenail of the big toe on the left foot. In which case, sorting out the toenail might also sort out the artery, provided only that the sorting out goes far enough upstream to be upstream of both toenail and artery. Simply blocking the toenail symptom by doing something at the knee would not be enough. Have to go back to root causes.

Which leads to a confusion which I remember from the structured methods for building computer systems which were all the rage in the 80's. There used to be mantra that one should always specify what it was that had to be done, never how it was to be done. I was never very comfortable with this dichotomy, feeling that one person's what was another person's how. And one used to be told off for saying that if one did the what like this, then all these other goodies would become available at no extra charge. Which might have a bearing on whether the project was cost justified. An instance of the serious crime of a project creep. So to go back to where I was, one person's symptom is another person's cause. So I think that one could, in theory anyway, express all these disturbances as a complex directed network and it is, to some extent anyway, a matter of taste which nodes of the network are called causes and which are called symptoms. A confusion related to that when using multiple causes of death to classify deaths. If I die when I happen to have both pneumonia and diabetes, who is to say what the primary cause was? In any event, a much more immediate cause is the electrical power failure in the brain, preceded by the oxygen delivery failure and succeeded by the irreversible breakdown of the flash memory cells. There must be a great big gra(v)y area here.

To sum up in all due form, I am left thinking that the Chinese, the Germans and the French are all right. If you want to express your medicine in terms of toenails, fine. Or livers, fine. Just so long as it works.

Amazing what one gets up to when blowing away the vapours from the night before on a bicycle.

Being an example of how simple things are often the best. That is to say, returned from the TB the other day after moderate intake and anecdotes concerning the yacht of one Kashnoggi (from someone who claimed to have been on it), to an untouched small bloomer from Cheam. One of their better days, light and fluffy while remaining slightly damp and very slightly sticky. Taken with slices of cold pork left over from the day before. Spiffing gear, without any need for input from television or other gastropundits.

Followed this up with roast chicken the following day. Preceeded by a visit to Waitrose to buy fresh sage to put in the stuffing (which in our case, we cook outside the chicken rather than inside, topped with happy bacon from Cheam (the pigs from which it came having been certified to have had satisfactory and fulfilling lives) and dripping). Good that one can buy fresh herbs in this way, but the sage was, nevertheless, a bit limp. Had the appearance of something forced up in a polytunnel; not quite the same as a proper bush of the stuff over wintering out in the open. Smell during chopping operations not nearly so strong and final product not so sagey. Another example, I suppose, of how mass production pulls down quality while maintaining appearances. These last, to be fair, being 96% of the the battle.

Confection of stuffing was followed by the attempted confection of blackcurrent jam to top the steamed jam sponge with, the blackcurrents being the last knockings of the late lamented allotments. Sadly, a little overcooked, they turned into a very solid, sticky black mess rather than black jam. Took me rather a long time and a lot of hot water this morning to get the stuff out of the two jam jars to which it had been consigned for safe keeping. Might have been more energy friendly to have left the stuff in the jam jars and dumped them in the general waste compartment of our waste transfer station. But would certainly have been fatal to fillings, crowns and other dental plumbing. Otherwise excellent sponge was consumed with jam of a more pallid disposition.

Waitrose also supplied 67% of the pale liquid refreshments. Started off with a 2007 Pouilly-fume containing sulphites. Moved onto a 2007 Bourgogne (being the 33% which came from Mr S.). This we did not finish as we wanted to leave room for the peice de resistance, a 2005 Jurancon, also containing sulphites. Thinking of all those wine labels which go on about touch of kipper finished off with just a note of blackberry, for what I think is the first time in my wine drinking life, moved to talk of notes of mango. The stuff was very good, just the thing for steamed jam sponge, but definately had the sweet, cloying taste of ripe mango. That is to say, the thing which is nearly all nut and not very much flesh.

In the course of all this we learn that Franklin was not named for the explorer who got lost with his silver service in what can only be presumed to be rather distressing circumstances in the wastes of the frozen north of Baffin Island, but for the president, domiciled somewhat to the south. So his full name is actually Franklin Delano Pussycat.

Interesting regulations from the Guildford Library Service, maybe sometime in the sixties of the last century. Those with infectious diseases please take note.

I think that Southsea is well placed to become a southern centre of excellence for nannies, the reason being that during our visit there I was startled by hearing a silky, bossy female voice - the epitome of the nanny voice - emanating from the machine from which one procured pay and display parking tickets. It was exhorting me to make sure that I placed the ticket most carefully in my car so that the parking wardens would not mistake the car for that of a defaulter. It may also have been exhorting me to keep an eye on the time and be sure to be back before the expiry of the ticket but, stunned though I was, I had moved away by that point. I wonder how much this marvel of nannydom added to the cost of the ticket machine? Sadly, I suppose, not much these days. The things are being produced by the million, pulling the costs of bossiness down to easily affordable levels.

There was also a proper sea-side cafe. Bright white wooden shed affair. Sold chips, pies and bacon sandwiches, with never a baked potato in sight. It was clearly destined to be the sort of place members of the volunteer army of nannies could lurk outside and make sure you understood the danger you were running by eating in such a place. For those that may have missed this bit of news, it seems that our Minister of Health wants to set up such a volunteer army to harangue us at all points about unhealthy behaviour. Building on the success of the neighbourhood watch scheme. One can imagine threads of email conversation whanging about the ether reporting on someone suspected of eating a bacon sandwich in sight of someone who was below the age of consent.

On which subject, one of the customers of TB has come up with a great scheme for being both busy and making money for IT service companies. First, everybody is issued with a thing like a credit card, complete with picture, bio-metric data and what have you. Second, everyone who wants to have a drink has to go for a medical and have his bio-history downloaded onto the card. Third, the chip on the card computes your permitted allowance of drink. Not more than so much in any one hour. Not more than so much in any one visit. Not more than so much in any one day. No angostura bitters (which I have just learned come from somewhere in Venezuela, via an expatriate German) at all. So on and so forth. Fourth, you go to the pub and present the card. Fifth, provided you have not already exceeded some limit, you will be served and your card updated.

The only catch is that for this to work, one would have to ban the sale of alcoholic drinks from shops. But then you are engaging the massed ranks of the supermarkets, daring to interfere with what for them is a very profitable line. One can only guess at the outrage that would find its way into the columns of the DT.

Assuming we can get through that one, the whole thing can be sold as a dress rehearsal for the great national identity card project.

For some reason I have got my wires crossed between Hastings and Worthing. Don't seem to be able to tell the differance unless I stop and think about it. Bit like left hand and right hand on a bad day. So reduced to correcting a recent post some days after the event, something I do not like doing. (Tampering with notes taken at the time is a serious matter for a policeman). To avoid this problem, yesterday to Southsea. Bright sunny day, reasonably warm when properly wrapped up and huge, if stony beach. Long wide promenade. Lots of handsome park. Lots of people about, including herds of young people up to no good. Hanging out, tinnies, maybe even the odd fag. Somebody ought to do something about it.

Nearly lost FIL, so took tea at http://www.royalbeachhotel.co.uk/ to restore strength and good humour. Tea made with very powerful tea bags, the caffeine and tannin content of which entirely made up for the lack of nicotine and alcohol. Quite passable peice of Dorset apple cake, and, being a hotel, they found it necessary to decorate each peice with a halved strawberry, nearly frozen. At least FIL could have them, being thought to be gluten free. (The pleasant young barmaid who served us knew what the words meant but could not offer anything in the geefree cake department). Strange sounding, unmasonic lodges meeting there later in the day. League of bonding or something. Plus sundry weddings and engagements. Reminded that these big old hotels have a big advantage when it comes to putting on a flash meal: they have the rooms to do it in, unlike a Holiday Inn.

The strolled around. Inspected the impressive rose garden, which will be really impressive when the roses are out. Passed the model village and the boating pond. The latter complete with various pedalos dressed up as swans and what-have-you plus two very large model boats. One about six feet long, some sort of a battleship in conventional Atlantic gray colours, the other about twelve feet long, some sort of a cruiser in Britannia (the late lamented) blue, white and yellow. Maybe they are the sort of colours one had when cruising on the Yangtzee, something FIL's father spent a few years at in the thirties of the last century. Round the pier, which seemed to have bits missing, in particular the theatre at the end. It seems that it burnt down at some point and no-one thought it worth while putting it back up again. Down past the Pyramids - a sort of salle polyvalent including a large and complicated swimming pool - and onto good king Harry's fort - which, we learnt, had never fired a shot in anger in the 400 or so years of its life.

Back to the Pyramids, the appearance of which seemed to vary with distance. Very ugly at 100 yards, dominating the promenade, but much better closer to, when the cunning devices to reduce visual impact worked. Inside, for the first time in my life, I heard a clarintet quartet - that is to say four people playing the clarinet, not something by Mozart - in the middle of a rather feeble arts and crafts show.

Closed the event by taking the largest pebble I could find on the beach for adding to the new ponds. Luckily, just on the waterline, I came across a rather worn, 1kg flint, the shape of short fat sausage, hugely larger than anything else on the beach. Now safely installed on the boundary of the middle pond.

Having got there down the eastern road, past the Pompey-Everton bash, returned up the western road, through old town. Sadly, the fish stall in old town where we have, in the past, bought excellent kippers, was shut for the day. Up through all the goings on at Hindhead where I was moved to ponder on the eco-values of what was being done.

So we have a small town, the centre of which has been more or less killed off by having the A3 run through the middle of it. Solution, given the outstanding organic/vegetarian beauty of the surrounding countryside, build a tunnel. At a guess, I say that the tunnel and its approach roads cost £20m a mile. Say £200m altogether. All this to save motorists who ought to be using the train a few minutes at the Hindhead crossroads. How about if we canned the tunnel and bought out the 50 properties in the town centre? Give them £1m a go and four weeks notice to be out. Then knock them down and beef up the cross roads a bit. Say £50 for the compensation and £50m for the beefing up. Profit £100m. Large swathe of outstanding organic/vegetarian beauty not trashed. On the other hand, the PFI contractors would not have been making anything like so much, so they wouldn't have been prepared to pilot my revised scheme through the planning process. Taken all those worthy councillors and sub-regional planners on tunnel fact finding missions through neighbouring tunnels sort of thing. I wonder if I will attempt to find the business case for the thing?

Very alive to the affairs of sardines at the moment, my intake having surged following pressure from the BH to do something about my omega 3s. Luckily she passed over omega 1 and 2. So, having had occasion to be reminded about the affairs of Narnia, amused to learn that sardines were the subject of infantile drooling during the second world war. One infers that the diet was pretty dull. Can't imagine many infants drooling over sardines now, at least, not in the affluent southeast. But I do recall some sardine drooling in Svejk, when, during the first war on the wrong (ie losing) side, they were presumably even poorer than we were in the second war.

And then there was something of a first on the bread pudding front. Which I was eating cold, not having been around when it was hot (when I like it best), and thought I could detect carraway seeds. Adding a delicate something to the flavour. I approved, but a bit of a puzzle as carraway seeds are not something that the BH is very keen on, her younger taste for Sunday seed cake having been dealt a fatal blow by her first pregnancy. But, on enquiry, found out that it was indeed carraway seed. Not wanted to waste a dog end of rye bread with carraway seed from Cheam, said dog end found its way into the bread pudding and there we are. Today being Friday I dare say I shall get another; for some reason they are only available fresh on Friday and the left overs bagged on Saturday.

Yesterday was a day for sirloin steak, the first for a while. Had it cut about an inch thick, a little thicker than usual, and heated the (electric) grill for rather longer before starting grilling operations. A better result than usual: dark brown on the outside while being light brown, damp and succulent on the inside. Not having too much practise, all to easy to dry the things out, especially when they are cut a bit thinner. Served with mushrooms, a good whack of brussells sprouts and white bread.

Have finally broken my taboo on the Tate Modern and went to a paying exhibition there. Not quite the first visit as we did go to inspect the pretensious crack which was free, and didn't actually pay as the Independant did instead. (Which also paid for quite respectable amount of alcohol au nibbles). As it turned out, rather impressed both by the constructivists and by the amount of space available to hang them in. So perhaps there is some point in converted power stations after all. Constructivists a very rum bunch, but interesting. I really liked some of their stuff - which ought to reproduce well - and some of it was just silly. Not really a surprise to learn that they were rolled over by the forces of socialist realism.

We celebrated the arrival of our shiny new Ford Focus Stretch (aka C-Max) with a trip to the seaside; Worthing to be more precise. We chose a day when it was very windy, despite the fact that I had forgotten to pack my snow suit. So not quite warm enough to be comfortable. On arrival, the sea was a very strange yellow colour but given that it had become a more regular sea blue colour a couple of hours later, we were unable to decide whether the colour reflected the sand bank just under the surface or was some trick of the light. But a large handsome beach; just the place for a bracing stroll. A promonade for those not wanting to get sand or worse in their socks. Plenty of birds, including a few starlings battling bravely in the breeze. Not a bird we see much of in Epsom; certainly not the huge formation flying flocks one sees from time time elsewhere. Onto the pier, a rather grand affair, free at this time of year. A very modest craft fair in what had been a very immodest dance hall, that is to say it must have been quite a place in its heyday. Then to tea in the equally grand, if rather run down, cafe. Collected a peice of perforated chalk and two lime encrusted shells (all three now adorning one of the new ponds) and so home, luckily without being crimed by the beach trusty for removal of national heritage site.

That apart been a day of puzzlement. Started by learning that RBS is inviting its shareholders to stump up more cash, this time by inviting them to participate in the conversion of HMG preference shares to ordinary shares at a price which is 50% in excess of the prevailing market price. Given that the process of invitation must be costing millions of pounds, why are they doing it? Who would want to participate on this basis? Bit of a nerve to ask, given the way the share price has fallen since the last time, just a few months ago. I assume that there is some stock market rule which says they have to offer to existing shareholders but it all seems a bit wasteful; not quite the tone to set in the circumstances. Maybe some very large existing shareholders would want to do this, enabling them to buy volumes of shares at what is still a rather low price which they would be hard put to buy in the open market.

Then I thought that I ought to open my shiny new-to-me annual abstract of statistics. As a former statistician I could have a sentimental wander through the thickets of government numbers. As luck would have it, the book fell open at the national accounts, which I found to be as inpenetrable as they have always been, not ever having needed to take a professional interest in them. But I persisted for a while, curious to test the allegation that the UK doesn't produce anything other than financial services these days. So I find a table 16.4 which looks promising. It tells me that in 2004 we did £250bn worth of production and construction., about two thirds of that total being called manufacturing. Service industries did £750bn, of which something called financial intermediation - the only line with a money flavoured title - was £85bn, attached to a negative adjustment of £50bn. So while it seems likely that manufacturing is still bigger than financial services, which is reassuring, not much idea by how much. I then ask Mr G. about financial intermediation and find lots of it. Including a helpful article from the Scottish Office which tries to explain the whole business in lay terms. But life is too short and I declined to take up their kind offer.

Then started to wonder about single mothers, the cost of whom being an important subject at TB. I find a helpful table which sets out the weekly rates of the common benefits. A table which shows how much the common benefits cost in aggregate. A table which shows how many single parents are claiming income support - a number which, also reassuringly, has declined steadily since 2001 and stood at around 750,000 in 2006. Let's hope the decline is a not an artefact of the process of government rather than an artect of lone parenthood. But I was not able to find out how much all these awful single parents were costing us altogether. Clearly need to go to a more specialised volume for that.

But, despite jibes, a handsome and well produced volume. Complicated matters can only be presented simply by being economical with the truth, a truth which many newspapers do not seem to be able to grasp when they are running on about lies, damned lies and statistics. Or when they are publishing their own statistics, simplified to the point of opacity.

Being a tale of how one always gets the wrong call on whether to buy a day return to London or a one day Travelcard. So, by going for the latter, I spent £2.60 more than, in the event, I needed to have.

Set off to find that the men from the council starting to patch the various holes that have appeared in our road. This first patch involved digging out a neat hole about 10 feet long by 5 feet wide and 1 foot deep. No pipes to be seen. Can't remember what was at the bottom of the hole. Maybe chalk. By the next day, I found that the hole had been refilled and finished level with the rest of the road, which I would have thought means that in time the patch will be some inches below the rest of the road. We shall see.

Off to Clapham Junction to take refreshment at the Wetherspoons at the top of Falcon Road where I was entertained by the sight of some ladies having a friendly puff after playgroup chucked out.

Visited a rather odd charity shop in Battersea Park Road where I failed to buy an autobiography of Danielle Mitterand. Her early life looked interesting enough but then she moving into overseas do-gooding which looked less so. Then failed to go to the pleasant little café opposite where we have taken coffee in the past.

Managed to get slightly lost on the way to Battersea Park, this by turning up Battersea Bridge Road rather than Albert Bridge Road, so at this point decided to make for the Brompton Oratory, which in the event I managed to walk right around, never getting within a kilometre of the place. So much for my street wiseness in London.

Entertained hard by the Royal College of Art’s sculpture department by two large, red and brand new vehicles belonging the the Fire & Rescure Service. But they were not pumps or ladders. Rather, they were large skip lorries. Skips the shape of a brick, maybe 20 feet long, 8 feet wide and 4 feet deep. Two rollers at the end of the lorry to enable them to be pushed off and pulled back on again. The sort of thing you occasionally see at building sites or waste transfer stations. But what do the Fire & Rescue Service need such things for? Are they diversifying into sculpture disposal business?

Over Battersea Bridge and up Beaufort Street to Fulham Road. Magnolias rather ahead of those in Epsom, presumably being a bit warmer in town. Push up through South Kensington, the part of it containing some very smart and expensive looking houses. The big five story mansion flats reminding me of the sort of thing you get in the smarter areas of Paris. Came across one lot of heritage fortification in the form of broken glass set into the top of a garden wall. I wonder if, in this enlightened age, a burglar who cut his hands could sue the owners? In any event, not as effective as it looks, being readily nuetralised by having a thick coat thrown over it. But then again, most burglars are fairly dim and would not, perhaps, think of that.

Then into Kensington Palace Gardens to admire all the flashy buildings there, mainly of diplomatic occupation. One of them guarded by a couple of well armed policemen. Also came across street lights that looked very much as if they were powered by gas. Must visit in the dark to be sure. Over Bayswater Road and up to Princes Square to take further refreshment. Too late for a little light salad but the beer was OK and the pub was overlooked by a splendid plane tree. Decided though that it was not natural, let alone organic. It looked splendid because of the cunning pruning over the years, not because that was the way that God intended.

Thought of going to find the KPH in Labroke Grove, but a bit uncertain how to get there. Ended up heading east along Westbourne Grove having just missed the sourthern end of Labroke Grove. Perhaps just as well. I might have been horrified to have found that the KPH was now a gastro pub or worse. Into Bishops Bridge Road where I failed to give a lost Irishman very sensible instructions as to where the bit of Paddington with cheap hotels was. But I did tell him to get to Praed Street, so he probably got something in the end.

Into Hyde Park at Lancaster gate, to inspect the statue of Jenner, a distant relative of the BH. Down through the park with plentiful spring flowers and a sprinking of poseurs on roller skates and exited at Hyde Park Corner. Thought about getting the train at Victoria but decided to push onto Vauxhall via the cheese shop and possibly the Tram Stop or the Surprise at Pimlico.

Get to Pimlico, to be greeted by the first private school crocodile of the day, having missed out on any such thing in smartest Kensington. Boys and girls about 3 feet high, got up in bright blue jackets and big blue floppy berets of an unusal cut. Girls in natty kilts. Clearly the nouveaux riche of Pimlico (which I remember from its more seedy days. I also once bought a rather posh summer suit, from Simpsons of New York, in the charity shop there, for all of £20. Did for several years, much to the disgust of TB, the inhabitants of which would not be seen dead in a hand-me-down, be it ever so posh) have yet to hit the buffers and send their best beloveds to bog standard schools like the rest of us. Cheese shop still there at Upper Tachbrook Street, where I get an adequate piece of Emmenthal. No Swaledale so I had to settle for something which looked a bit similar from Cornwall, but which turned out to be rather soft and creamy. Good gear but didn’t taste as much like as it looked; but this I only found out some time later. Decided to miss out on both the pubs and headed for the train instead.

Getting a bit hungry by this point so decided that the 3 minutes change at Wimbledon was long enough to nip along to the on-platform sandwich bar and get one of their splendid rolls at a pound a pop or something. Only to find that the place was a building site; no doubt to return as a new and poncy sandwich bar charging a good deal more than the one it replaces. This is called progress. Back onto the train and off to TB where I have the first pie in a pub for many years. Possibly because so few pubs do them now; their only being interested in selling you pan speared swordfish with risolo snorbs – rather than a pie or a roll or something small and sensible like that.

Three new (small) ponds now settling down well. Various rocks, mainly from various holidays, tastefully arranged around. A standing place in the middle, made out of some of the former surround, bedded down on a DIY version of postcrete. The deep pond contains a small water lilly (label says white with pink middle), the shallow one contains some sort of a marigold (leaves a darker green than that we had before) and the in-between one contains a sedge grass. When we tried these things in the old pond, they all grew too big. Giant roots and tubers in a huge stinking mass in the middle of the pond. Only way to prune them was with the mattock and bush saw. All very crude and messy. But now that we have each plant in a separate, sturdy pond, the idea is that even if they take over their own pond, they are not going to get into the others.

Added some bog-standard crinkly pond weed to the second two ponds. Pond weed which I associate to the name Canadian pond weed. Now whether it is the weed or something else, all the ponds now look alive. Water turning green. Lots of odd bits and peices in it, some alive. Soapy green bubbles. Maybe we will move onto mozzees in due course.

With the warmer weather, the newts have somehow reappeared, with some in each pond. Greeny brown on top, spotted pale underneath. Given that the ponds started clean and the ground around was heavily disturbed, no idea where they came from. They must be able to winter under stones or down cracks then make it overland back to the maternal pond in the spring. Let's hope that Franklin does not acquire a taste for them.

Back indoors, now unearthed the score of the 'Art of Fugue' to go with the companion. Tried following the organ version previously unearthed and failed completely. Now I can just about manage a string quartet on a good day, so what is so hard about fugues? The music does not look very complicated. Must try again tomorrow. Tovey seems to claim that, in some contexts, reading the score is almost as good for him as hearing the thing played. Clearly some way to go yet. Tovey is also very rude about some of his academic competitors; far ruder than I would have thought OK in this PC day and age. There is even talk of balderdash. Reminds me of the language used when the one year volunteer was in dispute about jays during his editorship of 'Animal World' in Svejk, which, I suppose on reflection, dates from about the same era.

On Saturday, we managed to visit the spring flowers at Hampton Court. Something we have only managed every other year or so, despite their being spiffing and not very far away. On this occasion, the daffodills we just coming out. So not a sea of yellow, rather a more delicate array of greens and yellows. With some of the individual flowers, caught in the right light being wonderful. Crocuses a bit past their best, but still looked well from a distance. Not too good from 10 feet, but, as with the daffodills, some of the individual flowers looked wonderful. A perfect white was perhaps the best, but good quality blues (maybe purple?) were more common. Plus some very handsome, small spring flowers in the formal garden. Then off to the cafe for Tudor-style bangers and mash. The heritage folk having overlooked the fact the potatoes had not quite caught on for the Tudors. But bangers and mash were fine; the mash part being loaded with chlorestorol, so making it a lot more filling than the rather modest portion looked.

Puzzled out in the home park by contraptions in the small wooden, anti-deer enclosures for the young trees. Black boxes made out of that cardboard like plastic, about two foot high with a flap at the top, six inches wide and two deep, strapped to the bottom of the enclosures, not in contact with the enclosed trees. What on earth were they for? They appeared to be empty but might possibly have contained some sort of plant food. (By plastic like cardboard, I mean a plastic board made up like the sort of cardboard used to hold tins of baked beans and such like. Two outer skins with a corrugated layer in between. Good solid material when made of plastic).

Rounded off by seeing the start for some giant rowing race on the river. Seemed to be hundreds of eights there, some of them coxed by very aggressive sounding small ladies. Maybe they got to be dumped in the river at the end, if all that aggression did not get projected into their rowers in a winningly effective way. Impressed by the pace set by the first eights to go; had me wondering how long they had to keep it up for. Then started to wonder who decided the order of the off? Is it like motor racing with the best going first? Given that I assume the race is decided by the clock, rather than by first past the post, I would have thought that one would get a better time chasing than leading. Not that I have ever done much racing of any sort.

Someone who, like me, is clearly into flat beaches. See http://ebworley.blogspot.com/. Including one which looks very like a bit of Long Island which I once saw (being on the end of a tube line).

I see from yesterday's DT that the IT services industry has scored another coup by persuading the Home Office that the country needs a large new computer system to track the movements of it's residents when they are out of the country. The powers that be are running scared, let's hope not for good reason.

But I think I should set up a company of retired computer folk to go one better. To promote a scheme whereby, like cows, everybody has an implant in the lobe of their ear at birth. Implantation done by a corps of specially trained vetenarians, looked after by a new body which might as well be called OffImpVet. Make a law that it is a felony for one's implant to be out of range of an official detector. Infraction will bring down fully armed helicopters to your last known position and to your last known address. Then we will be able to build a database which knows where everybody has been since birth. Optional (and chargeable) extras might include things like monitoring for prolonged proximity of, say, someone registered as a teacher to someone under 16. Phase two, when the technology has moved on a bit, enable the implants for sound. Technology moving on, including some kind of sensible filtering. We do not need to know what your car engine sounds like. The database can then include eveything that has been said since birth. Visuals might be a bit more tricky. Have to think about that one.

Earlier in the week to hear the 'Art of Fugue' at the QEH, for the first time on an organ. The organ in question being a suitably small organ made in Holland in the early fifties of the last century, or so the chap sitting next to me informed me. Organ played by someone with a long relationship with Eton, man and boy, plus a stint at the First Congregational Church of Los Angeles, which boasts the world's largest church organ. Perusal of http://www.fccla.org/ suggests that it is, indeed, an impressive instrument. The church itself is not new and looks more like a CofE place than a dissenting joint. I thought the organ at QEH did rather well; I liked the way it marked the transitions between notes, something that was lost in the chamber version I heard by way of pre-concert revision. The organist did rather well with his feet too: playing with two hands and two feet while not falling off your perch must take a lot of skill and a fancy physique. Looked rather like he was dancing sitting down. Extensive post-concert revision. Discover that I do own an organ version, as I thought but could not find, disguised in a boxed set as chamber music. Also that I still have my father's copy of Tovey on the subject, a book I had feared might have been lost in one of my periodic culls.

Nice to have, but don't really understand a word of it. So off to Waterstones where they have nothing on the theory of music. Off to the library where they have little on the shelf, but a fair bit in the catalogue, so two tomes on the elementary theory of music reserved. Maybe I shall get to find out what scales and fugues are. I imagine that one gets even more out of the music if one knows. In the meantime, started reading Antony Storr on the subject (ex Oxfam). Good read, if not always able to agree with him. The man knows his music and his Proust, whom he quotes liberally.

On exit from the library, take a look at their remainder section and get three books. A nearly new 'The Age of Revolution' paperback for 20p. An as-new 2007 'Annual Abstract of Statistics', published at near £50, for £1.50. A rather battered 'Norm and Form' by Gombrich (an author with whom I get on well and for whom I have much time) for £4.50. Epsom Library clearly saw me coming. The cover of the Gombrich strangely plain; light blue cloth with no title or other marking at all (other than sundry stains), but not one of those austerity editions from the 40's at all. From the 60's. The inside page, which presumably used to carry the library stick in, torn out rather crudely. One might have thought that professional book worms would have more respect for their stock, even on the way out. I have now cut the stub of the page down to something neat.

Been a bad week for senior moments. Lots of minor moments, but today, on the way back from Cheam, I sail through a pedestrian crossing on red. No pedestrians actually on the crossing, so they probably just mistook me for one of those cyclists who does not bother with the highway code. And then, safely back in the kitchen, I attempt to make tea without putting any tea in the pot. Which is taking keeping my caffeine intake under control a bit far - although I did know a chap once who drank hot water at meetings rather than coffee. He said you got used to it after a bit but when I tried it I found the experience very sensitve to the water quality. And I found the quality of most hot water bad. Been sitting in some water heater for too long.

On the subject of tea, being in Chinatown earlier in the week, decided to stock up with some Oolong tea. Pleased to find a grocer in Gerrard Street where I could buy Oolong tea of the same brand and package (Sea Dyke) as I had bought when I was first initiated into Oolong tea some 40 years ago. Pleased in the same way to find the the furniture in the 'Coach and Horses' was still the same as it has been in the 30 years or so I have been an occasional user. Norman's departure has not been the catastrophe I feared. Piano and Pitcher have not moved in yet.

Shareholders in the suppliers of road markings and road furniture will be pleased to hear of the coup on Hook Road. Someone thought that having a bright yellow line down one side of the road was not very clear and has had the line supplemented by a line of eight feet poles at 10 yard intervals, each pole carrying a little sign explaining the detail of the applicable parking regulations. Right eye sore. So far irritated residents have only chopped down one of them - the one in question lying, in flagrante, in the front garden nearest its former erect position. (Factlet aside, flagrante, according to Mr. G., is all about burning and only incidently to do with immorality or crime. News to me).

Some time ago, we bought a rather fancy tribal rug in Libertys; at least rather fancy by our standards. And the pattern and colours are truly impressive, an effect sometimes enhanced by substances such as alcohol. But it is fairly thin. The pile does not stand up in the way of a regular Wilton or Axminster. So being directly on floorboards, it felt a bit harsh. So decided to buy some underlay. Which turned out to be something of a performance. None of the three carpet shops in Epsom, one of them Allied Carpets and one of them a rug specialist, sold much underlay at all and certainly nothing suitable. But Cheam scores again, the flooring shop there having two or three sorts, including something entirely suitable from a gang call Treadmill at £10 or so a square metre. Plus they had the stuff in stock and would cut it to size.

Back home to collect measurements for rug, which I had not thought to take to Cheam and certainly could not remember. Rather odd measurements, 10 feet by 7 feet 3 inches - and no tidier in metric. Perhaps the tribals in question deliberately corrupt Imperial Measurement to cock a snook at their former masters.

Back home to collect the car, the underlay being a bit much for the bicycle. Now installed, at the price of a certain amount of study disturbance. Very impressed with how much better the rug feels underfoot. Why did Libertys not attempt to sell us a made to measure underlay at the time we bought the rug in the first place? That touching on the only down note in the entire business: the underlay did not cut all that neatly, at least not with the tools available in Cheam. But no doubt, as with the snags on the shed roof, all will be forgotten in the redly bouncing glow of our renewed rug.

For those into rugs, I would say that the choice in Libertys was far superior to anything else we saw, although to be fair, while we went to Peter Jones, we did not go to Selfridges or Harrods. And prices in our sort of range. Unlike the spiffing carpet shops in and around Piccadilly (the road not the circus) which are well out of range.

Started the day with a crash on take-off. That is to say, towards the end of the boot sequence one finds that the cursor has frozen on the screen. Something that happens from time to time, and has always (so far) been cleared by powering down and starting again.

Screen a bit shaky again. Rather odd colours. But that seems to happen from time to time too. Maybe time I retired it - it being an elderly - at least four years old that is - CRT display. It does seem very big and clumsy compared with what most everybody else has, but the last time I tried to trade it in for a second hand flat screen, the flat screen refused to play. Complained about drivers or something, well beyond my competance to fix. So we stick with the CRT for the moment.

And then, for once in a while, the Blogger software threw a wobbly. It announced after I had supplied by password that there was something wrong with my security settings for Javascripts. Helpfully provided instructions on what to do about this. Followed instructions and found that the thing that I was supposed to be enabling was enabled already. Backed out to find myself at the Blogger home page and here we are. Let's home it doesn't happen again.

Yesterday, being a Wednesday, is gents. day and I get to do the cooking. So last week it was a very fine cow chop, the best bit of beef we have had for a while. This was lucky as we had pushed the boat out a bit. Had mashed swede as well as brussells sprouts and rice, and a decent bottle of red wine. All went down very well. Brussells sprouts remarkable for their size - perhaps 4cm in diameter - and their pallor. But they tasted OK. No cow chops available yesterday, and perhaps best not to repeat anyway, so settled for steak and kidney. Variations there included adding some thinly sliced celery towards the end of the proceedings, some coarsely chopped mushrooms at the end of the proceedings and thickening with corn flour. This last gave the dish the texture and taste of the filling in the better class of fish and chip shop pies and I was not altogether sure that this was a good thing in the context of DIY steak and kidney not in a pie. Gave it an unwanted smoothness. But it all well down with commendable speed, so perhaps the answer is to halve the amount of corn flour next time around. Oddly enough, years ago, I used to be the big fan of thickening and BH was not. Now things are moving into reverse.

Yesterday was also the day of the shed, the felt on its roof having been in a bit of a state for some time and the inside was starting to get wet in places. Confused to find that there were two sorts of roofing felt, a bottom coat and a top coat. Don't remember about messing about in that way in the past. Pleased to find that one roll of top coat at 10m was just right to give me the three lengths I needed for the shed. No large amount of waste from having to buy two rolls. But shocked to find that the roll cost nearly £50. I am sure I paid something more like £15 last time - but perhaps that was a long time ago.

When I come to remove the old felt, I find that it is a good deal thinner than the new felt. Seems unlikely for all the thinning to be down to fading away in the wind and the rain, so perhaps I have bought a better class of felt this time. The catch being that the fat felt does not fold as neatly at the thin at the corners, expecially for the tight folds needed at each end of the shed ridge. Then I find that the green slate chippings have not been painted on a two inch strip along one edge, and I can't hid all such edges, as both edges on the last sheet have to show. Will that edge rot in the summers' sun? Not too big a deal, as there is a big overlap at that point and the sheet underneath, complete with its green slate chippings, can take the strain.

Now the shed abuts the end of the garage, one gable on the boundary fence, the other gable facing into the patio. I find that the felt has been nailed down on the garage side, something that I don't think could have been down with the garage in place. Has this felt been there for the life of the shed, which must be around twenty years? I know the felt has been patched from time to time over the years as I remember removing the fascia boards to do it. But I do not remember fiddling around nailing on the garage side. Which might just about be possible but would have been very fiddly and I would have thought I would have remembered. Anyway, being keen to do the job right, observe that I can remove the roof panels by the simple expendient of removing two screws for each panel. So go for on the garage side, only to find that I have sunk a additional three inch screw on that side through the top of the thing. I can't remember doing that either. Can only think that it was moving about in the wind at some point. Will I remember the bother of getting the three inch screw out again in years to come?

Get the roof panel off and fix the felt on the garage side. Panel was quite heavy in the first place - maybe nine feet by four feet - and now a good few pounds heavier; but too impatient to wait for help and push the thing back up somehow.

Get the other two lengths on and stand back to admire the work. Not that chuffed. Hard to get the felt down completely evenly and the overall effect is a bit wavy and untidy. So decide to go in for new fascia boards which will cover up most of the evil. Plus our new neighbours will get the benefit of fascia boards on their side, these having been missing for years. A bit of an eyesore but the last neighbours never said anything. Perhaps there was enough wrong with their (rented) house without them bothering about the end of my shed. New fascia boards now up, even including a little bit of trim to hide the join and the fold at the ridge. Even including a bit of cuprinol. I dare say, after a week or so, I will forget all the little snags and be pleased with the result. But not quite there yet. Just the same as decorating inside from that point of view.

A doubting Thomas asks about how it is that random selection on billions of genes can replace intelligent design. A few thoughts follow, some culled from Mr. R. Dawkins, which it would be interesting to have corrected by someone who knows a bit more about it than I do.

Natural selection is a better name than random selection as the selection is not random at all. It is the mutations which might be random.

There might be a lot of genes, but there has been a lot of natural selection. There have been genes on earth for more than a billion years and in that time there have been many trillions of individuals and many trillions of mutations. Only a small proportion need to work and so to be selected.

Human aside: by way of comparison, we have been around for only a few hundred thousand years.

Technical aside: you get the sort of genes you get in people in all eukaryotes. Eukaryotes are all those things made up of one or more cells of the sort you used to learn about in GCE O level biology. Eukaryotes have been around for more than a billion years. Things which are not eukaryotes are things like bacteria, viruses and the strange (small) things that live in volcanic fountains at the bottom of oceans.

The genome can be thought of as being structured rather like a computer program, a tree or a hierarchy. And whole branches of the tree tend to get moved around as a whole. So once natural selection has come up with, say a liver, it sticks with it. So the liver is much the same in all animals that have one. This reduces the amount of work that natural selection has to do.

One might perhaps think of cars. Different makes of car can look very different, but they might all be largely made from the same set of parts. It is only the trim that is a bit different. Or meccano or lego.

Not only are the big parts the same in most large animal life, but the basic, molecular mechanisms of life, the basic building bricks, are the same in most life altogether. A large part of the genome is about specifying or enabling these basic mechanisms. This large part of the job of design only had to be done once. And it was done with small early life which involved a very long time and a very large number of individuals. Once this was cracked, big later life was easy.

A large proportion of mutations in the genome will fatally damage these basic molecular mechanisms and the individual concerned will not get very far. Nature does not waste much time, space or energy on failure. You only get to see the more sensible ideas.

A large proportion of the genome is waste paper. Doesn’t do anything at all. So genomes are not as big as they look.

Another thought from the computer analogy, is that nature can try things out in simple animals before trying them out in complicated ones. Get the liver right in a worm before trying it out in a lion. And given that, in very round terms, life evolves from the simple to the complicated, testing by evolution is efficient in this sense. Just the same as in an IT shop.

Natural selection is not that clever. It often results in bad designs, the mammalian eye being a good example. One might have thought that an intelligent designer would have done better.

Contrariwise, human selection is not that fast. It has taken a 100 years to bring the design of a car to the pitch that it is now at. So maybe faster than natural selection, but cars did not pop out of nowhere, any more than dinosaurs did.

There is plenty of evidence about the detail of evolution and the workings of natural selection. The evolution and spread of the colour of newts across North America or whatever. Evolution does work.

Not part of the argument here, but it might help to think of a genome being made up of genes, each one of which is a recipe for a particular protein, with a switch. The switch might be turned on by some other protein being present or turned off by yet another. Add a few bells and whistles, and you get a device which could be used to make anything; rather in the way that a Turing machine can replicate any sensible computer algorithm.

That retired flic-chic of afternoon TV (week day variety), Carol Vodermann, has been brought to my attention in two ways this week. Firstly, there is a large photograph of her on the front of this weeks TV guide from the DT. The photograph says it all - for me. But I wonder whether the intentions of the DT photographer were honourable? Secondly, the DT proper tells me that she has become, in her well-heeled retirement, some sort of advisor on the teaching of mathematics to the Conservative Party. She follows in the footsteps of our well-beloved MP for Epsom and Ewell, the former TV reporter, now the shadow Home Secretary. (Incidentally, if one looks at Chris Grayling's web site you would not think he had any other interests than cuddling old ladies in his constituency. No mention of his other duties at all). It is clear that the ability to look good on TV is a mandatory requirement for political advancement these days. Being able to communicate through that same medium a desirable requirement. The subject or quality of the matter communicated consigned to some annex. One slight problem with all this of course: if looking good is a mandatory requirement, why is CV the retired flic-chic?

Leaving that aside, maybe we should make being on TV a core subject in all our secondary schools. Pupils will all spend five hours a week honing their skills at appearing in video clips. It can take the place of the Latin which used to get a slot of that size in my day - not that I remember very much of it. This will build on their play grounding in appearing in mobile phone clips. I wonder what proportion of school children would actually benefit from such a regime? Are they mature enough? It might be quite interesting to give it a try. But are our dance&drama schools turning out enough near misses to staff up the operation?

The same edition of the DT also carries a short peice about the unfortunate 80 something year old lady whose doctor would not give her some medicine for her wheezing unless she gave up the fags - which she has done or is doing. Presumably her wheezing was enough of a problem to overcome her love of nicotine.

After a shaky start just finished another charity shop find, 'Les enfants de la liberte' by Marc Levy. The book came with two Ryanair scratch cards and a July 2007 Air France ticket which had belonged to Soraya Elglaoui. I hope she will overlook this minor invasion of her privacy. Although the book was described as a novel - perhaps 'roman' in French casts a wider net than 'novel' in English - I came to find that the things described were not invented. That they were based on a true story, in this case of teen-age resistance fighters in the southwest of France in the second world war. Known as terrorists to the Vichy and occupation authorities, a word I believe the author has emphasised with deliberation.

It turns out that the author (to be found at http://www.marclevy.info/) had successful careers elsewhere before becoming a very succesfull author who has sold millions and millions of books. Show how parochial we are that I had never heard of him before. A fairly complicated website, only marred by the poor standard of translation into English. Odd, considering that he lives in England. Didn't find out why he chooses to, being French.

Also, that it was his father who was the resistance fighter in question, and who was very lucky to have survived at all. Most of his comrades did not, partly because, although a neighbouring resistance outfit knew that his lot were about to be rounded up, they chose not to warn them because they were the wrong flavour - ie not Gaullist and mainly not French (having been refugees before the war from other parts of Europe; welcome in France at that time as the French wanted to make good their huge losses in the first war) - and it was better that they were put out of harm's way with the war coming to an end.

While I have sometimes tired of the French preoccupation with occupation and collaboration, this book reminded me why both subjects live on. They were difficult times of which the father must have carried the scars for ever.

A few weeks ago, the poet who doubles as a columnist in the TLS wrote a very strong peice about his experience buying new shoes in a place called Niketown in Oxford Circus. It seems that he has serious problems with his feet - bunions or gout or something - and it had been suggested that Nike was the answer; more particularly the sort of custom built Nikes that you can buy from the very bouncy people at Niketown. As I recall, he was a bit disappointed with the result, but managed a nice peice for the literary people about trainers. Nice enough to propel us to said place a few weeks so later.

The TLS is clearly into a bit of rough. The week after the shoe peice there was an even longer peice about poker. Although to be fair, that might have been some equivalent person from the LRB. Not going to check now.

Anyway, we piled out of Oxford Circus tube station and headed into the heart of Niketown, manfully ignoring the fact that we we a little on the old side for this particular establishment. And there were indeed fancy display cases containing massed ranks of trainers (only one from each pair. Maybe not everybody there was there for the greater glory of Nike). We might almost have been in the Greek pot rooms of the British Musuem. There were fancy, on-floor Apple computers where you could chat (to the personal computer) about your needs. There were inner sanctums where you could specify your own personal trainers, possibly modelled on those worn by Ashley Cole on his last outing for Leyton Orient and certainly made in China some weeks, if not months, after your plastic had passed through the finance machine. It all looked like a very expensive operation, staffed by hordes of eager and helpful acolytes, of both sexes, most of whose grandparents may not have been born in the UK.

But something was missing. It had been so well puffed by the TLS that the real thing seemed a bit flat. We did not even make it to the second floor where, inter alia, they did performance trainers for those of a basketball disposition.

So, by way of a consolation prize, we hoofed it up through Cavenish Square to the Wigmore Hall. Past the Langham Hotel, the vodka bar in the basement of which once took £30,000 from a bunch of German businessmen on a bender one evening. No complaints; everybody was happy with the transaction. I have yet to penetrate into this particular sanctum.

But the bar in the basement of the Wigmore Hall was a much more refined place; I am not sure if they sold vodka at all. But you did get a very large slice of brown cake with cream topping for £2.85. Plus a rather dressy crowd. As luck would have it, it was the day of the prize recital by this year's star pupil at the Guildhall School of Music, one Sasha Grynyuk. The star attractions, for me anyway, were Chopin's preludes (again. With a third rendering to come in Dorking in April). For warming up we had Haydn, Ligeti and Prokofiev. With a sonata by Scarlatti by way of an encore. I had never heard of Ligeti, but the peice was interesting. All micro structure - lots of interesting and moving texture - but no macro structure - apart from being split into lumps - that I could make out. Clearly a bit deficient in the ear. Certainly a real swine to play. Sasha G must have had very strong and strongly nerved forearms. But the main course, the Chopin, came fully up to expectations. Much that was new to me extracted from the Steinway supplied for the occasion. Not least the variety of said texture and tone. And the full house was very enthusiastic about the whole business.

Strolled home through Berwick Street to Leicester Square tube, with fine timing for the ten something to Dorking from Waterloo.

At least, that is what I think it is, my Chinese being a little rusty. Those better placed can investigate at http://gardenplan-ken.blogspot.com/.

Yesterday, to London, to chase haunts old and new.

Started off well, climbing aboard a train from Southwest trains which had not been cleaned since the morning rush-hour and so found a complete copy of the 'Financial Times'. Quite a treat to get a proper newspaper free these days of improper newspapers free. I remember that many years ago I used to get a nearly new copy of the DT from the same rubbish bin along the Strand (attached to a lamp-post), more or less every day, the only damage being that the owner had done the crossword. Not a problem for me as I can't do crosswords other than the quizword in the 'Sun', either then or now. Off at Waterloo to take refreshment at the Archduke. Excellent lager at a strong price. Reminded that the staff there are trained to fill the glass a centimetre from the top, adding perhaps 10% to the price of a pint. Didn't challenge on this occasion.

Thus fortified, up the steps onto the new Hungerford foot bridge. Reminded that whoever designed this otherwise decent bridge did not manage the steps onto it very well. A common problem with such things, this transition from the mud on the ground to the gold on the artwork. Entertained on the bridge by the passage of a small herd of young ladies, scantily dressed for what looked like tennis. Whatever were they up to?

Pushed on through Charing Cross station up to the empty plinth at Trafalgar Square, in the vain hope of inspiration against my being one the lucky 2,500 punters selected to do his or her bit for one hour sometime later this year. Failing there, on into the National Gallery to take another gander at the early Italians in the extension, following last year's trip to Florence (October, reported in various ways at the time). Good stuff. While one misses the special buzz of seeing the things (often in the dark) in their original homes, in their original setting, and one does not get the star attractions that the Florentines have hung onto, one does get a good selection, well hung and well lit in one place. See a lot of development in a small compass. Intrigued on this occasion by the passage, of the supporting cast in the paintings, from adoration of the subject to a passer-by, possibly having a chat with their neighbour about the weather or posing for the painter with an elegant crook of a nicely shaped hosiered knee. By the special place of cucumbers in the iconography of the day. Must investigate what all that was about. Must go more often.

Then time for refreshment again so repaired to a Chinese buffet in the passage between the southwest corner of Leicester Square and the National Portrait Gallery. As much as you want to eat for £4.95, tea extra. The buffet included a reasonable selection, including an interesting cabbage dish I had never had before. Large chunks of bright green cabbage, lightly cooked so one still got the tang that one gets from raw Brussells sprouts, cooked with slices of garlic, some bean sprouts and no doubt other bits and peices. Very good it was to.

Solid needs attended to, time for Wetherspoons in the square where a drink and a half cost a good deal less than one drink at the Archduke. Served to a centimetre from the top again, by an entirely new barmaid (so new that she needed the support of two assistant (male) managers). Moved to challenge this time whereupon one of the assistant managers filled to the brim without a murmur. Luck clearly in as I was able to scrounge a copy of 'El Mundo' here, from which I wa able to extract some news. It seems, in particular that the Princess Royal opened a hospital in Gibralter the day before yesterday, having been greeted by a marine band playing selections from Indiana Jones. Odd that the Spanish, the French and the Germans (to name but three which I know of) all have world newspapers while we do not. I think there is a Boston Globe but that is over the water, even if in a rather English part of the US. I learn from today's DT that the Spanish foreign ministry has protested the visit as being an insult to the sovereignty, integrity and honesty of the Spanish people.

Back through Horse Guards into Whitehall to inspect the castle wall being erected by Murphy's men (the Murphy who once went to jail for massive tax evasion) along the western side of Whitehall, the rustication of the ground floor of these solid, classical revival buildings notwithstanding. Must be costing a fortune. Not impressed to find the thoroughfare emcumbered with yet another second world war memorial - there must have been a dozen or more new ones in the last dozen or so years - this time to wimmen at war. An ugly black affair got up to look like a full coatrack. I wonder who was on the selection committee that commissioned the thing? Not the sort of thing that the previous Mayor of London would go in for. Perhaps the new one likes it.

Strolled west down the south embankment to the Black Dog in Vauxhall Walk. Past Millbank Tower looking as handsome as ever, a building the designer of which managed to get the transition from the ground to the artwork right. It sort of floats on a cloud of trees and the pillars of a seeemingly open plan but dark and mysterious ground floor. Only slightly let down by the downstream mid rise block which is not quite right. Somewhere along the way came across a young lady jogger with a racing baby buggy that she could push while jogging. Wheels much like those of a regular bicycle but not quite so big.

On arrival find that the Black Dog is now The Lavender, a gastro-pub with an open plan stainless steel kitchen taking up a good proportion of what used to be the bar. A couple of quite decent jars there and then off home to the home comforts of TB. No changes there, I am pleased to record.

BH won hands down. Now the proud possessor of a shiny new woolly cardigan all the way from Scotland. Quite surprised how much smarter and warmer it is than its predecessor, the fate of which is presently under negotiation. Quite surprised also how much the thing cost; not the same as shopping in a charity shop at all.

Not doing so well on the chocolate front. FIL being rather fond of chocolate but rather averse to gluten, I tried investigating the gluten content of a Galaxy bar with Mr G. First thing we find out is that there are lots of chocoholendentious geeks out there who build elaborate interactive web sites about chocolate. So I could contribute reviews of the latest version of Kit-Kat to a range of such places; an alternative, of sorts, to burbling here. There are some folk out there who express chocorage about the latest twist in the recipe for their favourite bar. Maybe they go to the lengths of freezing large supplies when their supplier gets it right for once. Second, it took a few minutes to find out who actually makes a Galaxy bar. Galaxy appears to be a widely used brand name, and the chocolate version appears to be owned by the Mars corporation and to be mixed up with a Greek-American confectionary entrepeneur who invented Dove chocolate, another big brand of which I had not previously heard. Drill through to Mars to learn that while it might be a world wide snack food operation, the Mars bar was first made in good ole Slough, UK. In my day, Mars used to be a brand name owned by Grand Metropolitan - who also owned milk and hotel companies. But no suggestion of that on the Mars site. And no nutritional information about bars by Mars on the Mars site either. One might have thought in this age of food and health consciousness that a supplier would feel the urge to put up all kinds of information dressed up in scientific clothes, but no. The best I could do was rather crude recipes attached to the review sites I started out at. Not really detailed enough to be sure about gluten. So off to the Coeliac roadshow. Next in Surrey on the 25th March. Report back in due course.

In the course of all this, I learn how easy it is to get it wrong, cruising around web sites without a paper and pencil. There is so much stuff out there that one can easily get into a dreadful muddle. But all quite entertaining, if not quite as worthy as jigsaws which exercise the gray cells properly.

By the way, those interested in odd web sites might care to try http://www.zibabim.com/ which has just be drawn to my attention and which seems to be an entry point to all kinds of oddities. I tried searching for cute animal pictures, in the course of which I got some vibrating pop-up which told me I had just won some competition. Click here for more information. Have your credit card fired up and ready to go...

Getting into a differant sort of muddle with Sir R. Penrose, an eminent physicist, or perhaps astrophysicist. Acquired one tome of his from a charity shop, fairly rapidly followed by an even larger tome from a more reputable source. The first tome, telling one all about everything, smelt a little of mature scientist finding God peeping out of the bottom of a dirty test tube. But persisting, I find the chap has a very good way of expounding mathematics and physics to a lay audience. In my experience, most popular science books about physics become impossible after the first few pages. They look accessible, so one buys the book. But very soon ones finds that science is hard, neither easy nor accessible. So the remainder of the book remains unread. I think what happens is that a scientist writes a splendid digest of his science which captivates his colleagues - who actually know it all already - as a splendid digest, and who make the mistake of thinking that those of us who do not know it all already will also think it splendid. Write gushing reviews of same to ensnare the likes of me. But Sir Roger does much better than average and does stir the long dormant mathematical part of my brain.

I learn, for example, that the apparently simple problem of a symetrical simultaneous collision of three billiard balls, is not simple at all. I have not checked the numbers - which I suppose if I persisted I could just about still do - but it seems that the solution is unstable with respect to the order of collision. Simulataneity is unlikely but that would not matter if all near simultaneous collisions gave the same answer. But it seems that they do not. There is a discontinuity at the point of simultaneity. Ball A hitting ball B first, then C hitting A and B just after gives quite differant answer than A hitting C first, then B hitting A and C just after.

And then that one cannot rely on the order of events. Suppose there are two events on Andromeda (which is a long way away), say A and B. Suppose that I am walking down one side of the road and that you are walking up the other side, in the other direction. If the conditions are right, I might claim that A happened before B and you might claim that B happened before A. No idea how that one worked but the assertion seemed clear enough.

Moving onto the larger tome, I am learning that there is far more to complex analysis than I ever learnt at uni, despite, as I recall, doing a whole unit on it. Maybe I missed out doing pure mathematics, rather than the mathematics with physics which was, in those days, a far commoner option. I am starting to feel I understand why being a complex function being differentiable is such a big deal. Even what a Reimann surface is - something I first heard of in 'Brave New World' maybe 45 years ago, but never got much further forward with. We will see at what point I get stuck in the this larger tome.

Perhaps it was all this Penrose which moved me to have another go at Soduku. Failed miserably on a DT moderate, but sailed through the Daily Mail competition one from Monday. Whacked it off in ten minutes or so. If I send a text off somewhere I might win a Soduko gadget. Competition entry fee a pound, so I wonder what the Mail makes of it. How many thousands of people bother to send the text? Or is it only tens?

BH has started to crank up her attack on my current cardigan, a blue lambswool affair from Marks and Spencer, with side pockets, an important property of a cardigan. Apparently it has started to sag and is no longer fit to be seen in a public place, let alone anywhere near her. There is dark talk of visiting a cardigan shop.

The odd thing is that I am now quite attached to the current cardigan. A small number of years ago I was quite attached to its predecessor and hardly wore the current one. But I cannot remember anything much about it. I am fairly sure that it had pockets and that it was more bulky than its successor, but as to colour and style not a clue. Definately troubling how something which was important has faded from view.

Slightly troubling that I do not know a more technical term for bulky cardigans. Home made cardigans tend to be more bulky than factory made ones. I suppose that this is more due to the thickness (guage?) of the wool used than to where it is made, although it might also be true that it is hard to get an even finish hand knitting with fine wool. Also that wool is expensive and a cardigan made of thick wool in a factory might get a bit expensive for the average punter. Must ask DIL who knows about these matters.

Finally finished the biog. of Nora Joyce by Brenda Maddox. Started it some time ago but started to motor a few days ago. As previously reported, her style can be a little irritating at times but the subject matter is interesting. And the gently femmy take from Brenda is that Nora was a much more substantial and important person than the Joyce industry has allowed. Joyce himself remains a very strange bird. Appears to have been a gregarious type who could turn on the charm - but who could also do some dreadful things. Very hard on those near him, some of whom clung on through thick and thin. Drunkard, which was a pain for immediate family, although not an alcoholic. Booze did not get in the way of his work. No idea how to bring up children. No idea how to deal with a schizophrenic daughter (a complaint which, according to Brenda, was a lot more common in Ireland, particularly the west of Ireland, than in England). No idea how to manage his affairs. Blew the very large amounts of money thrown at him by one Miss Weaver. And others. His attitude seemed to be that he was a genius and that it would be inappropriate to give any space to anything much other than feeding his genius and its product.

But as Brenda points out, it may be that had Joyce been forced to take a more commercial approach to his work, Finnegans Wake might have been less self-indulgent and more accessible. And all the better for it. Interestly, it seems that Nora preferred Finnegan to Ulysses. She liked the music of it when read aloud. Tried it again last night on a few pints. Maybe she had a point. Couldn't understand hardly a word, let alone where it was going. But there did seem to be something which kept one at it. Maybe try again this evening.

Miss Weaver, happily, was able to move on. She switched her affections to the reds.