pumpkinstrokemarrow

The Tequila bottle not doing too well either. Despite the occasional feeding with bits of moss, bits of triffid and bits and pieces of toe nail, it remains is firmly in the world of fungi rather than plants. Grey and yellow blotches, potatoes sinking slowly into the mire, but nothing green at all. Odd that there is not even any green algae, given that the bottle is not corked. How long will that take to drift in? Or have I inadvertently loaded the bottle with something that green plants do not like?

Been pondering on a couple of schemes. The first is for a new chargeable service from the Google Corporation. The idea being that they add a mail address 'the.other.side' to their mail world. This address would be our window onto the other side and if we wanted to communicate with those over there we just send our question, observation or whatever to it. Then Google would hire some recognised pyschics, perhaps only those registered with the BPS (British Psychopathic Society, an affiliate of the gang at http://www.psychopathysociety.org/), to attend to inbound email. Lastly, Google implement some kind of stamping mechanism, so the attention your email to the other side gets from these psychics depends on whether you have bought first class, second class, third class & etc stamp. Much more in keeping with the modern world than dealing with those dubious small ads you get in certain newspapers. I remember that French newspapers are full of them, perhaps recognising the strong connection with Francophone West Africa.

The second is for a new government database, leveraging the huge investment in tracking databases about children. So we get the children people to sub-let a portion of one of the many children databases to the dog people. We then say that from noon 1 April 2011, all dogs must be ear chipped and registered. The dog people would then, using mobile phone technology, be able to track all dogs in the country on a 24 by 7 basis, a great leap forward in dog management. Furthermore, we could build up a national network of dog wardens. They could patrol public open spaces during daylight hours (time and a half on Saturdays, double time on Sundays and treble time on public holidays) looking out for unregistered dogs and for dogs whose behaviour does not meet the soon to be promulgated standards for good doggy behaviour. In three parts, containing in total 1,234 pages and 117 half tone illustrations, available from better book shops and some supermarkets. Wardens would carry a special wand. If the wand was pointed at an unregistered dog or a dog with some problem, like some integrity violation on the dog database, it would emit a special sound, inaudible to human ears, which would make the dog lie down and whimper, thus enabling the warden to bag it up and cart it off to the dog pound. If, on the other hand, the wand was pointed at a clean registered dog, the name and address of the dog would pop up on a little screen on the butt end of the wand, thus enabling the warden to log details of the infraction on the central computer. Penalty notices would be sent out to owners by first class post at the end of every working day. Would need to think about whether to help out the struggling post office or whether to contract delivery out to some more go-ahead outfit. Maybe one should talk to Amazon about that. Should also commission the O&M people at the Home Office (or do Ag. & Fish. do dogs these days?) to do some work on the most cost effective range for the wands. A hundreds yards? A thousand metres? With the proviso that, for the duration, they were not allowed to accept anything other than immediately consumable hospitality from the people making the wands. No take aways.

A administrative oddity to report today. A couple of months ago I was moved to give some money to a charity. The form being that you wrote your credit card details on a form, ticked a few boxes and sent it in, second class prepaid. The transaction turned up on my credit card account around 11 March. Then a thank you letter dated 18 March arrived with the right name and address but entirely the wrong salutation. Leaving aside the length of time taken to process the donation, hopefully the result of the charity concerned being overwhelmed with them, how do they manage to make mailmerge or whatever comparable function they use to generate the thank you letters attach a salutation for one person and a name and address for another to one and the same letter. Perhaps the answer is that they actually generate the things more or less by hand, rather than whooshing them off their donors' file at the push of a button. Hopefully their charitable skills are of a higher order than their IT skills.

Or are all these things actually processed by a sub-contractor who specialises in handling donations for charities, in the same way that many charities outsource their street collections to sub-contractors? In which case I hope there are performance indicators built into the contract which encourage them to push transactions through at a good clip. The street collections I do not care for. Charity is supposed to be just that, not scruffy looking young people being paid to pester you in the street. I have a similar difficulty with charities paying their chief officers commercial rates - although they make the reasonable point that if you don't want monkeys it is better not to pay peanuts. Maybe yet another sign of age: I do not care for the way that the charity business is going corporate. Apart from being NFP, not much to choose between them and MacDonalds.

Wondered about the possibility of fraud if the form had fallen into the wrong hands. Presumably, anyone able to extract money from my account on the basis of the details of the form would have to be fully paid up members of some banking club. And so traceable. So provided I check my bank statement to make sure that the payment is made just once to the right people, I am OK. And the person with the wrong hands would be taking quite a risk. OK perhaps, if he managed to collect details from few thousand people like me, collect dosh and then promptly skip out or drop out. Not happened yet.

Got around, over the last couple of days, to connecting properly with the article on sexual abuse in prisons in the US mentioned on 27 March. In the course of which I decided that my knowledge of probability and statistics so expensively acquired forty years ago had faded into the background. It took me ages to grapple with formerly elementary questions like 'if something happens on average once a month, what is the chance of it happening in a year'? This particular question arising from a sample of prisoners. If 4% percent of prisoners interviewed on any one day reported having been abused, what percentage of prisoners will be abused during their stay? What is the total number of abused prisoners?

That apart, the numbers look unpleasant, with an estimated 90,000 prisoners reporting having been abused in either federal or state facilities, around 4% of the total, this estimate being based on a snapshot sample. I came away thinking that while one might quibble with the methods and the estimates, the problem looks real enough. I just hope that those who try and sort it out take the time to read 'The secrets of Bryn Estyn' (see January 17 2009) so that they get to know how not do it. Do not encourage often disturbed and unpleasant inmates to make allegations and then pay them by results. I was also reminded of how many people get locked up in the US. In a population maybe six times ours they appear to lock up maybe twenty times as many as we do, Wikipedia reporting a very rapid increase in the last 30 years. Bureau of Justice Statistics no doubt has it all, but seems a lot harder to get into than the comparable UK statistics.

My other foray into the net today was trying to find out what our esteemed leader, Gordon Brown, studied at university. The No. 10 website makes it clear that he was a very clever chap, running to a first class degree and a PhD and who was also very keen on sport, but is oddly coy about the subject of study. As were most of the other sites that Mr G. turned up. Eventually, the Economist tells me that his subject was history. I didn't get to find out what the PhD was on but I would not mind betting that it is on some former illumination of the Scottish labour movement, Gordon B. having been very keen on the labour movement and politics from a very early age. So at least he is not a lawyer, even if he has not had all that much exposure to the real world.

Another variation on the chicken soup theme today. Boil down one organic & vegetarian chicken carcase to around three pints of stock. Drain and leave to cool. An hour out, add six ounces of red lentils and bring back up to simmer. Fifteen minutes out, add seven carrots, sliced coarsely crosswise. Five minutes out, add three ounces of cold boiled white rice. Two minutes out, add two ounces of cold roast chicken, chopped, with the stalks of ten mushrooms. One minute out, add ten mushroom lids, each sliced into three pieces. Serve with fresh white bread. Just the ticket for a wet March luncheon hour.

And the sunken gardens looking good too. Very good line in topiary. Individual pudding trees rather than the larger, regular one. Pudding trees being the family name for larger items of topiary, the sort that is trimmed into interesting shapes rather than trying to replicate an armadillo or a cockerel. Although, as a child, we had a slightly eccentric don as a neighbour who, in the depths of his garden, had a very splendid topiary tank engine. Replication not all bad. We also came across some grey green bulbs just coming up which FIL and BH thought were some sort of crown imperial. I was not so sure. In my book crown imperials are a bright green, maybe shade 420B-5, sweet midori, not grey green, maybe shade 1079, paris green. We will have to keep an eye on the things in the coming weeks.

This relates slightly to another problem I came across this morning while finishing off the book mentioned yesterday by Margaret MacMillan. Suppose country A decides that country B is doing bad things and sends a lot of conscripts to bash country B out of their bad things. Suppose further that a lot of the conscripts get killed in the resultant messy war and that subsequently most people in country A decide that it would have been better to leave country B alone. The cure was worse than the problem. What do we do about memorialising our dead? Some take the view that the survivors and the families of the dead are the only ones qualified to have a view. That showing respect to our dead takes precedence over all other considerations and that this excludes saying out loud that the whole thing was a terrible mistake, or worse. Others take the view that those on the ground, possibly badly paid and badly educated conscripts, are not at all likely to make a considered judgement. In fact, being on the ground, might almost disqualify one from making a judgement at all. I am quite clear that one can come to a considered judgement without being on the ground. But I am not so clear about what one should do with that judgement.

In the olden days, before there was much conscription (at least in the UK), there was the principle, in the words of the poet, that 'Theirs not to reason why|Theirs but to do and die'. Those in the army existed and were paid to do the bidding of those in charge. They did not need to concern themselves with matters of higher policy. But things have moved on, so even when you are not conscripting people, those in charge do need to have a proper story on why they are asking people to risk their lives. And it is not unreasonable that those who have risked their lives are going to get cross if the tide changes and everybody else decides that the whole thing was wrong and that perhaps those involved were war criminals. We do have to show respect to those who die in the service of our country, even if, after the event, we find that service bad. This is often going to involve architectural stonework, perhaps on a large scale in a public place - although keying this reminds me that a lot of returning servicemen after the first world war were not at all keen on the architectural stonework that those who had stayed at home wanted to erect in honour of those that did not come home. A lot of those who did come home wanted something more useful done with the money collected on the wave of sentiment. Like building schools or village halls. All in all, a tricky path to tread.

I close with Caspar, a name I thought I did not know how to spell, so I asked Mr G. It turns out that you have two options as to what the name means. Option one, it is the current awareness service for policy, practise and research. This appears to be something published by the NSPCC. Option two, it is the computer assisted self and peer assessment rating, something published by the HEFCE. Which, just in case you did not know, is the higher education funding council for England. So there. Take your pick. Caspar's of the world unite!

Up to a point, Lord Cropper. It seems to me that if you were standing in the shield wall on Senlac Hill for hours on end, bashing Norman heads with your specialised hammer (Buck & Ryan may still do something suitable), seeing the Normans bash the heads of your comrades all around and in constant fear of having your own head bashed, you might get a bit stressed. Maybe to the point of traumatic stress. Maybe to the point of having nightmares, maybe even waking nightmares about it for years afterwards. The same sort of point could be made about standing in a square at Mont St. Jean for hours on end nearly a thousand years later, when battles may not have involved so much bashing by hand but did involve a lot more people and a lot more casualties.

It is true that people in those days were more used to death, pain and misery. Life was violent, brutish and short. At least it was for many people. But my belief is, chattering rag notwithstanding, that many of the survivors of such battles would have been permanently damaged, without necessarily having been wounded, despite being more used to it than we are. Perhaps condemned to a life on the margin, on the tramp, on the bottle or both. Perhaps to the life of the psychopathic aristo.. The iron dukes themselves seemed to have managed OK: both Bill and Art went on to have long and successful public lives. Did they bash their wives and dogs on the qt.? Also that, many of those who survived maybe did so by possessing qualities which would be regarded as thoroughly anti-social and unpleasant, if not criminal, in peace time. Think of the number of films featuring condemned men sent to do stirring deeds.

Talking of chattering rags, managed to get a NYRB the other day, the first time for a while. More like the LRB than the TLS; a lot of heavy articles only very loosely based on a book, if at all. So we got getting on for three pages on the health reforms in the US. Rather, not so much about the health reforms but about all the complicated shenanighans needed to get this very modest reform through. Odd how such a rich and powerful country has this huge blind spot about how to provide decent health care. I think, more or less alone in this regard in the developed world.

Then a long review, perhaps two pages, of a book by one Margaret MacMillan about the uses and abuses of history. Moved to buy the book which turns out to be very short. Leading me to think that it would interesting to analyse book reviews, bringing out the relationship - if any - between the length of the book and the length of the review. What are the drivers for the latter length? Another project for my MPhil from the university of the fourth age.

But all very relevant to my post concerning the columnist error on 20 March. Lots of stuff on why history matters. Amongst other interesting oddments, I learn that during the second world war, the Quebecois were rather keen on the Vichy regime in France and generally rather inclined to fascism. This was, presumably, in part a reaction against the stance of the English, but not very praiseworthy for all that. A bit of their history which has been largely brushed under the carpet. That during the first world war, despite the fact that the cuddly Irish hated the filthy Brits, over half the 200,000 or so Irish that volunteered to fight in the Brit army were Catholics. That the Hindu component of India is busily trying to rewrite history from a Hindu-centric viewpoint and gets rather unpleasant if anyone tries to pull them up a bit. Which reminded me that when visiting the temple at Neasden (http://www.mandir.org/) I was very impressed to learn how much important science had been kicked off by the Hindus at a time when we were still living in caves. Also that a lot of the detailing in the temple was a bit tacky. Perhaps the product of a lot of the work having been done by volunteers, rather than builders.

There was also a long article about abuse in US prisons. It all sounded pretty dreadful although it must be very hard to collect reliable data about this sort of thing. Do I believe that much of it is perpetrated by female staff on male inmates? Must try and read the thing carefully, given the mess that we got into about abuse in childrens' homes in this country. See January 17 2009.

Over the last few days there has been still more shopping, in the form of a cake hunt. The hunt centred in Epsom. Started off with the High Street caffs, at least two of which looked as if they would sell one a basic cake. Didn't make any enquiries though; in these small places it is too easy to be sucked in too fast once one makes a start. Failure in negotiating style which also manifests itself in car boot sales. Sprog 1 much better than me at this sort of thing. Next stop a shop called 'Cook' which did a modest range of frozen cakes and deserts at modest prices. A gang called http://www.cookfood.net/ with whom I had had no previous acquaintance. Middle aged shop assistant all done up in a blue apron as if he was the cook. Not particularly keen on the frozen option; it might work fine but it does not have the right savour about it. Not exactly just like Auntie Flo's efforts. Then onto Marks & Spencer. A modest range of fresh, another of boxed and another of frozen. There were things here which would do, but nothing very sparkly. No froth. A bit dull with too much of that heavy white icing they tend to put on wedding cakes. Then onto Waitrose, which I had been expecting to be the best of the bunch. But actually slightly inferior to Marks & Spencer. So ended the first round, somewhat wiser, without cake but with two kippers. Waitrose can do kippers.

On the second day, thought it was an ideal opportunity to sample the shiny new Mr S., previously mentioned but not sampled. I thought that this huge newly refurbished shop would have a substantial bakery department. But disappointed. There was indeed a substantial bakery department but the impression given was that it was devoted to their basics range. Certainly not up to Marks & Spencer. Second round, still without cake.

On the third day, thought of Patisserie Valerie, of which we have a branch in Kingston. Not a bad outfit to my mind, for a chain, despite their Soho outlet being a bit cramped upstairs. Maybe, like so many of these chains, they are trying to grow too fast and what was a good idea will go belly up. Lose grip on quality as the operation gets too big for the founders to keep a personal eye on. Have to rely on procedure manuals like the rest of us. Be that as it may, for the moment they are doing all right, so off to their web site. Where I find that they do indeed do a good range of frothy cakes. Order today, collect tomorrow. Just the ticket, maybe twice the price size for size than the other places. Cunning touch in that the cakes are all more or less the same price size for size, so you can chose the one you like without having to worry whether this one is dearer than that one. So, third round, still without cake, but cake more or less chosen. My betting is that we will go with this option. Probably not a good plan to collect the thing on the bicycle, tempting though that is. Just about ready for the 20 mile round trip now. No big hills.

Closed the day by leafing through my second hand copy of the annual abstract of statistics for 2007. New price £49.50. Price to me as new £1.50, ex Epsom Library. Came across a table about the balance of payments, table 19.10. I find that the absolute value of the balance has grown steadily from a small number of hundreds of millions a year in the 1950's to tens of thousands of millions a year in the 2000's. For some years, the balance was actually positive, presumably the oil years. But now the number is strongly negative, getting more negative and running at -£50,000,000,000, say £1,000 for each man, woman and child. On a GDP of around +£1,000,000,000,000. Which says to me that we are consuming about 5% more than we are growing. Clearly unsustainable in the long run. When will the bubble burst? Option 2, I have read the thing all wrong. Not the easiest read late at night.

Then on to inspect the western end of the ground floor of Selfridges, a place I have not been to for a while. Rather noisy background music, perhaps better suited to the eastern end of Oxford street than the western end. More or less a fancy indoor market: that is to say the place was mainly populated with franchises. But they did at least enforce a dress code, so all the staff were soberly and smartly dressed. There were even a few extras who scooped one up if one looked a bit lost. Found my way to the stationary department which did not seem very fancy at all; perhaps stationary is not really their thing. But most disappointing was the tobacco kiosk. Not a patch on the one in Harrods, although to be fair it is some years since I visited this last. But at that time you had a walk in-kiosk with a good range of all sorts of tobacco plus a knowledgeable, mature (almost a senior moment here. Mature originally typed as major. Or perhaps a convergence of images) gentleman to serve. Today's kiosk in Selfridges very thin. Perhaps that is not really their thing either. Didn't make it to the food hall of which I have had good report. Maybe next time.

Back at home to muse on the conversion of our local Sainsbury, which has been promoted to the second largest in the land, this from my informant in my third favourite hostelry. That apart, given the scale of the conversion they have done quite well to manage with shutting the place for just one week, although this did mean that the shop was a bit of a mess for some weeks before that. Presumably they parachute in some specialist project team from HQ to manage such affairs, getting right up the nose of the manager on the spot.

Didn't manage to visit the place immediately prior to closure when one might have supposed that they would be more or less giving some of the remaining stock away or immediately after closure when one might have supposed that they would be doing some opening offers. But I did manage to cruise around the car park on the bicycle on reopening day, drawn in by the orange blimp bobbing about overhead. Car park full, this late morning on a weekday, not Friday. Checkouts decorated with balloons. Decide not to venture inside. Apart from anything else the panniers had a good load of meat and you never know who might be creeping around the car park. Perhaps, on this occasion, the mayoral chauffeur having a quick fag while the mayor cut the festal ribbon?

Back at the hostelry, my informant told me over a few jars about the very fierce personnel policies they operate. So if, for example, you trot up to personnel to ask about a new top to replace the one you have which has been worn out by washing (wash your own that is), you get invited to come back some other time when you are off shift. Or if you make some suggestion about how things might be better done, you get told that you do things the way that it says in the book. This shop belongs to Mr. S. and you do what he says in his book. All laid down by expensive management types at HQ (possibly, even, consultants) and no room for personal or local initiative. I suppose this reflects the make up of their staff: largely rather young with poor work discipline. Forever phoning in sick or turning up with a hangover. Not so much fun if you are a mature person, no longer, very often, into hangovers. My informant also told about fake shoppers which are sent around stores to give staff marks out of a 100 (each) for their customer interaction skills. It seems that rule number 1 is that, when accosted by a customer, you either get rid of them PDQ, or you are helpful. Don't fall between two stools and waste time on them. That way both Mr. S. and the customer both lose out; the worst of both worlds. Local managers really get the wind up if they happen to find out that the falsies have taken the floor as it is effectively them who are being marked. Sometimess to the point where they need a bit of 'Old Spice' rather than something from the basics range. My informant's parting shot was that there were far too many men in suits creeping about managing things. Plus far too many useless agency staff with funny accents earning more than the hard working locals. So maybe the private sector is not so different from the public sector after all.

Coincidentally, I had chosen the same day to honour the Oxford Circus memorial to the rolling back of public interference in private affairs. I was able to show respect by making my very own choice of exactly where to step off the side walk into the path of oncoming buses, entirely unprompted by elaborate and expensive iron work.

Followed up by a visit to the worldwide headquarters of the retail part of the Filofax empire in Conduit Street. A shop which stocks every line coming out of the Filofax production facility. Binders in all shapes, sizes, colours & etc. Stuffings ditto. And what is more, unlike other shops, you had the choice of buying a binder stuffed or unstuffed, with £10 off in the case of the latter. Filofax have worked out that the faithful are irritated by, when renewing their old and much loved binder, having to pay for a whole lot of stuffing which they do not need. They just want to move the old stuffing from the old binder to the new binder. My old binder is about 20 years old and cost around £45 at that time. This particular line was stopped about five years ago, but there were other offerings of the same sort for between £40 and £50. Leather work not quite as smooth but we have to allow for inflation. Or if I was fussy about the leather work they had some natty items at £100 plus. Then the sales girl trotted out a £60 one with 30% off but no further discount for unstuffing. Sold. Some bits of the stuffing proved to be useful, notably a fold out map with the political world on one side and the time zone world on the other.

She seemed inclined to make a bit of a performance of the sale, not quite understanding that as a Filofax user of some 50 years standing I did not need, or at least want, much instruction on how to drive the things. I got the impression that I was the first customer she had had that morning. In fact, can't see the place surviving. Prime retail site just off Regent Street. But it will be a shame to see it go. Nice to know that there is always somewhere which will stock that particular bit of stuffing that has become so important.

Foiled later in the day when I wanted to visit the church somewhere on the eastern side of South Audley Street. Unlike the church at Mudchute in the depth of the Isle of Dogs, the doors were firmly closed and the steps up to them were decorated by sundry down and outs. We learn that keeping churches open in the heart of the Isle of Dogs is a better bet than keeping them open in the heart of Mayfair. Perhaps there are too many people of other faiths in Mayfair to make keeping a Christian church open worthwhile. Tried to run the church down on the Internet and failed. Mr G. suggests that it ought to be the Grosvenor Chapel but the detail seems wrong. Should have taken down details when I was there. Must take a closer look next time I am in the vicinity. Looks worth getting into.

Occupied the luncheon hour with the Wigmore Hall where I heard Jansen (violin) and Golan (piano) do a Bartok violin sonata, a Beethoven violin sonata (Spring) and a Bartok rhapsody. Full house with the queue for returns far outstripping the very modest supply. Spiffing stuff, especially the Beethoven. I prefer my music with a bit of order and control; quite enough madness and fury in the world without having to manufacture same gratuitously. Interestingly, the violinist, dressed in a rather fetching off the shoulders gown (if that is the right technical term) seemed much more alive and physical when playing the Bartok than when playing the Beethoven. She looked well excited by the end of the concert, making me wonder how she was going to spend her afternoon. I wound down with a drop of the warm black stuff at the neighbouring Toucan (present on Google but link down).

On Weizmann, I have got to a bit where his argument gets into sticky ground. We have got to the late twenties or early thirties of the last century and the Arabs in Palestine are starting to get a bit restive about the volume of Jewish immigration. They are being whipped up into action by agitators and others, such as the English, are starting to worry about their rights. To which the Weizmann response was, how can the rights of a few hundred thousand Arabs be compared with those of a whole people? To which we might respond, how indeed? How do we weigh the rights of the Jews of the whole world against the rights of some Arabs who happen to live in a particular part of it? Of what sort are the rights of the Jews of the whole world?

This day last week, we took our newish kite out for a test drive on Epsom Downs, it being a bright day with a light breeze and the leg being fit for this sort of mild activity. The kite was a regular kite shape, maybe four feet high and three feet across. Went straight up and then more or less straight down. Decided that maybe BH was right and the little black ribbon was intended to tie the two frame poles together and that maybe the addition of a couple of woolly gloves to the end of the tail would give the thing a bit of bottom. Kite then went straight up and stayed up; very pretty thing it was too. Let it out to its full extent and then tethered it to FIL with a short length of our trusty blue agricultural rope. Very easy to let go of kites when concentration slips. He was pleased to be flying a kite for the first time for perhaps 60 years. We found that kites were a big aid to conversation on the Downs, better even than a dog. Every other party stopped to pass the time of day.

We were the most conspicuous kite of the day. Other people might have had more elaborate kites but ours was big and stayed up. On the way back to the car park we found that thoughtful people had impaled a collection of woolly gloves along the railings, against the possibility that a wannabee kite flyer had ventured out without his or her gloves. Which reminds me of the rather impressive occasion when the national formation kite flying team turned out in the mist to mark the death in a road accident of one of their members. 12 kites in formation in the mist was quite an eerie sight, only explained by our stumbling across the widow and asking her what was going on, before we realised what was going on. I don't think we caused any additional upset.

Back home, discovered how difficult it was to roll back up the three ribbons of the tail from the outside in. But managed it in the end. Result reasonably neat.

On a slightly less serious note, we had a serious Independent columnist yesterday claiming that it was always a mistake to draw historical parallels just before he went on to make one. What on earth does he think we study history for? OK, so part of it is for the fun of it. But part of the fun, and certainly part of the point, is that we can learn from history. Being charitable, I put the claim down to sloppy sub-editing.

This over a new form of bubble and squeak. Take one ounce of home made beef dripping and heat in frying pan. Take eight ounces of cold mashed potato, four ounces of cold baked cod and a handful of slivered (I had thought 2 v's. And I still think that 2 v's would be more natural than the 1 v which seems to be correct) raw white cabbage. Fry gently for 15 minutes, with the lid on, stirring with a fish slice from time to time. Not exactly a slimming dish but it went down very well.

Followed up by a successful foray into the rather complicated web-site, apparently operated by Capita, which provides access to teachers' pensions. Not sure why it needs to be so complicated but I suppose they can claim that all their customers are fully literate and might be expected to be able to work a complicated web-site. But what about an elderly handicraft teacher who has never flown a keyboard in his life? Now the proud possessor of yet another set of logon credentials to worry about.

Yesterday to the Rose Theatre at Kingston to see 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', perhaps for the fourth time in living memory, not counting the film. Easily the best of the four, and not that unlike the version we saw at the same place in June last year (see June 5 2009). Good outing for the poetry in the first half, second half dragged a bit with too much weight put on the mechanicals. Interested in the way that the rapid switches in the love sick young between high flown poetry, ribaldry through to coarseness, poking fun through to angry abuse were brought out in this rendering. In the way that it did not seem to matter that Titania was no longer in the first flush of youth. Perhaps having boys do the womens' parts would not seem to matter once one got started. Oberon (Charles Edwards) much better than on the last occasion, although teetering on the edge of parody. Puck and Quince good. Bottom good but a touch overcooked.

Now given that mechanicals of the day would probably be fairly intelligent and thoughtful chaps, possibly literate, it is just possible that they would play the play for their lord straight, rather than as a pantomime. Amateur dramatists taking their hobby seriously. So it would be interesting to see a production of AMSND which took this line, rather than the slapstick presently favoured.

Theseus a bit weak. Maybe there is something wrong with the part. A chap who in the first half is supposed to be, but does not convince as, a warrior king who is up for executing pretty young girls who don't do what their father tells them and in the second half comes across as a kindly and educated country squire. But his betrothed, Susan Salmon, brought a wonderful, physical grace to the proceedings.

He must have been a very able person to have lifted himself out from the depths of the Pripet Marshes, where it seems that in his youth, some people still went about in dug out canoes, to the eminence he became. A Zionist from the cradle.

It seems that back in the 19th century it was the ambition of some Jews to go to Palestine to die, rather than to live. Going there to live was a new ambition. Weizmann claims that Zionism was not born of or driven by the treatment of the Jews by the Russians but I do not buy this. Zionism might always have been there as a dream, but the dream would have never acquired power without the Russians.

In an interesting twist, it turns out that the neutralising clause in the Balfour Declaration, mentioned in the last post, was as much the result of bitter feuding within the English community, between the Zionists and the Assimilationists, as of any concern for the Arabs. Assimilationists being much more interested in building the good life in England that trolling off to build a new life in the desert. I guess, at this time, empire was still OK and there was nothing particularly wrong with the Jews seeking to colonise a chunk of the Middle East. After all, it was not many years since Europe had finished grabbing North Africa. We even offered them a chunk of Uganda as an alternative at one point. Then a very barren and very small chunk of Palestine. But the Zionists held out for Zion - and were not pleased when this was defined to exclude the lands to the east of the Jordan river, then called TransJordan.

His memoir says much about the need to build up the Jewish population in Palestine to the point where it was the majority and pays scant attention to the needs or rights of the Arabs who were already there - but there is some attention. To the point that, it seems that in 1918, shortly before the end of the first war, he struck a deal with Emir Faisal, the chap to whom Lawrence of Arabia reported, along the lines that there was plenty of room in the then rather empty, poor and barren Palestine for both peoples and that a partnership would be to the greater good of all. Both had plenty to offer. Faisal, although born in what is now western Saudi Arabia, had ambitions to lead a pan-Arab state centred on Damascus, including as well as western Saudi Arabia much of what is now Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and Israel. At this point, things looked quite hopeful, but they were certainly scuppered by the time that Faisal was packed off to be king of what is now Iraq as part of some shabby deal between the English and the French.

To our credit, we had tried to broker a deal. But, sadly, we were too concerned with our own power and place in the region for this to work. East of Suez was, at the time, important for us.

By way of balance, turned out the memoir by Chaim Weizmann, bought for my mother by my father from Bourne & Hollingsworth of all places, in 1964. Why would he go to a department store for such a book when he lived in a bookshop filled Cambridge? (Mr G. tells me that the once famous name has now been appropriated by some fashionable watering hole, the sort of place which would probably not let me in). Will Weizmann express any concern for the aborigines of his chosen land? From what I can remember of 1964, neither my parents nor lefty intellectuals in England in general had much at all. In fact, the only occasion I can remember their existing was when an Israeli communist - I forget who he was or why I was in contact with him - expressed regret at the splitting of the Israeli party into Jewish and Arab wings.

Leafing through the memoir, all I have lighted on so far is a lot of shennanighans at the time of the Balfour Declaration. Which despite the flak it attracts in some quarters, contains the nuetralising qualification '... nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of the existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine ...'. So while we may have failed, I read this to mean that we did at least hope to do the right thing by those communities.

Upbreaded yesterday in TB when prosing on about the importance of bread. My interlocutor innocently enquired whether I knew of pretzels, which he knew as a snack served with beer and without butter in Germany. Now while the word was perfectly familiar, I had not got a clue what one of these was. Bagel yes but pretzel no. Explanation left me none the wiser, but I now turn to Mr G. who succeeds in reminding me what these things are. I have only ever had the dry version, dark brown sugary sticks which come in sealed plastic bags and which are served as appetisers in suburban homes. I did not much care for them. I must try some of the larger ones pictured in Wikipedia and see if I like them better. Maybe I better hoof it down to Munich and try the things on their home ground?

Downbreaded last week in Cheam where I find that there previously excellent Friday rye with carraway seeds has got a lot darker and the texture has got softer; moved from bread towards cake. Touch of the molasses I should think. Still not bad, but not as good as the original. But there was compensation. I bought a large white bread knot, with poppy seeds. Truly wonderful loaf, done the same day. BH thinks that they are made from a folded loop of dough. Result has ample curves and cleavages, well worthy of presentation by Nigella L. Perhaps the baker will make another one one day: don't think that it is part of his regular repertoire; this loaf perhaps the result of his liking to fiddle around with new things.

Short piece in yesterday's Evening Standard which caught my eye about a fancy new computer control system for our Fire and Rescue Service. (Noting in passing that government has caught that irritating bug from the likes of M&S and talks about 'Our fire and rescue service'. I suppose it could have been worse with 'Your fire and rescue service'). It is claimed that we have spent some £400m on this system, presently some way off working. I then started to wonder about how many millions of pounds you need to spend to control each fire engine. Can't be that many to the county. Trundle off to the appropriate part of the government net to find lots of statistics about fire men and fire women. Their age, sex, colour, orientation, marital condition and first aid certification. All that sort of thing. Quite a lot of statistics about fires. But nothing that I could find about fire engines. Does the government not know that all the boys are interested in is their toys? So I am unable to report how many millions of pounds it costs not to control a fire engine.

Yesterday to Salisbury, with the day starting off with two coincidences. First coincidence was that the girl friend of the personable young man who drove the refreshment trolley on the train came from the same Devon village where BH spent her formative years. We also got to learn something about the refreshment trolley industry. Outsourced, of course. Second coincidence was that the pub to which we were headed for lunch - http://www.haunchofvenison.uk.com/ - featured in that very day's DT. It seems that someone had pinched their famous mummified hand of card sharp the day before. Good lunch though, not much spoilt by absence of mummy.

On the way, pleased to be able to view one of those facilities where they manufacture woodland reared chicken eggs. The sort of thing you pay a modest premium for in the better class of supermarket. This one consisted of a medium sized, single story shed, maybe 30 yards by 10 yards. Hard to be sure from above, from a train. To one side there was a yard containing some chickens. To the side of the yard was a more extensive area containing some more chickens. Along the boundary of this second area there were a few trees, with a few chickens grubbing around underneath. One would have to visit the place to be sure, but the general impression was that the great majority of chickens preferred to stay in the shed. But they did have access to the outside world. Perhaps they drew lots for who was to be allowed out into it today.

Second hand shops found to be massively cheaper than those of London. So I acquire an Arden 'Measure for Measure' for the princely sum of £1. Good news is that on return to base, I found that I had not acquired a duplicate. Bad news is that the book appeared to have been lifted from Salisbury Library at some point. At least, there was no 'withdrawn from stock' or some such stamp across the title page. Which libraries are usually fairly careful about when selling stuff off. Don't think there is much point in posting it back though as I imagine they would drop it straight in the skip. Then I acquire a boxed set of Beethoven Piano Concertos for 50p a disc, which made a total of £2. With Ashkenazy playing too. This one, however, did turn out to be a duplicate, so I will be able to play spot the difference between Ashkenazy and Brendal. Which I expect I will be very bad at. Perhaps one needs some gadget to play the two wave forms in parallel on the screen so that you can spot the difference visually. Would the two wave forms be close enough for spot the difference to have any meaning? Must consult serious geek to see whether such a thing can be organised.

Visited the cathedral. Outside most impressive in the cold mid afternoon light. Inside impressive, very sculptural but also rather cold. Perhaps having been built more or less in one go it did not have the homely clutter and mess of a cathedral which had been messed around with over the centuries. None of the florid carving you get at Ely. Cold in the way that a smart hotel bar is compared with a scruffy pub bar. Came across a very impressive monument, several stories high, apparently to a Duke of Somerset. Not clear if it was one of the those who died in his bed. Sufficiently impressive that the thing gets a rather confusing mention in Defoe's notice of his visit to the place.

Closed with the purchase of some lower grade kabanos in a Polish grocery. The shop girls seemed rather amused at the suggestion that their kabanos might contain chicken but they did inspect the ingredients to find that some of their kabanos did indeed contain chicken. They laughed off the idea of cheese and I don't think they understood my explaining that we had come across some Austrian imitation kabanos which did contain cheese. The 100% pork ones we did get were very cheap - maybe £4 for 10 of the things - but were not much good. Damp and fatty. They might improve if we leave them in the fridge to dry off for a week or two.

Day before yesterday, spent the evening with Jane Fonda at 'The China syndrome'. Quite fun to see a young Jane enacting in film her own life; that is to say a spiffing bimbo who wants to be something other than a bimbo and go in for serious issues. Like doing a big number on a near melt down in a nuclear power station run by ruthless capitalists. I seem to recall that there was a day when she was almost strung up for treason for manning a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft battery, but that all seems to have been put aside as she was allowed to make this film and is allowed to appear in commercials for various potions and activities to turn back the effects of time.

Reflected afterwards about the three staples of films from the US. First, corruption and cover-ups in high places, preferably in the Federal Government. This presumably draws on a libertarian, small government streak in the US psyche, a psyche which suits big-business just dandy. Second, architects. Not sure what drives this one. Why should film goers in the US be so keen on this branch of the creation industry? But they do pop up awfully often. Third, small and cuddly children who turn out to be possessed by the devil. Or something of the sort. I suppose this must be down to some deep inner conflict: on the one hand they are all for family, on the other they can't stand small children getting in the way of their life. So it's nice to be able to hate them vicariously, for a while, in the evening. But why should they be different from us, which I think they are, in this regard?

Yesterday, spent the evening with a much more worthy film called 'Water'. Brought to us by BBC4 as part of a world film series or something. I remember seeing some good films a year or so ago about Israel, or perhaps the Middle East more generally, under the same banner. Pity there is not more of them. This one was a costume drama about a sort of boarding house for widows in 1930's India, in Hindi with subtitles. Presumably all the hundreds of million of people in India who do not speak Hindi have to make do with subtitles, just like us. On the other hand, perhaps the non-Hindi speaking parts of India did not go in for the sort of thing portrayed.

Which was the horrid way widows were both created and treated, set in a doomed romance. Created in the sense that it seems that one could become a widow, and be condemned to be treated as such, as young as 8 or 9, perhaps without ever having met one's husband. Treated as such seemed to mean either jumping onto his pyre; possibly marrying his brother; or, going to live for the rest of one's natural life in a lower grade nunnery. The one in this film looked fairly unpleasant, with the younger women, again perhaps as young as 8 or 9, being rented out for the night to pay for the grub, most of which found its way into the chief widow. She also appeared to be into smoking some sort of illegal substance in a pipe.

Reflected afterwards that it was bad that widows were and perhaps are treated like this. But good that a film could be made about it by the perpetrators. Also that while European colonisers did plenty of bad things, they probably also tried their best to stamp out practises of this sort. European civilisation really did had something to offer. Us bleeding heart liberals who go soft at the knees talking about the destruction of other peoples' cultures should bear this in mind. Other peoples' cultures often have some rougher edges than our own.

Another common misconception concerns the solitary nature of domestic cats, derived from the solitary nature of most big cats. If Franklin is anything to go by this is a oversimplified formulation. Franklin is very keen on people and will go up to almost anyone in search of a bit of interest. And then there was the pannier incident of 24 February. It might all be a show put on to persuade us to provide some grub - he is looking rather thin again - but I think there might also be a liking for human company. He is quite happy to sit and watch while one tends the compost heap. But also true that he had a good sniff around the edges. And he was having a good sniff around the edges of the vegetable box in the garage the other day. Rather looked if he had clocked some mouse smell. So after all that, not sure after all. Is it just the grub they luv?

PS: a minor geekery. I had occasion to use Internet Explorer the other day, the first time for some time, having switched over to Chrome. And it managed to bring up some near porn. blog in no time at all. Something which Chrome very rarely does. Are the people at Google more family friendly than the people at Microsoft? I remember being rather shocked when on a visit to Microsoft at Reading at the under dressed, very young females portrayed in the advertising for Xbox or something. This from one of the Anglo countries obsessed with peddoes.

But, being a 75 years old key, a bit odd. Instead of being made out of what looks like a single piece of metal - although I dare say some blanks are actually assembled from two or more pieces - this key is made in two pieces. The shank, that is to say the left hand portion in the illustration, has been cut from sheet maybe 1mm thick, while the blade, that is to say the right hand portion in the illustration, up to and including the just visible knurl, is made from something else, rather heavier. The shank is welded into a slot in the knurl. Now why did they do this? It does save metal, but one would have thought that even in those days this would not be enough to offset the increased cost of manufacture. So my thought is that in the days when the house was built, housewives were much more lock conscious, perhaps needing to keep the maid's hands out of the till, as it were. Or the maid's hands out of the master's porn. drawer. So the housewives had lots of keys. And lots of keys could be heavy. So it is worth while using this technique to get the weight down. Perhaps by as much as a half.

Having got that out of the way, the next problem was that although the lock itself worked, worked OK once a bit of oil had been worked into it, the bolt snagged the door plate, the door frame having moved a fair bit since the house was built. So out with screwdrivers, chisels and so forth and move the door plate up by the necessary 2mm. Clearly not the first time such an operation had been done: in fact, the new much longer screws appeared to have located the original screw holes. So now we have a door which can be locked.

Next step making good. Off to buy some Polyfilla. Polyfilla, then undercoat, then gloss. All quite routine. We will get there after a day or so.

But while I was doing this I thought to myself that this two part key, if it was to be brought into regular use, was quite likely to fall apart, maybe with the blade in the lock and the bolt in the door frame. Might be a bit of a big hole to dig oneself out of. So off to get a spare key cut. The locksmith - one of those chaps that mends shoes in a kiosk that is - has not got the right blank for this relatively ancient key - and has to start with something rather too big and work down. After about five minutes I have a shiny new key plus a lifetime guarantee. Rush home and try the thing out. Can't even get it in the lock. At this point, take a more careful look at the thing, to be quite shocked at how carelessly the thing had been finished. Grinding wheel marks all over the place - rather like a parquet floor which has been scarred by a carelessly driven rotary sander. The locksmith clearly thought I had had my monies worth (£7) by the time he had cut the thing roughly to size, never mind about finishing it off properly. Not much pride in his craft.

Not too keen on cycling back to town to get him to do better. (BH tells me that a lot of these people are ex-forces. A business they can get into with modest capital and modest level of skill). Instead, turn out the file drawer to find a suitable small file. Mount FIL's small metalwork vice in the woodwork vice, file the key in the metalwork vice and file away. After a while the key goes in one side of the lock. After a bit longer it goes in the other side of the lock. But still no rotary action. So take an even more careful look at the thing. Decide that the blade was maybe 1mm too long. More filing. Good thing that key blanks are made out of very mild steel. And, abracadabra, the thing suddenly works. From both sides. Very pleased with my first ever play at locksmith. So pleased in fact that I feel entitled to retire to the sofa for the rest of the day to watch the undercoat dry on the door frame.

At around the same time the BH had bought a couple of turkey drumsticks, which must have come off some monstrous turkey and which cost £5 the couple. Roast they did one meal for three and some sandwiches for one. Quite respectable eating, not quite on a par with the beef, but certainly very good value and easy cooking.

Yesterday to Tooting where we made two acquisitions. One CD containing the Encyclopedia Britannica from the Fara charity shop and one book, 'In Araby Orion', borrowed from the Wetherspoon's lending library.

Started off quite pleased with myself as CDs were said to be £2.50 each and I got a boxed set of two for £2.50. Perhaps the assistant got it right in that I would not have paid £5. I think she thought about it. Not too bothered at this point that it came from long-ago (in multi-media speak) 2004 and that it was the standard rather than the deluxe edition. Then noticed an elaborate serial number and started to worry whether I would be able to load the thing. Is it like Microsoft where you have to read the long number over to their computer which then gives you another long number to type into your computer? I needn't have worried. The thing loaded up fine on PC No. 1, only requiring one to type the long number in. Plus something called Quicktime wouldn't load for lack of something. Loaded it up on PC No. 2, the one that FIL uses, without any bother. The whole point being to give him something to vary his computing diet a bit, his PC not being connected to the Internet despite frequent pop-ups about wireless networks being detected. Not mine. Then I thought I had better have a go with the thing. First, tried what was called the atlas and that was pretty hopeless. As the proud owner of a car boot sourced Britannica Atlas on paper, which I think rather good, I was expecting something of the same sort. But not at all. As far as I can see the only thing the atlas does is display rather elementary maps of any country or such larger area as you care to nominate. Second, tried asking it about Macbeth. That seemed a bit better. It listed all the dozens of articles in which Macbeth got a mention and invited you to display any or all of them. Not all at once that is. But the standard of article was not that good. I'm sure that I've got a version dumbed down from the paper job for the CD job. Integration of pictures, tables and text fairly creaky too. Third, tried Waterloo and got what I thought was a reasonable, one screen summary of the battle. But rather thin: not even enough to deal decently with history homework. I am sure there would have been a lot more had I bothered to look in our ancient Chambers. Plus, in Chambers, the whole thing has a more scholarly tone. You know what you are getting and where it comes from.

In the interests of testing bias, tried Aspern, a battle I know something about from the historical novel by one Rimbaud (not the poet, another one). This did not rate a proper entry at all. Tried Austerlitz, as big a deal for the French as Waterloo is for us. This did attract an entry, perhaps two thirds the size of that on Waterloo. So bias present but not awful. Tried a few more topics, much the same sort of thing. And it was rather slow. A lot slower than using Wikipedia despite being offline.

So, all in all, not impressed. I might just about have got my £2.50 worth, but I am glad I did not pay the proper price, which I suppose to be of the order of £20. The thing falls between two stools. It does not have the comfortable solidity of a proper paper encyclopedia, nor is it a very good computer tool. Maybe a CD package is not the way forward. Should I investigate the online version for which I have got a free trial? Is it worth my quality time, given the experience so far?

'In Araby Orion' was a rather interesting, if odd, book. A short story about an attack on Jericho, published in 1930, a memorial to a Lance Corporal killed in an attack on Jericho, as part of Allenby's army, in 1918. Written by Edward Thompson, first edition, ex libris Norman Stayner Marsh. The tone reminds me very much of that of the more or less contemporary 'Seven Pillars of Wisdom', while not attempting to do anything so grand as this last. A much more modest affair, in every sense of the word. The copy that I found is by no means the last as Mr G. knows all about it. There is a recent, illustrated reprint from the US. Mr G. even knows about Norman Stayner Marsh who was, it seems, an eminent lawyer who was an honorary fellow of Oxford's Pembroke College and who rated an obit. in the Guardian. Born in 1913 and I am pretty confident it is the right chap given the style of the book plate.

And then I get one from another friendly bank, HSBC, which alleges that I spent £50 odd on something called spicegold. Never heard of. Ask Mr G. and it seems that there are lots of things called spice gold, including some kind of cannabis look alike which was legal in this country until late last year when they got around to sticking it onto the list of Class B drugs. But Wikipedia helpfully explains where it is still legal. However, none of this helps me to check my credit card bill as I have not knowingly ingested the stuff. Work the brain cells a bit harder, dig some dog-eared receipts from the wallet and find that the amount corresponds to that spent in a very decent restaurant on Garrett Lane called Kazans - http://www.kazans.com/Home.aspx. Eventually discover the word spicegold on the receipt, so I shall pay the credit card bill after all. Next time we visit the place we shall ask them how the two names tie up. No clues on the web site.

But this reminds me about a clipping that I received yesterday which tells of the health peoples' continuing drive against tobacco. It seems that the Canadians are leading an initiative called the 'International Framework Convention for Tobacco Control' to ban the use of flavourings in tobacco products, starting off with vanilla, licorice and chocolate. A gang which most recently met in Jordan, seemingly the eastern one. Didn't know anybody put that sort of thing into tobacco products, but clearly they do. The clipping then goes on to explain that this might make it difficult for tobacco product manufacturers to include something called burley tobacco in their blends, this last having a rather harsh and bitter taste which needs to be disguised. And burley is an important cash crop in some states in the US, notably Kentucky. So concerned US senators and congressmen are cranking up a counter initiative: they may be able to leverage some of the conditions of membership of the WTO to defeat the WHO. Clearly one of the many things, along with ice hockey, that Canada and the US like to needle each other about. Plus lots of dosh for lawyers.

In a related vein, I have been struck on three separate occasions on how otherwise reasonable people can catch the pedant strain of the bisease bug. Two social workers and one electrician, both callings which carry a lot of regulatory freight. So the regulators dump all this stuff on them and after a while they get to like dumping it on us. Making a great production of it all. All very tiresome. But I suppose we can't breed the gene concerned out of the population, as for some occupations pedantry, which might more kindly be called attention to the detail of the rules, is very necessary. Wouldn't get the job done without it. Soldiers, traffic wardens and IT service managers. And so on and so forth. Time for a beverage.

Yesterday to the Isle of Dogs to see how it is getting on, my last visit have been some years ago to the very swanky offices of Credit Suisse First Boston (on IT, not banking business). Arrived at Canary Wharf tube station on a rather grey and cold day. The huge tube station impressive, almost cathedral like, but sterile. No cigarette shops, newspaper stands, cafes or anything else. Just a junction box in the human distribution grid. Outside, not so impressive. Just a lot of rather big and cold buildings, despite the rather feeble attempts at park.

The idea being to head south, we consult the diagram of the underground shopping centre. We work out that the diagram is upside down but manage to work out where south is, despite the missing sun. (I found out later in the day that had I had an iPhone, I would have had a compass, often handy when lost in a big city). Head off south, through buildings of steadily declining quality and size but of ascending age, eventually getting onto West Ferry Road. Time for lunch but nothing suitable in sight. There is a flashy looking Spar. Are we to be reduced to eating pork pies sitting on a sea wall? In the nick of time a converted church hoves in to view, advertising an upstairs bar and restaurant. One of those rather flashy low church brick sheds put up by evangelical types in the last century but one. Now primarily a nest of what appeared to be underfunded luvvies - see http://space.org.uk/. But upstairs there was indeed a bar equipped with the square oaken tables which were so common in the middle of the last century. And they served food. So for a little under £20 we had stew of the day and a cheese omelette. Plus beverages. The stew of the day was a hot red, watery affair containing lumps of spicy French sausage and a modest amount of vegetable, including chick peas. Not bad at all, despite being watery.

Headed on down and around the tip of the island, through swathes of sixties housing. Fair number of very modestly dressed women. Walked on the beach where there were very few bones, compared, say, with the beach beneath the Festival Hall. Found that Greenwich Hospital while still grand, was flanked by a rather ugly, disused power station to the east. Had I been a hospital resident at the time, I would definitely been on the protest against planning permission for the thing. Found our way to Christ Church - see http://www.parishiod.org.uk/. An impressive Victorian affair, rather high CofE. They did mass, had statues and some rather good stations of the cross. Plus a very unusual and very impressive vaulted wooden roof, a large organ and some interesting decoration. And outside, a rather impressive steeple. Perhaps what was most impressive that the place was open at all. All too often in areas of this sort, the houses of the Lord are shut. (Given that he has houses all over the world, I wonder what his tax status is? Is he Non. Dom. somewhere where he attracts adverse comment for not paying much tax?) Pushed on past the church to the Pier Tavern. No warm beer so I had to drink lager. An establishment rather like TB in tone. I dare say the place still sees the odd skirmish.

Headed on up and over the lifting bridge (I forget whether there is a proper name for such a thing. There is another over the ship canal on the Exeter by-pass) and swing west back towards Canary Wharf. Come across what must be an important hub in the C&W world. Three socking great steerable dishes. What sort of traffic do they carry? Then past a large Waitrose, back down the tube and back to sunny Epsom.

All in all an odd place. Roughly speaking, fancy business district with towers north of Marsh Wall, shanty town to the south. Must feel quite isolated if you live there, although the towers look more impressive than they do close up. Bit like living in the country. Will now do a bit of mugging up with Mr. G., against our next visit. The BH might be tempted by the museum in the north of the island.

Before the Bartok, it was explained that for quartets themselves, the three pillars of the genre were Haydn, Beethoven and Bartok. Something that they felt audiences were not quite OK with, finding Bartok a bit strange and difficult. Notwithstanding, we rather liked the Bartok they played. Even the BH, even less of a modern music fan than I am. From which I learn that, presumably, Mozart was not big into string quartets, although he certainly wrote some. Ditto Schubert. Both of whom being pillars of my home consumption.

Then before what was the Surrey premiere of Holloway's Op. 103 No. 5, it was explained that they had done the world premiere of the whole of Op. 103, in Cambridge. Probably in the West Road concert hall. It seems that each part was intended as a portrait of somebody the composer knew or had known and that some of these people were sitting in the audience on the occasion of the premiere. So, in the quieter moments, the Endellions amused themselves by trying to spot the subject of the piece they were playing in the audience. Rather to our surprise we rather liked the piece that we got. There clearly is something to be said for the sandwich course approach to programming; it broadens the horizons a bit without pushing one too far out of one's comfort zone.

Back home took a peek at the Holloway web site at http://www.robinholloway.info/. The chap is clearly very prolific and takes some trouble to make sure that we can know about it. Couldn't take full advantage as our Internet capable PC is not also capable of sound.

Woke up today to a dream about an important person, something I do not recall having done before. The important person being President Obama. It seems that he had been found guilty of some frightful crime, presumably of the political or white-collar variety, and was fighting hard to stay out of jail. The image in the dream was of the president leaving the White House, coming down some steps, preceeded by two short and very burly FBI agents, clearly very used to minding delinquent celebrities. Very big jaws and jowls. Agents I had seen before somewhere. Sundry other minders about. Everybody smoking. Obama holding a half done cigarette with a big dog, the burlies with half done cigars in their mouths. The product, I suppose, of the piece in yesterday's DT about how Obama is struggling to live up to expectations.

In between times I am working on a word puzzle. The puzzle being to find words which can be used in a repetitive way while making sense. The model being the famously obnoxious 'major major major' from 'Catch-22'. So one might have 'sergeant sergeant' and I think the Welsh might have 'evan evan'. I am sure I have come across some good ones in the recent past but I cannot come up with much today. So we have 'had had' which I use quite a bit and it makes good sense to me. Stretching a bit, one might talk about a very red red. And then I thought that there might be a country proverb about it being a bad idea to cross cross cows. Must do better. I am sure that they are out there. Perhaps looking at words with more than one meaning is the way forward.

Found that I had forgotten where all the pot-holes are on the these bits of road. Memory being what it is, I need to do them every day to be able to remember where they are in time to avoid them. Which can be a pain for following cars when one swerves at the last minute to avoid one. Seeing them on the stretch of road just before St. Paul's church, heading towards Epsom direction, made difficult by the strobe effect of low flying sun shining strongly through the rather thin, unfoliated hedge. A bit disorientating anyway and then the complex of shadows on the pavement (the technical term for the black stuff on the road, not the black things one walks on by the side of the road, more sensibly known as side walks) do a wonderful job of camouflaging the pot holes. Some of which might throw one over the handlebars if hit full on.

Same sort of thing heading west towards the cross roads at Malden Rushett where there are some pretty fearsome potholes behind some more thin hedges. Now I hear that the council is intent on chopping down another ribbon of trees on Epsom Common in order to make a bicycle lane alongside. For my money the money would be much better spent on repairing the potholes. Or maybe on funding a few more care workers. Why on earth does redeveloping the West Park site mean that we need a cycle lane going towards Malden Rushett? Or maybe I have heard it all wrong? Maybe they are just going to have a cycle lane coming back from West Park to Stamford Green, where it will peter out. Which is the main reason why, for me, cycle lanes are a waste of time. They are always coming and going, and getting on and off them is a right pain, never mind about as dangerous as cycling on the road in the first place.

Rewarded on the way down Howell Hill by finding two more of those large ratchet clips which hold the soft on the side of soft sided lorries. Taking my total to three, all slightly different. Look like they might cost £25 or more each in somewhere like Screwfix and more or less without value to me - until that is the dot sprogs are of an age to be fascinated by mechanical gadgets of this sort. Kept against that eventuality, by which time I should have found a few more.

The other notable number is that, having achieved a record of 5 books withdrawn from Surrey Libraries on Thursday 18 February, I have now got back down to 1 again. When will I break this newly set, lifetime record?

The one remaining book is Hourani on the Arabs, it having been suggested that this was a good follow up to Rogan on the Arabs. Which indeed it is. The latter is rather political and concentrates on the modern era, while the former spends much more time on beginnings and on faith. Which is a bit hard going for those without faith, but does provide a solid foundation to what comes after. And the impression that Islam had many of the ecclesiastical trials and tribulations of our own Christianity, modified for geography and politics, is strengthened. When is a saint not a saint? Should one have them at all? What about relics and tombs? When can a saint intercede with the almighty on one's behalf? Can one influence a saint in this regard? Low churches and high churches. Back to the literal truth of the word revealed or a more pragmatic approach? I will have to find the right sort of Muslim with whom one could talk about these kinds of things.

Plus the interesting business of a small number of Arabic speaking Arabs from Arabia colonising large chunks of the Mediterranean world and beyond. All sounds rather similar, although on a much larger scale, to the business of a small number of Normans colonising England. Assimilation slowed down in the case of the Arabs by the strength of common religion and language. But the bit about the more one could claim descent from real Arabs, rather than grubby locals, the posher one was, must have worked in medieval England too.

Now in a world where the pot of public money is just that, a finite pot of limited and more or less known size, and where there are a couple of dozen highly competent and organised outfits known as ministries trying to extract that money out of him for all kinds of very worthy projects, there is always going to be something of a fight about it. There will never be enough to fund all these very worthy projects. There can never be enough health. Enough bisease. Enough security. Enough rules and regulations. So to say that he never said no to the military in this context is nonsense. Depressing that he does not see fit to attempt to raise the standard of public debate. Possibility 2 is that he is being misrepresented by the DT. But my bet is that he is not, given his uncomfortable stance vis-a-vis Tony's military adventures. It all fits.