It really doesn't matter to me if you believe in God.

It just so happens that I don't. I do not believe that there is a god, or a 'supreme presence' in any form. I am not superstitious, I do not believe in spirits, ghosts, life after death, or a the entities of 'good' or 'evil'.

I do believe that everyone has the right to make choices, and if you have a faith in any of the above, it isn't my job or right to try an make you change your mind. Why do so many people spend so much time and energy trying to impose their thinking on others?

I'm sort of OK with doorstep evangelists, because I can appreciate that if you have this 'great idea' in your head, then it is quite natural to want to share it. Just so long as they accept that some of us just don't want to join their club.

Just as I have the right to tell you what I think, you have the right to tell me your thoughts. Neither of us has to listen to the other, and we are free to listen, to understand and then make choices. This is true not only about thoughts on faith, but also about how much weight we place on choices presented by television commercials for stuff we don't need. It is OK to be exposed to the idea; we don't have to listen, and if we do, we have the choice about buying into the idea.

I really am baffled as to the thinking that drives followers of any faith to think that it is right to kill those who oppose their views. To wage war in the name of your faith to spread your faith, because your religious leaders tell you to do so, and so that you will have a reward in 'the after life' is all a sort of mass madness. It is the result of blind belief without thought, brought about by generations of brainwashing.

What was Pope Urban thinking when he launched The Crusades?  

Hand Written Envelopes

Christmas card envelopes; hand written or computer generated? It’s Christmas time; the postie pushes a bunch of cards through the letter box and it’s time for another game of ‘guess the sender’. I don’t actually play this game, but Carol does. She weighs the card in her hand, forensically examines the franking marks, and judges the handwriting on style, colour and texture. Well, maybe not all that, but anyway; it’s time to guess who it’s from, which has to be done before opening the envelope.

Have no fear my friends, your card does not just get ripped open and thrown on a heap. Every part of it is used to build a picture of the sender. Once the card is out of the envelope, the back is checked first to see where it comes from, which charity it helped by the buying of it. Sometime around Tuesday we discover who actually sent it. Every last thread of sense is extracted from the cards we receive.

The handwriting on the envelope is a major part of this discovery. It takes time to hand write every envelope. Therefore the person doing it was applying thought to the process of creating the address, it would be impossible to write an envelope to a friend without thinking of them. Each handwritten envelope is a positive wish on its own even without the sentiments expressed within the card.

So why do I use the computer to produce a run of labels? Because I’m lazy. I know that a handwritten envelope is far nicer. I also know that my writing is extremely bad; it’s so bad I could illustrate a GP’s prescription like a medieval scribe embellishing the written word to magnify it. When I was at school I had a lot of trouble with spelling and taught myself to not write letters, but to use ‘word shapes’ so that the teachers couldn’t see the spelling. It’s a difficult habit to break. So, I apologise for my computer generated labels that were a novelty when I started to de them, but now just look that a reminder from a mail order company.

And to all those who hand write their envelopes, I salute you. You are sending something creative and far more personal than just a label peeled off and slapped on. Do you want me to show you how to do them; you’d save a lot of time?

The taste of Food

I do like my food. Not quantity, but quality. I define quality as taste; which means that, if it tastes good – I like it. I over eat on food I like. So, at over 60, I’m short and stout like Pooh Bear. A suitable epitaph would be: “He liked his food”.

Take salmon. There is a lot of salmon about for you to buy. There’s bright pink soft fleshy fish in the supermarket now which is OK. It’s fish, it’s high in omega whatists isn’t it? It doesn’t taste a lot, but you console yourself with the thought that it seems pretty good value, and is supposed to be good for you because it’s high in fishy oils. 

Then there is the organic salmon lying next to the bright pink salmon. The organic salmon is delicately coloured, a subdued flesh, less Technicolor, more like ‘English Rose’ than ‘Mediterranean Beauty’. When you cook it, the flesh is very delicate, the taste is very subtle, you get a glow from knowing it is organic, but it doesn't actually taste particularly different from its bright pink neighbour on the slab.

Then there is wild salmon. Dense dark rich coloured, exotic and heady, the taste is robust and of the wild sea and tumbling rivers. The taste, like the appearance of the meat is defined, not flaccid. This fish has had to work for its food, it has grown naturally, working for a living, not sculling around in some cage in a Scottish loch, and I can both see and taste the difference.

So what is it about ‘organic’ meat? If we chose our meat solely according to what it is fed on, then maybe we are missing a vital factor. For like me; if the food is too easily come by, and in too great a quantity, then the animal is over fed. It will be fat, flaccid, lacking in texture and taste. (Believe me, I do not taste good).  

However, if the fish, chicken, lamb, or whatever, has to work for its food, gets plenty of exercise, grows at a natural rate, then it will taste better. Maybe natural growth it is just as important for the development of food as the ‘organic’ label.

The sound of protest

It is 5 to 7 and we make a Skype call to our son Miles Drawmer, who lives in Kadikoy a suburb on the Asian side of Istanbul.
“Oh good.” He says, “You have called at a special time.”
It was just before 9pm local time, and Miles took us to the open window. The computer camera accentuates the evening light and we can see down into the street.
At 9 o’clock the sounds started. Hundreds of residents of one of the world’s mega cities, leaning out of their windows at the same time every night and registering their protest by banging pots and pans.

Miles tells us that it has been going on for two weeks now. Every night at the same time, this noisy citizens’ protest against their government.
This isn’t a bunch of hooligans and foreigners; this is the people of the city raising a clamour for change.
The noise is both jarring and moving as one realises the number of people involved, and that there’s probably very little the police can do about this with their water cannons and tear gas.

“I’ll call you back.” He says.
Good job too, it was far too noisy to make conversation with. Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan told hundreds of thousands of supporters at a rally in Istanbul on Sunday that the protesters were manipulated by "terrorists". These citizens aren’t terrorists, and they’re not listening to him.

Toilet Roll Runner Beans

I never was a gardener. As a hobby, gardening passed me by. My father said to me soon after our wedding: “Never have a garden bigger than your wife can cope with.” A phrase I repeated rather too often for Carol’s comfort. In fact I used to proudly state that I was a: “non-gardener and a non-smoker”.

However things change, particularly since we moved to this house which, as it turns out, has a garden that isn’t bigger than I can cope with. I now find that since it no longer takes half a day to mow the lawn, and working on just a small bed makes a difference that one can see straight away; that I’ve actually begun to enjoy being in the garden.

Today I planted out our runner beans. These are ‘toilet roll beans’. I saw somewhere that toilet rolls could be used instead of those expensive fibre pots for raising seeds. So we collected toilet roll centres for a year, and then I sowed the beans singly into the cardboard tubes full of compost.

Some of them started to undo when they were watered, so I stood them all together in a seed tray and run some string around them to keep them in place. Today I set up the bean sticks, scooped out holes and dropped the bean plants in. 

They have developed into good plants with a nice root growth, and have had minimal disturbance to be planted complete with their cardboard tubes which will just breakdown in the soil.

Wooden boats, jubilee nostalgia

Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. There’s to be a river pageant on the Thames today, it’s a bank holiday weekend, and there’s little news. So, despite the continuous rain, the Jubilee obsessed BBC is showing continuous coverage of damp people preparing for the event. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, there’s a flotilla of sailing boats, and some of them have been based at St Catherine’s Dock next to Tower Bridge.

Some years ago (1990?) I was invited by Ian Wollen to be part of a crew to take a sailing Brixham Trawler “Regard” from St Catherine’s Dock to the Isle of Wight to take part in a Cowes Classic rally. Regard was built in 1933, originally named “Our Boy” and changed to “Regard” in 1954. Wooden boats have a ‘character’ all of their own, some love it, and some put up with it. There’s a history of her on this page, but as the boat is sold I don’t expect the link will last for ever.

http://brixham.boatshed.com/brixham_sailing_trawler_yacht-boat-12170.html

Regard had been kept in dock for several years, and was suffering from a lack of maintenance and a surfeit of decay and dirt. It was arranged to take her out onto the river (Thames) for a shakedown trip before venturing out to sea. I really don’t remember much about it apart from getting very dirty, as everything we touched was covered in grime. Wood swells when it gets wet and this is what makes wooden boats waterproof. If the wood dries out, it shrinks and gaps appear between the planks. Gaps had appeared in the deck and all that part of the hull that is above the static waterline whilst just floating in the calm waters of the dock.

The original design had not given a lot of thought to an engine, the consequence of which was that the propeller was to one side of the substantial rudder. This meant that turning to port was inevitable and rapid, whereas turning to starboard was recalcitrant and slow. This made the tight manoeuvring required in St Catherine’s quite interesting, and I was only watching. Once out on the river, we motored down river towards the sea.

As soon as Regard started to move on the water, and roll in the wake of other boats, the water started to come in. Lots of it. We had to clear everything away from the hull sides and man the pumps. It wasn’t threatening but it was wet. We also found that the deck leaked. In heavy rain lying in your bunk getting dripped on is not fun. I remember Ian remarking about: “That’s the reason we have fibreglass boats”, and some die-hard traditionalist crew members muttered about his suitability as Captain if he didn’t appreciate the ‘Character’ of the boat. The other members of the crew were two guys with a vast amount of experience, tales and fun, and one twat who actually knew everything; but nearly ran us onto the well marked submarine defences off Southsea.

On the trip around Kent we found a Thames sailing Barge with an Aga for cooking and real ale on tap. We also found that old engines in boats can give up at any time. I earned my keep by making water pump gaskets out of brown paper with a ball pein hammer. It was a great trip for me, and I got treated to a most spectacular thunderstorm at night over a dead calm sea. It was my first sailing passage, as prior to that I had only done day trips. Thank you Ian for the experience.

Mystery Shoppers. Fake buyers who waste your time; or a valuable way to assess real performance and find out how buyers see you? On balance, I’m in favour of mystery shoppers. I work in a regulated industry, and the company has a right and duty to make sure that the point of sale activity is effective and compliant.

However, I get VERY PI55ED OFF when my time is valuable, and the ‘shopper’ is no good. I accused a caller today of being a mystery shopper (little things like the pronunciation of the town, Bicester): “Have you lived there long?” well, in 10 years you’d think she would get it right, wouldn’t you?

Anyway – she denied it; so I rushed through the rigmarole of a sale and yes, just at the point where I collect the money – she declares herself to be a mystery shopper. What upsets me is that I don’t get the choice to say that I don’t want to play your games ‘cos I’m busy; and worse than that; there’s never any bloody feedback!

And breathe; Friday tomorrow.

Cookery Books

I like cook books. That’s because I like my food, I enjoy the taste the texture, look and smell of a well prepared dish. I also enjoy cooking, it isn’t always successful, but for me, there is a real pleasure in presenting a good dish of food to my friends and loved ones.

Some years ago, Carol and I borrowed a book from the local library, The Sunday Times Book of Real Bread (ISBN 0-87857-368-2) is a fantastic collection of recipes for and stories about bread. We enjoyed the book so I decided to get Carol a copy for a present. It took a little while for a bookshop to source one for me, and we had both forgotten about it when it arrived.

We both like books, but enjoy them for the reading and in the case of cookery books, the using of them as well. In the Real Bread book, we were amused and pleased that when we turned to the index for one of our favourite loaves, a previous reader had starred favourites, but the one were looking for was both starred and underlined in the index. Finding this confirmation of good taste from a previous reader, was for us a bonus about the second hand book we had acquired, not a blemish.

Today a similar thing has happened. My good friend Tom has given me a good copy of Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi (ISBN 978-0-09193-368-5). I was reading through it, imagining the preparation and smell of the dishes, and admiring the fabulous photography; when I realised that a couple of the pages had red marks on them. Puzzled, I turned over the pages before I understood. It was a beetroot dish!

I like cook books, and I enjoy knowing that others like them too.

Getting eggs from the local shop

The washing machine is going: “Clunk, clunk, clunk”.

That’s because my rucksack is having a wash. Yesterday, when I got home, I suddenly realised that I’d like some eggs. So I got back on my bike and went back to the village shop.

At the checkout, the girl asked if I’d checked the eggs. They really good in our local Coop. I said that yes; I’d checked the eggs, and they’re all good. Unless, of course, I managed to damage them on the way home. Wildly amusing.

When I’m nearly home, I need to turn right into our road. The trouble is that when the wind is blowing a hooly, I can’t hear if there’s anything behind me. My rucksack was bit heavy what with the milk, eggs and bananas, so I stopped at the kerbside to look back.

There were quite few cars coming up the Hempton Road, so I stood, half on the bike, with my back foot on the pavement, waiting for the traffic to pass. For some reason I moved my leg, and then needed to shift my position, but the bike was in the way, and I lost my balance, falling in an untidy heap backwards onto the pavement.

The cars passing didn’t stop to help, maybe because they could see that the old fool on the ground was giggling uncontrollably, but anyway the rucksack broke my fall.

My left knee is bloody sore this morning, and the washing machine is going: “Clunk, clunk, clunk”

Reading matter in the toilet

What book do you have in the toilet?

My left leg is in an extension brace, which means that I can’t bend it. To sit down, I need a chair with arms to take my weight, and it mustn’t be too low, else my ‘good’ leg will have to bend too much with all my weight on it. When I’m on the chair, I need a support under the left leg because the brace won’t let it bend down to the floor.

So, not that you want to read this, but here’s how I go for a Tom Tit. First of all, I get the toilet seat raiser. This fits on top of the pan and is a couple of inches higher than the usual seat. Fix securely with adjusting screws. Then arrange the frame around the toilet. This gives me an armchair toilet, so that I can lower and raise myself with my arms. Now get the support to take my left foot a couple of inches up from the floor. OK, all set, lower away bending the good right leg and sliding the left heel on its support as get down onto the toilet.

When done, dissemble all the bits and return toilet to normal. Bloody glad I’m not female and need to sit down for a pee.

The book? Fowlers Dictionary of Phrase and Fable is exactly the right thickness, and wrapped in a plastic bag, it slides easily over the floor under my left foot.

Entertainment on the NHS

Free Entertainment in NHS Hospitals

I had a short stay in one of our tax paid hospitals last week. Whilst immobile, I had some amazing entertainment to keep me amused.

Steven is about 80, pretty fit overall except that he appears to weigh nothing at all. He’s here because he had a fall and broke his wrist. Unfortunately he’s a little confused, isn’t sure what town he’s in, and thinks this is an odd hotel. He looks quite striking as he has a magnificent shock of straight white hair, and as he gestures with theatrical enthusiasm he reminds me of one of the Muppets. And to make it all harder for him, he had a tracheotomy which deprived him of speech as he could no longer pass air through his voice box. Steven communicated with the aid of a buzzer which he placed against his throat and his speech was like Steven Hawkins, except that he wasn’t very good at using it yet.

My first fit of the giggles was during the night. I had realised that Steven; in the bed opposite from me, was likely to be ‘active’ during the night, since he had been spending much of the day being persuaded by nurses to undress and get into bed. He would do this, only to shortly arise, get dressed, grab a zimmer frame and walk up and down the ward. His navigation was somewhat lacking, since he seemed to stop by crashing into a trolley, chair, bed or door. He would then get back into bed, keeping his clothes on for a quick return trip a few minutes later.

So; I closed the curtains around by bed and settled down. The trouble was, hearing Steven crash about with his zimmer was funnier without the vision. I imagined a frantic ‘Animal’ from the Muppets with white fur, tearing up and down the ward pushing his piano. The trouble is, once you start giggling, it’s difficult to stop.

Next to me was Jim, poor Jim really was confused. Dementia takes many forms and in Jim’s case it had deprived him of some powers of reasoning, memory and speech. However, it hadn’t turned him into a vegetable, it was just that conversations would follow unexpected paths, and a response to a question wasn’t always conventional.

It was interesting to watch the reactions of nursing staff to meeting Jim for the first time. For some, they just didn’t get that he was confused. They’d just ask the same question in a louder voice, taking Jim’s response as if he was being deliberately awkward. Others would understand that he needed help in understanding, and would engage with him, gaining trust and approval from him.

Jim had fallen and broken his hip, which had been replaced. He was now recovering from the operation and the anaesthesia, which meant a whole new world of drips, catheters and a bed with sides to stop him falling out. So; from time to time, Jim would make a bid for freedom. Various nursing staff would come to his aid, to try and persuade him to not get out of bed, not to pull his catheter out, and that everything would be all right, his wife would be there soon, etc etc.

On this day, Steven is very concerned about his car. His written down the make, colour and number and wants me to go and look in the car park to find it. I point out to him that the reason we’ve been sharing the zimmer frame is ‘cos I can’t walk. I try to take the problem from him by promising to speak to one of the nurses about it. They aren’t convinced that he even came by car with a broken wrist. But he’s insistent, and can’t stop worrying about it. Lots of head shaking, holding his brow and sighing. Steven really should have been on stage.

Jim struggles to sit up, grabs the water jug and tips it over himself. Several nurses surround him and attempt to get him changed, the bed changed, and floor dry. Quite a lot of activity. When Jim doesn’t understand he tends to reach out and grab something. Anything, ID badges are good, or a hand. He has a strong grip, the nurse appeals to him to let go. Jim says ‘Yes’ but still hangs on tight, or will swop hands if he can. The staff are wonderful and patient with the patient, but it’s amusing, there are laughs in-between the appeals to ‘let go pleeeese Jim’.

Steven is hovering around the periphery of the action, buzzer at his throat, trying to convince a nurse to go and look for his car. Eventually he gives up and goes away. There’s a lull in the activity, and Jim’s voice is clearly heard:

“Now what you don’t seem to understand, is that it’s me that’s trying to get out of the garage”.

There’s a silence. One of the nurses looks out of the window.

“Good heavens, I’ve just seen someone fall over!”

“Oh, it’s OK, there’s someone to help them”

“Look, it’s the old man from this ward.”

Steven, frustrated at not getting anywhere with his car search, had decided to take matters into his own hands and had tumbled down a substantial grass bank.

He was brought back in a wheel chair, rather quiet and suffering only from grass stains on his chinos and a conviction that this hotel wasn’t any good at all.

Jim got sorted out and everything dried off properly. Peace broke out on ward F.

Conversations with Jim were fun. Moments of lucidity with sidesteps. He had been a very keen golfer. I found out that he had at his best got down to a handicap of nine. It took a lot of playing to keep at that level. But it was OK, Jim was convinced that we were on the winning team. At one time he suddenly asked me:

“Do you think we could do it?”

“Do what, Jim?”

“You know, make a break for it”

I feel sure that I’d have really liked the complete Jim. He didn’t lose his temper, or swear at anyone, and tended to talk to himself quietly. I heard him call his wife’s name, and than he said: “You’ve got the most beautiful hair”. In one of his golfing conversations with me he asked how many clubs I played with.

I’m sure that he would have played with a full set.

Unelected Ministers and democracy

How come Mandleson is a minister? How can it be that a man who lost his job in government twice due to a inappropriate actions, is now called 'Lord' and when our Prime Minister is on holiday, is acting PM?

Why is it possible that we can have members of the government who have never been elected?They don't represent anybody except themselves. They can't lose their seat.

Unelected, unaccountable, un bloody believable.

Have we got the government we deserve?

In which case what have we done to deserve him?

A good way to ruin the House of Lords, fill it with appointees who are truly unfit to govern.

Needless and terrible loss of life

Once or twice in the past few weeks when I've listened to the amazing courage and pride of Christina Schmid, widow of Olaf Schmid, when she has been talking about the death of her husband, I have found myself almost in tears. It's listening to her quiet fortitude, and the overwhelming feeling of impotence to do anything about this terrible war which have been dragged into by our government.

We got taken into a war we didn't want by a Government who I think were less than genuine about the motives for the war, and like all those in power, don't actually have to personally face the consequences of it.

If we're so bloody clever, then how come we ended up starting the violence? Who were we protecting, and who are we now protecting?