Mainstream Hollywood movies aren't usually the place to look for useful lessons in life. Escapism, romance and excitement maybe, but the blockbusters aren't often noted for philosophical gems. The films that have left me thinking more deeply about my existence have mostly been a bit more off the wall, a relatively recent example being the lovely Paterson. A far cry from the superhero genre that seems so dominant at the moment, a genre that has never manage to spark my interest. If I'm asked who my favourite fictional superhero is I always go with Catherine Cawood from Happy Valley - if you're fighting crime, looking after your alcoholic sister ans orphaned grandson and all the while coping with the aftermath of your daughter's rape and suicide then that make you a proper hero in my eyes.
But sometimes it happens and there is one big name production I've seen in recent years that provided a phrase, and an attitude, I've often found helpful since. Recalling that recently got me wondering what other famous movies have offered similar guidance - and surprised myself with the two I came up with.
I certainly don't think these three films are amongst the best I've ever seen, although all of them have their strengths, but each one has made me think about life a little differently, despite all of them being very much 'entertainments' rather than art films. They certainly don't offer up much by way of diversity, with all the central characters being male, white and middle class (of sorts). None of them would pass the Bechdel Test, although I did see someone suggest that the earliest of the trio has a brief moment that technically qualifies it. None of them pretend to be other than what they are. And the first two could legitimately be described as schmaltzy.
First on my list is also the best known. It's a Wonderful Life is one of those sickly sweet tales that gets wheeled out at this time every year and never loses it's popularity. Partly because James Stewart is always so watchable, but perhaps also down to it's reminder that often it's the smallest of actions that can have big consequences and that we don't always realise the impact we, as individuals, have on the lives of others. Interconnection, interdependence.
Four years after that Jimmy Stewart starred in Harvey, a daft comedy that's riddled with flaws and stereotypes, and relies heavily on the Stewart's charm to carry it through. Is Elwood P Dowd, Stewart's character, a delusional alcoholic, or the nicest man you could wish to meet, or both? There's a key quote that sums up the 'philosophy' on offer :
Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be' – she always called me Elwood – 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
Dowd, and his imaginary friend Harvey, get people to talk, to unburden themselves. Sometimes all we have to be is nice. Oh, and maybe believe in a bit of magic too. Reality isn't always a welcoming place.
Finally the film that set me off on this thread, released three years ago. Bridge of Spies is based on a true story, but 'Hollywoodised' of course. Tom Hanks is the box office name (is Hanks a modern day Jimmy Stewart? - discuss), but Mark Rylance's captured Russian KGB officer is the heart of it all. When they first meet, in prison, lawyer Hanks is explaining what he can do to help the spy, and Rylance gets his first of three chances to utter those three words - Would it help? If you haven't seen the movie, and don't think you'll have the time, you can see what I mean in this YouTube compilation of the three utterances of those words.
Stoic philosophy in three words. And an acting masterclass from Rylance in defining a character with just one short phrase. Since seeing it I've been surprised how often that little mantra has come in handy (and I don't lead anything like a stressful life nowadays!). The bigger surprise is remembering that I owe it to Hollywood.
There are others I've taken lessons from, but none I can think of were as mainstream as the above trio, as consciously mass market and 'popular'. Sometimes inspiration can come from the most unlikely places. I think Elwood P Dowd would agree, though I can't speak for Harvey.
Anyone else had a similar moment of revelation?
Sunday, 23 December 2018
Sunday, 4 November 2018
Rediscovery or Reinvention?
DECADES APART
I went to see a rugby match last Friday. Edinburgh versus Scarlets. And a couple of weeks ago when the city's team played Toulon. Nothing remarkable about that, there were a few thousand other people there too. But it felt a bit like going back in time. That game against the French side was the first fifteen a side match I'd been to in well over thirty years, so it had a sense of occasion for me, a kind of homecoming. And, better still, I enjoyed it. The fact that Edinburgh had a big win might have had something to do with that though.
I first went to watch an international at Murrayfield on 4th February 1967. Scotland beat Wales 11-5, and I was ten. By and large I've not really been a big sports fan over the decades, but I was hooked, back then, on the big rugby occasions, and over the following years I didn't miss a home international match. Including the 1975 game against the Welsh when a record crowd of 104,000 were crammed into a stadium with a nominal 80,000 capacity. Cosy, and we beat Wales that day too. After that you had to buy a ticket in advance to get in. By the time 1979 arrived I'd been to see plenty of club matches, sevens tournaments and to see Edinburgh play in the inter-district championship.
Then I moved south; way, way south, to the Hampshire coast, and getting to Murrayfield required a bit more time and planning. I still made it to most of the Five Nations home games for a few years, including the Grand Slam winner in '84 (great occasion, dour spectacle). But then I was married, work was more demanding, life changed and I didn't get up as often. I'd watch the games on telly, saw our guys win another Slam in '90, and then found my interest starting to wane. Rugby Union was turning professional and with the increase in money came a much more drilled and calculating approach to the game. Defences became dominant and entertainment levels dropped. By the mid nineties I'd stopped watching. I was left as a fascinated follower of motorsport, and little else.
Move on a couple of decades and I'd dropped the motorsport. Change is good. I'd discovered something completely new. Maybe I'd seen a few hockey matches in the Winter Olympics coverage, but had little idea of what was going on. Looked interesting though. So when, seven years ago, the chance of cheap tickets to see Edinburgh's team came along we thought we'd try it out. And loved it. It would be another three years before we were full time city residents, but we got to as many games as possible, started to get some feel for the sport, started to know a few people at the rink, started to feel a part of the community. We got in four full seasons when we finally moved here permanently. I was an Edinburgh Capitals season ticket holder and secretary of the Supporters Club. Our weekends from September to March contained a predictable element, a chance to shout, cheer, get on the emotional rollercoaster of live sport and support. Then, last April, that was suddenly taken away from us, and it seems like there's no going back (but that's a story for another day).
Could anything replace that sense of belonging, the excitement, the passions you feel as part of a crowd willing a team on. One thing that hasn't changed over the decades is the sense of tedium I get from watching football, so that was never an option. But a bit more than four years ago I'd been watching TV alone, when a rugby match came on. Argentine versus Scotland. I was tempted to watch, just to see if anything had changed. And when the name John Beattie was announced as one of the team I felt I had to give it a go - I'd seen his dad playing for our country!
They've tweaked the rules a lot since the nineties, and for the better it seems. That match was genuinely entertaining (and again it probably helped that Scotland ended up as winners!) and I thought I'd give a few more a try (no pun intended). The five nations were now six, the strips look almost futuristic compared to the looser items I recall, all the spectators get to sit down, and the players go off at half time instead of standing in the middle of the pitch sucking on a bit of orange. (Yes, that was how it used to be done, even in top level internationals.) It helped that once exposed to this new spectacle Barbara developed a bit of an interest too.
So going to watch Edinburgh ('my' Edinburgh?) seems like a natural progression, given the loss of my regular entertainment next door (Murrayfield ice rink is, often literally, in the shadow of the rugby stadium). And after the Caps disastrous final season (only five wins from fifty six league games....) it's good to go and support a side that goes into each game with a chance of winning. There's a friendly atmosphere, big screens to watch when the action gets a bit distant (I do miss the intimacy of the hockey rink), and it's pretty cheap for us seniors. And no colder than sitting in the Fridge of Dreams next door. This could be habit forming.
I went to see a rugby match last Friday. Edinburgh versus Scarlets. And a couple of weeks ago when the city's team played Toulon. Nothing remarkable about that, there were a few thousand other people there too. But it felt a bit like going back in time. That game against the French side was the first fifteen a side match I'd been to in well over thirty years, so it had a sense of occasion for me, a kind of homecoming. And, better still, I enjoyed it. The fact that Edinburgh had a big win might have had something to do with that though.
I first went to watch an international at Murrayfield on 4th February 1967. Scotland beat Wales 11-5, and I was ten. By and large I've not really been a big sports fan over the decades, but I was hooked, back then, on the big rugby occasions, and over the following years I didn't miss a home international match. Including the 1975 game against the Welsh when a record crowd of 104,000 were crammed into a stadium with a nominal 80,000 capacity. Cosy, and we beat Wales that day too. After that you had to buy a ticket in advance to get in. By the time 1979 arrived I'd been to see plenty of club matches, sevens tournaments and to see Edinburgh play in the inter-district championship.
Then I moved south; way, way south, to the Hampshire coast, and getting to Murrayfield required a bit more time and planning. I still made it to most of the Five Nations home games for a few years, including the Grand Slam winner in '84 (great occasion, dour spectacle). But then I was married, work was more demanding, life changed and I didn't get up as often. I'd watch the games on telly, saw our guys win another Slam in '90, and then found my interest starting to wane. Rugby Union was turning professional and with the increase in money came a much more drilled and calculating approach to the game. Defences became dominant and entertainment levels dropped. By the mid nineties I'd stopped watching. I was left as a fascinated follower of motorsport, and little else.
Move on a couple of decades and I'd dropped the motorsport. Change is good. I'd discovered something completely new. Maybe I'd seen a few hockey matches in the Winter Olympics coverage, but had little idea of what was going on. Looked interesting though. So when, seven years ago, the chance of cheap tickets to see Edinburgh's team came along we thought we'd try it out. And loved it. It would be another three years before we were full time city residents, but we got to as many games as possible, started to get some feel for the sport, started to know a few people at the rink, started to feel a part of the community. We got in four full seasons when we finally moved here permanently. I was an Edinburgh Capitals season ticket holder and secretary of the Supporters Club. Our weekends from September to March contained a predictable element, a chance to shout, cheer, get on the emotional rollercoaster of live sport and support. Then, last April, that was suddenly taken away from us, and it seems like there's no going back (but that's a story for another day).
Could anything replace that sense of belonging, the excitement, the passions you feel as part of a crowd willing a team on. One thing that hasn't changed over the decades is the sense of tedium I get from watching football, so that was never an option. But a bit more than four years ago I'd been watching TV alone, when a rugby match came on. Argentine versus Scotland. I was tempted to watch, just to see if anything had changed. And when the name John Beattie was announced as one of the team I felt I had to give it a go - I'd seen his dad playing for our country!
They've tweaked the rules a lot since the nineties, and for the better it seems. That match was genuinely entertaining (and again it probably helped that Scotland ended up as winners!) and I thought I'd give a few more a try (no pun intended). The five nations were now six, the strips look almost futuristic compared to the looser items I recall, all the spectators get to sit down, and the players go off at half time instead of standing in the middle of the pitch sucking on a bit of orange. (Yes, that was how it used to be done, even in top level internationals.) It helped that once exposed to this new spectacle Barbara developed a bit of an interest too.
So going to watch Edinburgh ('my' Edinburgh?) seems like a natural progression, given the loss of my regular entertainment next door (Murrayfield ice rink is, often literally, in the shadow of the rugby stadium). And after the Caps disastrous final season (only five wins from fifty six league games....) it's good to go and support a side that goes into each game with a chance of winning. There's a friendly atmosphere, big screens to watch when the action gets a bit distant (I do miss the intimacy of the hockey rink), and it's pretty cheap for us seniors. And no colder than sitting in the Fridge of Dreams next door. This could be habit forming.
Wednesday, 31 October 2018
Coming home politically
HOME IS WHERE THE VOTE IS
The first time I got to exercise my democratic right to vote was the second general election of 1974, which gave Harold Wilson the majority he'd lacked first time around in February. Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole, had a very different political makeup then than it does now. Much like England there was a split between the Tories and Labour, odd pockets of Liberal adherence, and the SNP were an almost unknown minority party. At the time I lived in the west of the city and the constituency vote was largely split between blue and yellow, Labour a poor third. The winner, not who I voted for, was Lord James Douglas-Hamilton - it won't be hard to guess which party he represented....
My last vote in Scotland before moving south was the 1979 devolution referendum. I voted Yes. The losing side again. By then my political convictions had evolved into positions that I still largely adhere to today. Chief amongst them that the Conservative party was clearly devoted to furthering the interests of the wealthy at the expense of the mass of the people and it was a civic duty to do whatever I could to prevent them from gaining power. That's a viewpoint that the current UK political farrago reinforces to the nth degree.
Then I spent 35 years in England, the first 10 in Hampshire, the remainder in Southport. In each case I found myself back in that Edinburgh West scenario, the majority vote split between Tory and Liberal (later LibDem), with Labour nowhere in the running. Based on the aforementioned conviction I found myself voting Lib most of the time, sometimes Labour in local elections if it looked like they had a chance. Tactical voting was the order of the day.
It wasn't always comfortable. While most of the people I worked with tended towards progressive views like myself. the community didn't. It was "interesting" living in what was largely a naval town at the time of the wholly unnecessary Falklands/Malvinas conflict...
All of which is by way of explaining why life in Leith and North Edinburgh, where I've now lived for over four years, is such a homecoming. Not just because it means a return to the city of my birth, but because, finally, I feel politically at home. For the first time I can vote with conviction, knowing there's a good chance of my choice winning. That feels good.
So we've got an SNP MP, an SNP constituency MSP, and our list MSPs include a couple of Greens, including the great Andy Wightman. Leith and Leith Walk were, after the last council elections, the only Tory-free wards in the city. And, in the disastrous EU referendum, this constituency recorded the highest Remain vote in the country, and the highest of any in the UK outside London. It's diverse, lively and has a high proportion of young people (not me, obviously) which makes it, mostly, a tolerant and thoughtful place to live.
There's one minor dark spot in all this. My first vote after returning was in IndyRef. This area, like the city as a whole, voted No. But there's plenty of opportunity to ensure that changes next time round. Which might be very soon. Here's hoping.
The first time I got to exercise my democratic right to vote was the second general election of 1974, which gave Harold Wilson the majority he'd lacked first time around in February. Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole, had a very different political makeup then than it does now. Much like England there was a split between the Tories and Labour, odd pockets of Liberal adherence, and the SNP were an almost unknown minority party. At the time I lived in the west of the city and the constituency vote was largely split between blue and yellow, Labour a poor third. The winner, not who I voted for, was Lord James Douglas-Hamilton - it won't be hard to guess which party he represented....
My last vote in Scotland before moving south was the 1979 devolution referendum. I voted Yes. The losing side again. By then my political convictions had evolved into positions that I still largely adhere to today. Chief amongst them that the Conservative party was clearly devoted to furthering the interests of the wealthy at the expense of the mass of the people and it was a civic duty to do whatever I could to prevent them from gaining power. That's a viewpoint that the current UK political farrago reinforces to the nth degree.
Then I spent 35 years in England, the first 10 in Hampshire, the remainder in Southport. In each case I found myself back in that Edinburgh West scenario, the majority vote split between Tory and Liberal (later LibDem), with Labour nowhere in the running. Based on the aforementioned conviction I found myself voting Lib most of the time, sometimes Labour in local elections if it looked like they had a chance. Tactical voting was the order of the day.
It wasn't always comfortable. While most of the people I worked with tended towards progressive views like myself. the community didn't. It was "interesting" living in what was largely a naval town at the time of the wholly unnecessary Falklands/Malvinas conflict...
All of which is by way of explaining why life in Leith and North Edinburgh, where I've now lived for over four years, is such a homecoming. Not just because it means a return to the city of my birth, but because, finally, I feel politically at home. For the first time I can vote with conviction, knowing there's a good chance of my choice winning. That feels good.
So we've got an SNP MP, an SNP constituency MSP, and our list MSPs include a couple of Greens, including the great Andy Wightman. Leith and Leith Walk were, after the last council elections, the only Tory-free wards in the city. And, in the disastrous EU referendum, this constituency recorded the highest Remain vote in the country, and the highest of any in the UK outside London. It's diverse, lively and has a high proportion of young people (not me, obviously) which makes it, mostly, a tolerant and thoughtful place to live.
There's one minor dark spot in all this. My first vote after returning was in IndyRef. This area, like the city as a whole, voted No. But there's plenty of opportunity to ensure that changes next time round. Which might be very soon. Here's hoping.
Friday, 21 September 2018
Of Kilts, Walks and Nosey Hungarians
KILT WEARING LESSONS
I must have been about twelve. My parents had taken me on a camping holiday in Hungary. This was the sixties, the Iron Curtain was an oppressive reality, and visitors from anywhere as far west as the British Isles were a rarity, not something most Hungarians encountered.
We went for a day in Budapest. Dad parked the car on the outskirts and we got a bus into the centre. I've no idea what prompted me to do this, but I'd decided I'd wear my kilt (Crawford tartan of course). This was a stupid idea on two counts. Firstly, kilts are hot to wear, and Budapest in Summer is humid, so I soon found I was in for a sweaty day. And secondly, as I was about to discover, the concept of the kilt wasn't a familiar one to the locals....
This became clear as we passed a news kiosk, when the vendor jumped up, rushed out and stared at me. All the way down a very long street. Every time we looked back there he was, until, thankfully, the road took a turn. Then there was the shop my mother wanted to visit, looking for, I think, an embroidered tablecloth. The shop was dim inside, cool compared to the baking streets, so at first I was pleased to go in. There was one woman behind the counter, serving the one customer in the shop. On seeing me she forgot about her client, rushed round from behind the display cabinet and, ignoring my parents, homed in on me, bent down, and lifted..... I was twelve.
Later, getting back to the car, a group of hairdressers emerged from their shop, keen to ask us something. We spoke no Magyar, they spoke no English. Mum and I retired to the Cortina, leaving my father to try and fathom out the cause of their excitement. After a minute or so, and a lot of sign language, his bafflement turned to laughter and he made his way back to us. It took a bit of time before he could speak well enough to explain that they'd had a bet on as to whether I was boy or girl.
I was twelve. I never wore a kilt again....
Until this year. Cue Kiltwalk, and the decision to do it in the proper attire. Once I'd got a few training walks in, and was no longer getting blistered feet, it seemed like a good idea to try a walk in the kilt. Discovering unexpected chafing, or negative effects from having a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way, was best found out well before the day itself. So I took to wearing the kilt into town, then on my walks, and it got to see a few Fringe shows. It even made an appearance on TV (link only available until 3 October).
And so we became a couple, and it served me well on my walking challenge. Although the nearest thing I got to an injury did come from a soggy kilt hem, the one day I walked in a downpour, when the constant rubbing of sodden cloth nearly had me bleeding at one spot at the back of my right knee. But we didn't fall out over it, I just took to carrying plasters with me every time we went out.
I like it. I'm surprised how much I enjoy wearing it, the feeling it gives me, and I'm sure it won't be hanging lonely in the wardrobe until prep begins for Kiltwalk 2019 (yes, I will be begging for money again next year). There's even a chance I'll look for another one.
It's taken five decades, but my childhood day of Hungarian trauma has finally been resolved.
And finally.... many thanks to everyone who supported me and donated money for my walk. If you'd still like to give something then please click on this link.
Proof I made it to the end :
And click on this link if you want to see how I managed to still walk like a vaguely normal human after fifteen and a half miles!
I must have been about twelve. My parents had taken me on a camping holiday in Hungary. This was the sixties, the Iron Curtain was an oppressive reality, and visitors from anywhere as far west as the British Isles were a rarity, not something most Hungarians encountered.
We went for a day in Budapest. Dad parked the car on the outskirts and we got a bus into the centre. I've no idea what prompted me to do this, but I'd decided I'd wear my kilt (Crawford tartan of course). This was a stupid idea on two counts. Firstly, kilts are hot to wear, and Budapest in Summer is humid, so I soon found I was in for a sweaty day. And secondly, as I was about to discover, the concept of the kilt wasn't a familiar one to the locals....
This became clear as we passed a news kiosk, when the vendor jumped up, rushed out and stared at me. All the way down a very long street. Every time we looked back there he was, until, thankfully, the road took a turn. Then there was the shop my mother wanted to visit, looking for, I think, an embroidered tablecloth. The shop was dim inside, cool compared to the baking streets, so at first I was pleased to go in. There was one woman behind the counter, serving the one customer in the shop. On seeing me she forgot about her client, rushed round from behind the display cabinet and, ignoring my parents, homed in on me, bent down, and lifted..... I was twelve.
Later, getting back to the car, a group of hairdressers emerged from their shop, keen to ask us something. We spoke no Magyar, they spoke no English. Mum and I retired to the Cortina, leaving my father to try and fathom out the cause of their excitement. After a minute or so, and a lot of sign language, his bafflement turned to laughter and he made his way back to us. It took a bit of time before he could speak well enough to explain that they'd had a bet on as to whether I was boy or girl.
I was twelve. I never wore a kilt again....
Until this year. Cue Kiltwalk, and the decision to do it in the proper attire. Once I'd got a few training walks in, and was no longer getting blistered feet, it seemed like a good idea to try a walk in the kilt. Discovering unexpected chafing, or negative effects from having a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way, was best found out well before the day itself. So I took to wearing the kilt into town, then on my walks, and it got to see a few Fringe shows. It even made an appearance on TV (link only available until 3 October).
And so we became a couple, and it served me well on my walking challenge. Although the nearest thing I got to an injury did come from a soggy kilt hem, the one day I walked in a downpour, when the constant rubbing of sodden cloth nearly had me bleeding at one spot at the back of my right knee. But we didn't fall out over it, I just took to carrying plasters with me every time we went out.
I like it. I'm surprised how much I enjoy wearing it, the feeling it gives me, and I'm sure it won't be hanging lonely in the wardrobe until prep begins for Kiltwalk 2019 (yes, I will be begging for money again next year). There's even a chance I'll look for another one.
It's taken five decades, but my childhood day of Hungarian trauma has finally been resolved.
And finally.... many thanks to everyone who supported me and donated money for my walk. If you'd still like to give something then please click on this link.
Proof I made it to the end :
And click on this link if you want to see how I managed to still walk like a vaguely normal human after fifteen and a half miles!
Thursday, 13 September 2018
Our very own poem, Our very own poet
VERSE SURPRISE
A hypothetical question for you. You're given the gift of all the time and money you need to go to an unlimited supply of live entertainment. With the catch that everything you see must fall within only one of these four categories - sport, music, drama or comedy. Which do you choose?
For me the answer is always easy. Music. Much as I love the other three, much as they've all provided me with some amazing memories, it's no contest. There are no highs like the highs I've had from a couple hours of watching and listening and moving to the sounds of Dallahan or Le Vent du Nord or Blazin' Fiddles or Stephanie Trick or Mr Sipp or the 3 geniuses that comprise the mighty Lau or.... the list goes on and on (but always ends with Lau).
But there's a genre missing from my list, as last night's gig reminded me. Spoken Word, Poetry, Storytelling, it goes by various names, but can have its own way of providing those special moments in life. I've not been to all that many across the years. Luke Wright was a fairly recent discovery, but the poetry gig that's stuck most in my head was over 20 years ago, courtesy of a friend who took us along to see a man called Henry Normal. And we became fans, read his books, found ourselves quoting lines to each other at odd moments.
You might not know the name, or his poetry, but you will be familiar with much of his other work. Along with Steve Coogan he set up Baby Cow Productions and among his many credits as writer and/or producer are shows like The Royle Family, Gavin and Stacey, Red Dwarf, Alan Partridge and the feature film Philomena. Not a bad list.
But now he's left TV behind and is back writing and performing as a poet. His appearance in the Poetry Cafe in London near enough coincided with our wedding anniversary, which seemed like a good enough excuse to make the trip. I was looking forward to seeing him again, wholly unaware of just how special a night it would be.
Because Barbara got in touch with Henry, asking if he'd give us a mention on the night. To her surprise he not only said he would, but he'd write a poem just for us as well. I was in the dark about this until the night itself and we had a chat with Mr Normal before the show. It was a hilarious and moving night , the (our!) poem was wonderful, and Henry is a lovely,lovely man.
You'd probably think that was the best bit of the night, but no. If you know Barbara you'll know she's pretty much the open book type, always honest, her emotions writ large upon her features. But she kept this a secret from me without a hint of it escaping. You can't imagine how proud I am that she's finally, after all these years, achieved a level of deceitfulness to match my own....
As for the poem, well here's a photo of the copy he presented us with, and a transcript in case the original is hard to read. Enjoy. We did.
MOT for the 21st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY of
Barbara and Blyth Crawford
MOT
Marriage on track
Mutual ownership treaty
Membership of team
Made of trust
Marvel of tolerance
Merger of two
Ministry of Tenderness
Mate on tap
or
MOT
Misery owned twice
Mad oath taken
Match own troubles
Murderer of time
Monogamy only token
Malevolent odious twin
Malign other twat
Must order termination
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Advocard, my 15 mile motivator
YOU PUT SOMETHING IN, YOU GET SOMETHING OUT
In my last post I said I'd write about my experiences at Advocard, the organisation I'm doing Kiltwalk for next Sunday, so here it is. I've been volunteering with them for well over two years now, so I've got a good idea of what they do, what good they do, and also what they do for me.
Finding them was one of those random strokes of luck. Although it was my wife who suggested we go in for a look around the Edinburgh Volunteer Fair, it was me who emerged from it with a new role to take on. When the basics of being an advocacy worker were explained to me it just felt like it clicked with some of my own skills from my professional life, albeit with a very different application.
People with mental health issues often struggle to make their voices heard, especially when dealing with any form of officialdom. They may have difficulty in expressing themselves, or lack the confidence to stand up for themselves, or find they are too easily ignored. An advocacy worker can help them express what they want to communicate more effectively, help them to find, or sometimes act as, their voice.
That can take many forms. Writing letters or emails on their behalf, making phone calls, helping them to complete complex forms. Sometimes just listening and helping someone to organise their own thoughts is all they require. Although many of our meetings with service users take place in the Advocard office on Leith Walk, we also make home visits for people whose health issues, physical as well as mental, make it difficult for them to come to us. At other times I will be going along to the doctor, the psychiatrist, to meetings with social workers or housing officers, to MP surgeries and benefits offices. Anywhere someone might feel uncomfortable, challenged, inarticulate or even threatened.
Advocacy can be a tricky concept at first, but I was given a good deal of training before being unleashed on the public. I'm not there to give advice, but I can help someone to understand their options and priorities better. I'm not a carer, or a friend, or there to try and manage the service user. There are other organisations out there for those things. I am there to help someone have confidence that they will at least be heard, that what they want to say is put across in a clear and intelligible manner, and when asked for information they are able to provide what's required.
Although there are several themes that crop up frequently, such as complaints about poor housing or feeling ignored by the medical profession, the one thing an advocacy learns very quickly is that every situation is different, every person I see has different problems to the last. Mental illness can affect anyone, and I've found myself working with a lawyer, a university lecturer and software developer. But a lot of the people we see are from the more vulnerable sections of society, often too ill to work, frequently with wider health problems. They have a huge range of conditions too. Some can explain themselves well, but with others their illness makes it difficult for them to give a coherent account of why they've come to see us. Patience and sharp listening skills are called for!
Similarly the home visits may take me into parts of the city I might not otherwise find myself in, districts that are in sharp contrast to the image Edinburgh presents to tourists and festival-goers. But I've also found myself going out to a flat that must have been worth around a million. Like I said before, anyone can be affected, and there's no 'profile' of a 'typical' Advocard user.
As an ex civil servant I think I bring something useful to the role. Obviously I'm going to be comfortable with some of the jargon officialdom sometimes confronts people with, and filling in long and complex forms is second nature to me. But it's having been a business analyst I often find most useful. If someone wants to make a complaint I need to understand the sequence of events that led up to problem, but often the person I'm talking to isn't able to relate their story in a linear fashion, or an awareness of which facts are relevant. Being able to create a timeline out of a jumble of words becomes a handy skill to have....
And I think, as an ex-bullshitter, I'm pretty good at spotting when someone is doling it out.
Why do I do it? Well, I suppose in part it's that well worn and nebulous cliché of "giving something back", a sense of doing some good in the community. Not that it's always clear if I've been of any assistance, but that's the nature of the job.
It's also about the sheer variety of situations I find myself dealing with, trying to understand, and the different professions and people I encounter. But there are a couple of specifics I want to end on, one very personal to myself, the other with a wider purview. Firstly, retirement is wonderful, but it's easy to feel like you're no longer of much use to anyone. Being able to dig up some of my skills from the past and apply them to a very different environment is what I think of as my "reminder of competence". Secondly, seeing people who are sometimes at a very low point in their lives, sometimes feeling suicidal, and hearing their background stories has helped me keep in mind that the vast majority of us are only two or three coinciding events from hitting a downwards spiral. Most of us could find a way to cope with a serious illness to ourselves or others, or the death of someone close, or redundancy, or a sudden financial burden, or an accident, or having to move home, or falling out with friends or relatives, or.... The list goes on. But change one or two of those 'or's to 'and's and coping becomes much more difficult. I've met people who were leading perfectly normal, useful lives, only for some of those events to come along at once and finding they lack the resources to cope. Maybe they don't have a decent support network, maybe they don't have savings, maybe they don't have the skills. Maybe I wouldn't.
So that's why I'm walking for Advocard. Because any one of us might need it one day.
If you'd like to help me to raise funds you can donate by clicking on this link.
Thursday, 30 August 2018
Walking with a purpose
NOW I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING IT FOR
Following on from my last post here it seemed about time I wrote an update on my Kiltwalk plans. There's little more than 2 weeks until the day itself, and things have moved on since I first wrote about it in early July.
There's the good news that I won't be made to feel old by the other members of the group I'll be walking with. And the bad news that all of the others have, due to other commitments or ill health, had to drop out, so I'm now the oldest, youngest and only. Oh well.
I had been planning to surprise the others on the day with my attire. But since there's nobody left to reveal myself to I may as well admit that I took this seriously enough to buy a kilt (a bargain - £50 in Armstrongs in the Grassmarket) and start wearing it so I can be used to it by the time it and me are going the distance. It's the first time I've worn one for about 50 years, after a traumatic event a much younger me experienced in Budapest, but I've been enjoying it, even wearing it to a few Fringe shows. I have no idea what the tartan is (anyone?), but it's bright without being as offensive as some. It's also the lighter of the 2 weights usually available, making it a bit comfier on a warm day.
I've done quite a few training walks since that first post, but today was only the second in the kilt. The first time I tried was also the first walk on which it poured heavily and I was fair drookit, despite only doing about 7 miles. But a kilt is better than jeans in those conditions, nowhere near as absorbent, but one bit of the hem rubbed the side of my knee so much it was almost bleeding. I now know to take plasters in my bag....
Today it was the Water of Leith Walkway again, this time in the sensible direction, coming down from the Pentlands. It was dry, it was warm, and there was no chafing. It also provided an answer to one of the great existential questions of our time - what's it like to walk that sort of distance with a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way? Answer, nowhere near as exciting as you might hope.
Having been left to my own devices in this I was able to choose my own charity to donate to. I've gone with Advocard (http://www.advocard.org.uk) which provides advocacy services for people with poor mental health, people who might otherwise find themselves ignored or coerced by officialdom and other organisations. My choice reflects my own involvement, having been a volunteer advocacy worker for more than 2 years., and knowing what the service can mean to people. I'll write more about my experiences of Advocard in my next post.
Meanwhile, if you would like to sponsor me, please click on this link.
Following on from my last post here it seemed about time I wrote an update on my Kiltwalk plans. There's little more than 2 weeks until the day itself, and things have moved on since I first wrote about it in early July.
There's the good news that I won't be made to feel old by the other members of the group I'll be walking with. And the bad news that all of the others have, due to other commitments or ill health, had to drop out, so I'm now the oldest, youngest and only. Oh well.
I had been planning to surprise the others on the day with my attire. But since there's nobody left to reveal myself to I may as well admit that I took this seriously enough to buy a kilt (a bargain - £50 in Armstrongs in the Grassmarket) and start wearing it so I can be used to it by the time it and me are going the distance. It's the first time I've worn one for about 50 years, after a traumatic event a much younger me experienced in Budapest, but I've been enjoying it, even wearing it to a few Fringe shows. I have no idea what the tartan is (anyone?), but it's bright without being as offensive as some. It's also the lighter of the 2 weights usually available, making it a bit comfier on a warm day.
I've done quite a few training walks since that first post, but today was only the second in the kilt. The first time I tried was also the first walk on which it poured heavily and I was fair drookit, despite only doing about 7 miles. But a kilt is better than jeans in those conditions, nowhere near as absorbent, but one bit of the hem rubbed the side of my knee so much it was almost bleeding. I now know to take plasters in my bag....
Today it was the Water of Leith Walkway again, this time in the sensible direction, coming down from the Pentlands. It was dry, it was warm, and there was no chafing. It also provided an answer to one of the great existential questions of our time - what's it like to walk that sort of distance with a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way? Answer, nowhere near as exciting as you might hope.
Having been left to my own devices in this I was able to choose my own charity to donate to. I've gone with Advocard (http://www.advocard.org.uk) which provides advocacy services for people with poor mental health, people who might otherwise find themselves ignored or coerced by officialdom and other organisations. My choice reflects my own involvement, having been a volunteer advocacy worker for more than 2 years., and knowing what the service can mean to people. I'll write more about my experiences of Advocard in my next post.
Meanwhile, if you would like to sponsor me, please click on this link.
Sunday, 8 July 2018
Hitting the age barrier
IF YOU'RE ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL....
Cliche time. You don't fully appreciate what your body means to you when you're young. Most of us simply take it for granted, that we can run, eat and drink what we like, and stay up all night if we want to. Then your view starts to change. Something turns up, some time, to tell you that your physical attributes aren't quite what they once were. You ache more, you miss a bus you'd once have caught, you can't face that all night party. Whatever it is you'll know when it happens. That reminder of mortality.
Those little reminders have been coming at me with increasing velocity over the past two or three decades. I try to stay reasonably healthy, I try to exercise. But the chances are I'll miss that bus now. And if I don't get a night's sleep.....
So when I decided to join a group entering this year's Kiltwalk charity event (on 16 September, and yes, since you're asking, I will be pestering you in future to pledge a donation) maybe I didn't give it the thought it deserved. Thirteen miles didn't sound all that far. Did it? Then the route was published. Fifteen and half miles. Mostly flat terrain along the coast, with all the hills saved for the final two miles. Hang on.... When was the last time I walked fifteen miles? Have I ever walked fifteen miles? This was starting to fall into the "it seemed like a good idea at the time" category. Then add in the fact that the four people I'm walking with are younger. Not just 'younger', but 'YOUNGER'. As in decades rather than years. Was I going to be the one to let the side down? An exploration of what my body was still capable of seemed called for. If there was a lot of work to be done on it then now might be a good time to find out, when there remained a good few weeks to do the necessary.
So I thought I'd challenge myself with about half the distance to start with. Three weeks ago I set off for Musselburgh. About seven miles. The last half mile or so seemed to leave me with somebody else's legs to walk on, but other than that it went fine. I'd actually enjoyed it. Even the next day, once the initial stiffness wore off, I was back to normal. This was encouraging.
Another walk last week, this time from the edge of Prestonpans to Newhaven, thence home. Eleven miles, only a couple of proper rest stops. On one of the hottest days. Sore feet. Aching legs. Aching everywhere. But again I enjoyed it, again I recovered fairly well next day. Age? Pah, just a number....?
Yesterday. The Water of Leith Walkway. Twelve and a half miles. Leith to Balerno. Another hot day, but at least this route provides plenty shade. Just follow the signs I thought, no problem. The naivety of age. All was well for the first seven or eight miles. But in Colinton I managed to take a wrong turn, walked a long way before I admitted defeat and resorted to Google Maps. This probably added a mile and a half to my trek. Did I give up? Almost. A 10 bus went past. A 10 bus would take me home.... But I got back on track and slogged on. Bloodymindedness has it's benefits sometimes. But every bit of me spoke it's pleasure at seeing the end of the track and a nearby bus stop. The worst bit proved to be getting off the bus to find my legs had developed their own independent ideas about support and direction.
But here I am, twenty hours later, and not dead yet. Everything works roughly as it should. So maybe fifteen and half isn't such a bad prospect after all, as long as I keep doing a decent walk each week until the day itself. Then the thing to adapt to will be walking with others as part of a group. Walking at the group's pace, not mine. And now I'm wondering....yes, they're so much younger, but they're also short-arses. Will they be able to keep up with me?
Will I be doing the Walkway again? Too right I will. Only this time I'll do it in the sensible people's direction, from the hills down to the coast. I'm more than old enough to learn from my stupid mistakes.
Cliche time. You don't fully appreciate what your body means to you when you're young. Most of us simply take it for granted, that we can run, eat and drink what we like, and stay up all night if we want to. Then your view starts to change. Something turns up, some time, to tell you that your physical attributes aren't quite what they once were. You ache more, you miss a bus you'd once have caught, you can't face that all night party. Whatever it is you'll know when it happens. That reminder of mortality.
Those little reminders have been coming at me with increasing velocity over the past two or three decades. I try to stay reasonably healthy, I try to exercise. But the chances are I'll miss that bus now. And if I don't get a night's sleep.....
So when I decided to join a group entering this year's Kiltwalk charity event (on 16 September, and yes, since you're asking, I will be pestering you in future to pledge a donation) maybe I didn't give it the thought it deserved. Thirteen miles didn't sound all that far. Did it? Then the route was published. Fifteen and half miles. Mostly flat terrain along the coast, with all the hills saved for the final two miles. Hang on.... When was the last time I walked fifteen miles? Have I ever walked fifteen miles? This was starting to fall into the "it seemed like a good idea at the time" category. Then add in the fact that the four people I'm walking with are younger. Not just 'younger', but 'YOUNGER'. As in decades rather than years. Was I going to be the one to let the side down? An exploration of what my body was still capable of seemed called for. If there was a lot of work to be done on it then now might be a good time to find out, when there remained a good few weeks to do the necessary.
So I thought I'd challenge myself with about half the distance to start with. Three weeks ago I set off for Musselburgh. About seven miles. The last half mile or so seemed to leave me with somebody else's legs to walk on, but other than that it went fine. I'd actually enjoyed it. Even the next day, once the initial stiffness wore off, I was back to normal. This was encouraging.
Another walk last week, this time from the edge of Prestonpans to Newhaven, thence home. Eleven miles, only a couple of proper rest stops. On one of the hottest days. Sore feet. Aching legs. Aching everywhere. But again I enjoyed it, again I recovered fairly well next day. Age? Pah, just a number....?
Yesterday. The Water of Leith Walkway. Twelve and a half miles. Leith to Balerno. Another hot day, but at least this route provides plenty shade. Just follow the signs I thought, no problem. The naivety of age. All was well for the first seven or eight miles. But in Colinton I managed to take a wrong turn, walked a long way before I admitted defeat and resorted to Google Maps. This probably added a mile and a half to my trek. Did I give up? Almost. A 10 bus went past. A 10 bus would take me home.... But I got back on track and slogged on. Bloodymindedness has it's benefits sometimes. But every bit of me spoke it's pleasure at seeing the end of the track and a nearby bus stop. The worst bit proved to be getting off the bus to find my legs had developed their own independent ideas about support and direction.
But here I am, twenty hours later, and not dead yet. Everything works roughly as it should. So maybe fifteen and half isn't such a bad prospect after all, as long as I keep doing a decent walk each week until the day itself. Then the thing to adapt to will be walking with others as part of a group. Walking at the group's pace, not mine. And now I'm wondering....yes, they're so much younger, but they're also short-arses. Will they be able to keep up with me?
Will I be doing the Walkway again? Too right I will. Only this time I'll do it in the sensible people's direction, from the hills down to the coast. I'm more than old enough to learn from my stupid mistakes.
Sunday, 17 June 2018
Football vs.... a proper sport
RESPECT
Feeling a bit weary when I came home, I did something I rarely do. Sat on the sofa and turned on the telly in the hope of finding something interesting. There might be a decent tennis match on.
Instead I found myself watching a bit of that world cup thingy that's on for the next few months - sorry, weeks. On. And on. And on.....
It must be several decades since I consciously sat down to watch a football game. (Was there a world cup in '94, I seem to remember doing the ironing while something was on?). But this only had about 15 minutes to go, so I thought I'd try to figure out what all the fuss was about. And came away with new found admiration for those hardy souls who will be sitting watching this stuff for days on end. How have they mastered the art of coping with that much tedium?
I watched those 15 minutes (and by "watched" I mean "looked up from my tablet screen whenever the commentators seemed to get a bit shoutier") and was mostly struck by just how slow it all was. At the end the 'experts' (I think one of them might have been Gary Lineker, but as I didn't see a packet of crisps I couldn't be sure) felt a need to go over it all and reassure us what a great game it had been (really?!). To me it felt like the only excitement was that the underdog had won, something I'm all too used to identifying with.
What I saw were players walking about, occasionally some will break into a trot, maybe even a bit of actual running when the shoutiness levels were up. They are kicking around an object pretty much as big as their own heads, trying to hit a target that's about the size of a large barn door laid on it's side. While walking/running on a nice flat grassy surface. In shoes specially designed for walking and running on flat grassy surfaces. And nothing much happens except they kick it to each other for a bit, then the other lot do it, and occasionally, at the shouty bits, it gets a bit nearer one of those barn doors, which they then proceed to miss. Sometimes, if they are feeling particularly energetic, the ball can be end to end in.... what, about 30 seconds? And that's the exciting bit. Have I missed anything out?
Trouble is, after several seasons I'm now too used to watching hockey. Where the players can be moving up to 25mph, the 3 inch diameter puck gets up to around 100mph, and play is end to end in less than 5 seconds, all the time wielding a big stick like it's a part of themselves. Where the target is only 6 feet by 4 and there's guy in the way with another big stick and a lot of padding. Where, if the puck is in play, something is happening and nobody is fannying about hitting it back and forward in the middle. Where, despite the tiny size of the goal, players find creative ways to get that lump of rubber flying into the net.
Oh, and did I mention they do all this on contact points 1/8 of an inch wide, on a surface most of us would struggle to stand up on?
So well done all you footy fans, feeling content with a second rate alternative to a proper team sport, I don't know how you do it....
Feeling a bit weary when I came home, I did something I rarely do. Sat on the sofa and turned on the telly in the hope of finding something interesting. There might be a decent tennis match on.
Instead I found myself watching a bit of that world cup thingy that's on for the next few months - sorry, weeks. On. And on. And on.....
It must be several decades since I consciously sat down to watch a football game. (Was there a world cup in '94, I seem to remember doing the ironing while something was on?). But this only had about 15 minutes to go, so I thought I'd try to figure out what all the fuss was about. And came away with new found admiration for those hardy souls who will be sitting watching this stuff for days on end. How have they mastered the art of coping with that much tedium?
I watched those 15 minutes (and by "watched" I mean "looked up from my tablet screen whenever the commentators seemed to get a bit shoutier") and was mostly struck by just how slow it all was. At the end the 'experts' (I think one of them might have been Gary Lineker, but as I didn't see a packet of crisps I couldn't be sure) felt a need to go over it all and reassure us what a great game it had been (really?!). To me it felt like the only excitement was that the underdog had won, something I'm all too used to identifying with.
What I saw were players walking about, occasionally some will break into a trot, maybe even a bit of actual running when the shoutiness levels were up. They are kicking around an object pretty much as big as their own heads, trying to hit a target that's about the size of a large barn door laid on it's side. While walking/running on a nice flat grassy surface. In shoes specially designed for walking and running on flat grassy surfaces. And nothing much happens except they kick it to each other for a bit, then the other lot do it, and occasionally, at the shouty bits, it gets a bit nearer one of those barn doors, which they then proceed to miss. Sometimes, if they are feeling particularly energetic, the ball can be end to end in.... what, about 30 seconds? And that's the exciting bit. Have I missed anything out?
Trouble is, after several seasons I'm now too used to watching hockey. Where the players can be moving up to 25mph, the 3 inch diameter puck gets up to around 100mph, and play is end to end in less than 5 seconds, all the time wielding a big stick like it's a part of themselves. Where the target is only 6 feet by 4 and there's guy in the way with another big stick and a lot of padding. Where, if the puck is in play, something is happening and nobody is fannying about hitting it back and forward in the middle. Where, despite the tiny size of the goal, players find creative ways to get that lump of rubber flying into the net.
Oh, and did I mention they do all this on contact points 1/8 of an inch wide, on a surface most of us would struggle to stand up on?
So well done all you footy fans, feeling content with a second rate alternative to a proper team sport, I don't know how you do it....
Sunday, 10 June 2018
From Suffragettes to bullies....
100 YEARS, AND WE AREN'T THERE YET
Today we went up to town to watch thousands of women, and a few men, march past to commemorate, and celebrate, the centenary of women first being given the right to vote in the UK. Well, some women. At the time it was only those over thirty, and with some claim to property rights, who were included, and it would be a further ten years before proper equality of voting rights was established. Even now there remains a part of the UK still holding out against equal rights for women. Maybe a reunited Ireland can sort that one out....
The march was a joyous affair, noisy, friendly, enthusiastic, with the widest possible range of ages and backgrounds taking part. And plenty of colour, the organisers having handed out bits of material in the three colours of the suffragette movement, green, white and violet. There was a lot of imagination being shown in how these might best be worn. And imagination, and humour, in many of the banners and placards being carried. Plus a cogent recognition that progress to full equality of rights has yet to be achieved.
The UK certainly wasn't the first state to extend voting rights to all people, regardless of gender, but it was still relatively early in world terms. Looking through the timeline of when various countries implemented equal voting rights, it's still a shock to remember that, even in progressive Europe, it was a change well within living memory - France in 1944, Switzerland in 1971, and tardy Liechtenstein only in '84. So there are plenty of women who can still recall when they were officially second class citizens.
Which is what makes the current series of The Handmaid's Tale, and Atwood's original novel, so chilling. What was so recently gained can always be reversed, and there is nothing about the dystopia portrayed that's hard to imagine happening. Especially in a world where a petulant orange manchild can become president of the USA.
Still, maybe he has some qualities that could come in useful. I can just about imagine him and Little Rocket Man getting along, because they have so much in common. Except I'm not sure puerile bullies are ever going to tolerate one another in the end, with such fragile egos involved.
Today we went up to town to watch thousands of women, and a few men, march past to commemorate, and celebrate, the centenary of women first being given the right to vote in the UK. Well, some women. At the time it was only those over thirty, and with some claim to property rights, who were included, and it would be a further ten years before proper equality of voting rights was established. Even now there remains a part of the UK still holding out against equal rights for women. Maybe a reunited Ireland can sort that one out....
The march was a joyous affair, noisy, friendly, enthusiastic, with the widest possible range of ages and backgrounds taking part. And plenty of colour, the organisers having handed out bits of material in the three colours of the suffragette movement, green, white and violet. There was a lot of imagination being shown in how these might best be worn. And imagination, and humour, in many of the banners and placards being carried. Plus a cogent recognition that progress to full equality of rights has yet to be achieved.
The UK certainly wasn't the first state to extend voting rights to all people, regardless of gender, but it was still relatively early in world terms. Looking through the timeline of when various countries implemented equal voting rights, it's still a shock to remember that, even in progressive Europe, it was a change well within living memory - France in 1944, Switzerland in 1971, and tardy Liechtenstein only in '84. So there are plenty of women who can still recall when they were officially second class citizens.
Which is what makes the current series of The Handmaid's Tale, and Atwood's original novel, so chilling. What was so recently gained can always be reversed, and there is nothing about the dystopia portrayed that's hard to imagine happening. Especially in a world where a petulant orange manchild can become president of the USA.
Still, maybe he has some qualities that could come in useful. I can just about imagine him and Little Rocket Man getting along, because they have so much in common. Except I'm not sure puerile bullies are ever going to tolerate one another in the end, with such fragile egos involved.
Sunday, 20 May 2018
The Good, the Bad and the Holiday
BACK HOME
Back from a short holiday yesterday. It's strange what memory comes up with from such a short time ago. I'll miss these views from the balcony of our room in the morning.
But when I push myself to come up with a list of the three best things about the last five days it looks like this :
1. Grilled sea bass
2. Spaghetti with seafood
3. Fig and almond ice cream
Observant readers may notice an underlying pattern.
And the three worst?
1. Going deaf (I hadn't been in a swimming pool for years)
2. Groin strain (I hadn't been in a swimming pool for years....)
3. A big blister (I hadn't worn those sandals for months)
Observant readers are already ahead of me.
Of course coming home has it's pleasures. Mostly the welcome from this wee face :
I even had to eat dinner with her on my lap.
But she seems a bit more relaxed about our being back today.....
Back from a short holiday yesterday. It's strange what memory comes up with from such a short time ago. I'll miss these views from the balcony of our room in the morning.
But when I push myself to come up with a list of the three best things about the last five days it looks like this :
1. Grilled sea bass
2. Spaghetti with seafood
3. Fig and almond ice cream
Observant readers may notice an underlying pattern.
And the three worst?
1. Going deaf (I hadn't been in a swimming pool for years)
2. Groin strain (I hadn't been in a swimming pool for years....)
3. A big blister (I hadn't worn those sandals for months)
Observant readers are already ahead of me.
Of course coming home has it's pleasures. Mostly the welcome from this wee face :
I even had to eat dinner with her on my lap.
But she seems a bit more relaxed about our being back today.....
Monday, 30 April 2018
When reality's better than fiction
NOTHING DATES LIKE THE FUTURE
The curse of science fiction writers is their lack of a functioning crystal ball, and the knowledge that predictions for the technology of the future will sound totally out of touch in the decades that follow. As a child growing up in the sixties I was led to believe we'd all have our own jetpacks by now....
I recently reread Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy, widely regarded as a seminal sci-fi work. Set several millennia into the future, when human beings have colonised the galaxy, and written in the early fifties, I first read it about twenty years after publication. I don't recall at the time thinking that any of the tech used in the stories was highly improbable. But this was well before the internet had achieved the ubiquity it has now, indeed most people had no contact with computers in their daily lives. Asimov's imagination still felt futuristic.
More than forty years later that view has changed dramatically. Data stored on tape? Nuclear power used for almost everything, even kitchen gadgets? Paper still a key means of disseminating information? The notion of 'the cloud' doesn't really appear. There are no touchscreens, and voice activation, now one of the fastest expanding technologies, plays only a minor role. Sixty five years on that future is already very, very dated.
But even more jarring than the scientific faux pas was the number of social attitudes that were stuck in their 1950s origins. Most characters smoked (but hey, they had atomic ashtrays....). Societies were ruled by hereditary monarchies, complete with the whole aristocracy thing - and democracy hardly gets a look in. Mind you, with some of the things going on in the world at the moment maybe that one isn't so far fetched.
But the most striking anomaly, that jumped off the pages time after time, was the position of women in this 'advanced' society. They cook. They do housework. They don't fight. They are 1950s homemaker woman spread across the galaxy. There are only two female protagonists of any significance. One is a fourteen year old schoolgirl, whose importance to events is in part accidental. And the nearest thing there is to a powerful female character is first introduced to the reader as "a young bride". Which says it all.
Oh, and not a single reference to anyone in the three books being from the LGBT community. It's a very straight galaxy.
We might not have those jetpacks, but at least our progress in social attitudes makes these predictions of the future look backward.
The curse of science fiction writers is their lack of a functioning crystal ball, and the knowledge that predictions for the technology of the future will sound totally out of touch in the decades that follow. As a child growing up in the sixties I was led to believe we'd all have our own jetpacks by now....
I recently reread Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy, widely regarded as a seminal sci-fi work. Set several millennia into the future, when human beings have colonised the galaxy, and written in the early fifties, I first read it about twenty years after publication. I don't recall at the time thinking that any of the tech used in the stories was highly improbable. But this was well before the internet had achieved the ubiquity it has now, indeed most people had no contact with computers in their daily lives. Asimov's imagination still felt futuristic.
More than forty years later that view has changed dramatically. Data stored on tape? Nuclear power used for almost everything, even kitchen gadgets? Paper still a key means of disseminating information? The notion of 'the cloud' doesn't really appear. There are no touchscreens, and voice activation, now one of the fastest expanding technologies, plays only a minor role. Sixty five years on that future is already very, very dated.
But even more jarring than the scientific faux pas was the number of social attitudes that were stuck in their 1950s origins. Most characters smoked (but hey, they had atomic ashtrays....). Societies were ruled by hereditary monarchies, complete with the whole aristocracy thing - and democracy hardly gets a look in. Mind you, with some of the things going on in the world at the moment maybe that one isn't so far fetched.
But the most striking anomaly, that jumped off the pages time after time, was the position of women in this 'advanced' society. They cook. They do housework. They don't fight. They are 1950s homemaker woman spread across the galaxy. There are only two female protagonists of any significance. One is a fourteen year old schoolgirl, whose importance to events is in part accidental. And the nearest thing there is to a powerful female character is first introduced to the reader as "a young bride". Which says it all.
Oh, and not a single reference to anyone in the three books being from the LGBT community. It's a very straight galaxy.
We might not have those jetpacks, but at least our progress in social attitudes makes these predictions of the future look backward.
Saturday, 10 March 2018
A Hitch Hiker's Guide to Miss Brodie
COINCIDENCES
Many decades ago, when I was but a slender yoof, I read a short article in a magazine that has remained at the back of my mind ever since. Atop the piece was a small circle, the size of a button badge, with a single 5 letter word - 2 't's, 2'o's and an i. The text promised that, if you cut out the circle, added a spot of glue, stuck it to an appropriately sized badge, and wore it constantly, your levels of productivity and success would soar. Because, as everyone knows, to achieve anything in life you really need to get a round tooit.
I never did cut that badge out, so, forty years or so later, I remain encumbered with a long, long list of "one day I must get around to" items. This includes several books lurking on my shelves, mocking me, teasing me to pick them up and have a go. In most cases they sit there, unread, not because they are particularly challenging reads, but on grounds of physical size.
Reading has always been a passion, and I rarely venture out without a book of some sort about my person. There's always chances to read just a wee bit more, on a bus, train or tram, waiting for someone, in a cafe or pub, taking the sun on a park bench, anywhere I have five minutes to spare. I've read books on my phone before now, but find the small screen a bit hard going on the old eyes nowadays, so that means either my ebook reader, or a good old fashioned bit of tree pulp. But 700 plus page volumes don't fit readily in the pocket, weigh down a bag.
New tactics are called for, new year resolution made. I will get into some of those bigger books by keeping them at home, where I do most of my reading, but also starting a series of smaller books for taking about with me, ideally something I'm already familiar with and will be easy to pick up in small doses and irregular intervals.
My 1st January starting point for the home-based volumes were the Muriel Spark omnibuses I bought back in the eighties. There were two of them, each containing five novels, each close to 700 pages, and they provided the bulk of my reading through January and into mid February. And very enjoyable they were. I'd only read a couple of Sparks before - Jean Brodie, of course, and The Mandelbaum Gate - but confess my main memory of the author was through watching Maggie Smith in her Prime. The sparse, direct prose, the memorable characters, innovative plots and the occasional nod towards the surreal all drew me in.
What I hadn't realised is that this is a Spark year. The centenary of her birth has been marked in various ways, including a BBC documentary fronted by Kirsty Wark, and an exhibition of her letters, notebooks and other artifacts in the National Library, only a mile or so from where I sit typing. So my timing was fortuitous, and entirely coincidental, giving added value to my reading, something I'd have missed out on if I'd actually got around to it years ago.
My choice of carry-around-with-me books was an easy one. It was a long time since I'd read all five volumes of Douglas Adams' Hitch Hiker's Guide trilogy, while the sixth episode, not by Adams, sat calling me to add it to my knowledge of the Universe. Six books as slender as the teenage me, and perfect for pockets. Characters I already knew and loved, daftness, philosophy, improbability and so many memories.
What I hadn't realised is that this is Hitch Hiker's year. Forty years since the original incarnations of Arthur, Ford, Zaphod, Trillian and Marvin exploded on to Radio 4. And to mark the occasion a new radio series, featuring many of the original actors, started last week, this time based on the non-Douglas book, And Another Thing by Eoin Colfer. Very promising it seems too, based on listening to the first episode, full of very stupid throwaway lines, and the voice of Stephen Hawking.
That I should start two series of books, both of which were to be marked by significant anniversaries, does seem a bit too coincidental. Or maybe just highly improbable - which, if you know your Hitch Hiker's Guide, could not be more highly appropriate.
"All mystical experience is coincidence; and vice versa, of course." - Tom Stoppard
Think I'll forget about the tooit and stick with serendipity.
PS The above is 100% true. If you notice any factual inaccuracies that's entirely the fault of reality.
Many decades ago, when I was but a slender yoof, I read a short article in a magazine that has remained at the back of my mind ever since. Atop the piece was a small circle, the size of a button badge, with a single 5 letter word - 2 't's, 2'o's and an i. The text promised that, if you cut out the circle, added a spot of glue, stuck it to an appropriately sized badge, and wore it constantly, your levels of productivity and success would soar. Because, as everyone knows, to achieve anything in life you really need to get a round tooit.
I never did cut that badge out, so, forty years or so later, I remain encumbered with a long, long list of "one day I must get around to" items. This includes several books lurking on my shelves, mocking me, teasing me to pick them up and have a go. In most cases they sit there, unread, not because they are particularly challenging reads, but on grounds of physical size.
Reading has always been a passion, and I rarely venture out without a book of some sort about my person. There's always chances to read just a wee bit more, on a bus, train or tram, waiting for someone, in a cafe or pub, taking the sun on a park bench, anywhere I have five minutes to spare. I've read books on my phone before now, but find the small screen a bit hard going on the old eyes nowadays, so that means either my ebook reader, or a good old fashioned bit of tree pulp. But 700 plus page volumes don't fit readily in the pocket, weigh down a bag.
New tactics are called for, new year resolution made. I will get into some of those bigger books by keeping them at home, where I do most of my reading, but also starting a series of smaller books for taking about with me, ideally something I'm already familiar with and will be easy to pick up in small doses and irregular intervals.
My 1st January starting point for the home-based volumes were the Muriel Spark omnibuses I bought back in the eighties. There were two of them, each containing five novels, each close to 700 pages, and they provided the bulk of my reading through January and into mid February. And very enjoyable they were. I'd only read a couple of Sparks before - Jean Brodie, of course, and The Mandelbaum Gate - but confess my main memory of the author was through watching Maggie Smith in her Prime. The sparse, direct prose, the memorable characters, innovative plots and the occasional nod towards the surreal all drew me in.
What I hadn't realised is that this is a Spark year. The centenary of her birth has been marked in various ways, including a BBC documentary fronted by Kirsty Wark, and an exhibition of her letters, notebooks and other artifacts in the National Library, only a mile or so from where I sit typing. So my timing was fortuitous, and entirely coincidental, giving added value to my reading, something I'd have missed out on if I'd actually got around to it years ago.
My choice of carry-around-with-me books was an easy one. It was a long time since I'd read all five volumes of Douglas Adams' Hitch Hiker's Guide trilogy, while the sixth episode, not by Adams, sat calling me to add it to my knowledge of the Universe. Six books as slender as the teenage me, and perfect for pockets. Characters I already knew and loved, daftness, philosophy, improbability and so many memories.
What I hadn't realised is that this is Hitch Hiker's year. Forty years since the original incarnations of Arthur, Ford, Zaphod, Trillian and Marvin exploded on to Radio 4. And to mark the occasion a new radio series, featuring many of the original actors, started last week, this time based on the non-Douglas book, And Another Thing by Eoin Colfer. Very promising it seems too, based on listening to the first episode, full of very stupid throwaway lines, and the voice of Stephen Hawking.
That I should start two series of books, both of which were to be marked by significant anniversaries, does seem a bit too coincidental. Or maybe just highly improbable - which, if you know your Hitch Hiker's Guide, could not be more highly appropriate.
"All mystical experience is coincidence; and vice versa, of course." - Tom Stoppard
Think I'll forget about the tooit and stick with serendipity.
PS The above is 100% true. If you notice any factual inaccuracies that's entirely the fault of reality.
Wednesday, 28 February 2018
Snow right, is it?
BUT LONDON WILL HAVE IT MUCH WORSE OF COURSE....
Not exactly Scandanavia, are we? And Canada would laugh it off. Meanwhile a bit of snow and Scotland grinds to a halt. OK, a bit more snow than we've seen for a while, but, although we laugh at the overreaction, and media hysteria, coming from the overbearing self importance of south east England, we don't seem to having all that much success here in keeping things going. And this is the capital city....
Buses no longer running, people sent home from work early, schools shut down. And this was Waverley Station shortly after 5 on a weekday.
Normally I'd barely be even to stand still without being jostled by knackered commuters, and this board would be full up with trains leaving in the next 15 minutes. Instead there are just 6, 1 of them cancelled, and 2 that should have already left. There's only 1 arrival looking to be in on time, and there's a London train more than and hour and a half late. And one rather pissed off looking rail employee. Shouldn't we be doing better than this?
On the plus side, lots of workers can get a hint of the joys of being retired....
Not exactly Scandanavia, are we? And Canada would laugh it off. Meanwhile a bit of snow and Scotland grinds to a halt. OK, a bit more snow than we've seen for a while, but, although we laugh at the overreaction, and media hysteria, coming from the overbearing self importance of south east England, we don't seem to having all that much success here in keeping things going. And this is the capital city....
Buses no longer running, people sent home from work early, schools shut down. And this was Waverley Station shortly after 5 on a weekday.
Normally I'd barely be even to stand still without being jostled by knackered commuters, and this board would be full up with trains leaving in the next 15 minutes. Instead there are just 6, 1 of them cancelled, and 2 that should have already left. There's only 1 arrival looking to be in on time, and there's a London train more than and hour and a half late. And one rather pissed off looking rail employee. Shouldn't we be doing better than this?
On the plus side, lots of workers can get a hint of the joys of being retired....
Thursday, 25 January 2018
An end to procrastination
THE THIEF OF TIME
Hi. My name is Blyth, and I am a chronic procrastinator.
'Never do today what you can put off til tomorrow' could legitimately serve as my epitaph. I was like that at school. As a uni student, and throughout my working life. Pulling late nighters to finish off an essay or a spreadsheet or a plan or a document that was essential the next day has always been a part of my 'method', followed by that vacant, rumpled, sleepless look the day after. And don't talk to me about deadlines....
(As a fan of the late, great Douglas Adams I was always in karmic sympathy with one of his best known quotes : "I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.")
Quite how I was ever a (not wholly unsuccessful) project manager will remain one the universe's great mysteries (or just shows what talented people I worked with, who always managed to achieve stuff in spite of me).
Now I'm retired you'd think none of this mattered any more. But there always some elements of life that need to be addressed in a timely manner, decisions to be made. I'm on a committee, I do a bit of voluntary work, neither of them very time consuming but sometimes requiring me to do things and needing then done soon. Domestically there are always little maintenance jobs, or plans to draw up for the year ahead so we can fit in a holiday among the required festival-going.
So it might have taken me sixty one years, but I have finally cracked it, finally discovering what works for me in tackling the tasks that need to be done, and doing so well ahead of the time when they start to become critical (or at least when I'm likely to start becoming the subject of criticism.... they're the same thing, aren't they?). Of course it won't work for everyone, but if my approach can be of any help to just one other person then I'm happy to have shared it.
All will be explained tomorrow.
Hi. My name is Blyth, and I am a chronic procrastinator.
'Never do today what you can put off til tomorrow' could legitimately serve as my epitaph. I was like that at school. As a uni student, and throughout my working life. Pulling late nighters to finish off an essay or a spreadsheet or a plan or a document that was essential the next day has always been a part of my 'method', followed by that vacant, rumpled, sleepless look the day after. And don't talk to me about deadlines....
(As a fan of the late, great Douglas Adams I was always in karmic sympathy with one of his best known quotes : "I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.")
Quite how I was ever a (not wholly unsuccessful) project manager will remain one the universe's great mysteries (or just shows what talented people I worked with, who always managed to achieve stuff in spite of me).
Now I'm retired you'd think none of this mattered any more. But there always some elements of life that need to be addressed in a timely manner, decisions to be made. I'm on a committee, I do a bit of voluntary work, neither of them very time consuming but sometimes requiring me to do things and needing then done soon. Domestically there are always little maintenance jobs, or plans to draw up for the year ahead so we can fit in a holiday among the required festival-going.
So it might have taken me sixty one years, but I have finally cracked it, finally discovering what works for me in tackling the tasks that need to be done, and doing so well ahead of the time when they start to become critical (or at least when I'm likely to start becoming the subject of criticism.... they're the same thing, aren't they?). Of course it won't work for everyone, but if my approach can be of any help to just one other person then I'm happy to have shared it.
All will be explained tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)