Christmas Thoughts

I don't know if it is the same for everybody, but Christmas to me is it time of great reflection.

As if the whole of my life flashes before me, and I suppose particularly all of my Christmas Days seem clear side-by-side, remembering where I was and what I was doing.

One of my most vivid memories of Christmas cannot be of Christmas Day itself, but concerns my traveling on Christmas eve from Paddington to the West Country, where I was spending Christmas with my family in Wiltshire.

I have a thing about trains, and have often said that I have done some of my most important thinking on trains. They just have that effect on me.

This particular Christmas I must have been in my late teens or perhaps just 20.

The train was not very full at all, and it was one of those slam-door trains, which were divided into separate compartments, so that you had a compartment of six or eight seats.

It was therefore much more comfortable and cosy than travel on modern trains, in the days when there was much more woodwork and the seats were far more comfortably upholstered.

I don't remember anything particular about the journey, the memory is really I suppose a nostalgic remembrance of a different time.

The days of compartments in trains were quite different to modern travel, and I think as this was close to the time when these kind of trains were being discontinued, this must have been an old first-class carriage, now sadly reduced to standard class travel. And I was the beneficiary of its comfort and sense of occasion.

In those days, you really felt as if you were traveling somewhere, and there would have been a restaurant car somewhere on the train.

I can only remember perhaps once or twice eating a meal on a train, as it was not something I could easily afford as a young man.

But I am glad that I do have that memory of a quality of service and environment, that is so alien to modern train travel in the UK.

Whenever a film uses older trains for some scenes, such as in the opening to Swallows And Amazons, and similarly to The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe in the first Chronicle of Narnia, the sensation is one of magically being transported to another world.

Of course it is a world divorced from the reality of those times, so that of course the children are on the way to their destination somewhere similarly to myself in the West Country (at one point the station name is called that was my destination, Pewsey) they were of course in the process of evacuation from wartime London.

Circumstances far different from my experience in about 1980.

And my first ever published poem was inspired by a train journey, and indeed perhaps reveals something of the rhythmic fact of train travel. Perhaps one of the reasons why it has so stimulated my thoughts towards poetry.

This poem is called The Journey, and the line on which I was travelling is called the Tarka Line. It still exists today, and is so called because the author of Tarka The Otter, Henry Williamson, lived in this area and perhaps wrote his famous book Drawing upon the natural environment in which his character no doubt lived.

It travels between Exeter and Ilfracombe, and is certainly a beautiful journey even in modern times.

The author is known to me in another context, so that when I lived on the Norfolk/Suffolk border I lived in a small town called Bungay that was close to where Sir Henry Rider Haggard once lived, and his daughter, I believe, called Lilias Rider Haggard wrote for the local press and at one stage ghost-wrote the memoirs of her gamekeeper.

She had encouraged her friend Henry Williamson to move from where he farmed in Devon so that he began to farm in Norfolk.

His political views were somewhat dubious, and this was central to his belief that working on the land was essential for a healthy life. He began to write a regular article for the Anglian Times on country matters.

This would have been in the 1920s, and  his friends’ gamekeeper would have been perhaps in his 80s, and therefore had memories of this area extending back to the middle of the 19th century.

They are a fascinating insight into rural life in those times, and of course the Rider-Haggard's were an important local family.

Our neighbor had purchased his house from the Haggard estate on his return from war service in 1945, and his house fronted onto the street which in the middle of the 19th century had been the commercial centre of this thriving market town.

Our street, Bridge Street, is mentioned in one of the volumes ghost written as the memoirs of this country person. Who sadly committed suicide in a house visible from one of our upstairs windows.

The house no longer existed, but someone that we knew lived in a new house built on the site.

The past as they say is all around, and you only have two listen to the stories of those around you to discover some of it.

Our elderly neighbor still had a large pottery urn containing irises that had come with his purchase, of what had once been the local vets combined with slaughterhouse.

Strange to think that those Irises may well have gazed upon the Rider-Haggards, all those years before.


The Journey


Across the bridge our carriage steals
percussion locks the grinding wheels.
my neighbor glances, nothing said
while both of us pursue the thread -

As if the drawing of a sword
was heard by every ear on board.
Bright metal from its scabbard drawn
and then - the braying of the horn.

A trick of light, and tired ears
join end to end a thousand years
of listening to remembered sound
sense deceiving, sinking, drowned

These dirty little diesel trains
are all that cross these old remains
of Devon's ancient forestry
Northward to the Celtic Sea

where underneath the ploughed up fields
lie broken swords and rusting shields
there waiting still with bloody wounds
sleep Saxon knights in earth cocoons.

Across the bridge the carriage steals
awakening, with grinding wheels
on iron rails through blood red earth -
red ochre for our second birth.

Another Apocalypse Comes And Goes

Yesterday was the putative end of the world as far as the Mayan calendar was concerned.

Apparently, archaeologists have recently discovered evidence that quite simply what had been theorised as an end of the world scenario was simply a misinterpretation of the fact that their complex calendar had only been calculated to a specific date, and to the modern mind, this must have seemed to have been the end of all things.

Of course, I'm quite grateful for having survived yet another suggestion that the world might end. I'm not quite ready yet to cope with everything that might happen if everything we have come to take for granted should suddenly collapse.

Coincidentally, it seems, my own broadband connection seems to have failed at the moment, although the more likely explanation is that my carers disconnected it accidentally as they were tidying up the mass of cabling that surrounds my computer, conveniently placed on a table that can be slid across over my electric bed.

The bed that gives me as a disabled person so much more access to ordinary things, like water so that I can take my various medications.

For me it would be a disaster if I were to drop my bottle of water, and not be able to easily to take my pills at the regular intervals I take them during the night.

It seems a little quiet outside as the world wakes, but it seems that it is surely waking. The world has not come to a sticky end, as has been predicted so often across the centuries.

Which has of course provided Hollywood with an entire genre of film possibilities.

It was rather interesting to try to read into the programmers’ thinking as to the films shown last night on Film Four, as Knight And Day was being shown as the nine o'clock film, guaranteed to take your mind off a potential midnight calamity. And after that, as a kind of subtle joke perhaps, Final Destination.

I myself chose to watch my own favorite Hollywood apocalypse movie, Knowing. I did watch recently 2012, which was more specifically concerned with all of what we are aware of as potential calamitous occurrences happening simultaneously.

A friend that is equally interested in film as myself lent it to me to watch, just a few weeks ago. Playing up to the potential a film like this to raise blood pressure levels among the general population, I said that I might require some counseling after watching this film, and perhaps behind my joke there is something quite genuinely dangerous about our obsessiveness with potential disasters.

Because film has become such a real image of what might be happening in the world, with the development of such techniques as CGI, and I suspect we are not so easily able to distinguish the real from the imagined any more.

It might do all of us a great deal of good if we were to not watch any films or television for a short period every year, simply to allow ourselves perhaps to recognize the world around us as it is, with all of its drama and beauty.

Some Things Take Longer Than Others

It isn't every day that you finish something you started 20 years before.

But this week, hopefully just in time for Christmas, I have finished my first novel.

They say that everyone has a novel in them.

But I suspect whilst this may well be the case, not everybody will be able to have the luxury of the time it takes to write their novel.Or the obsession.

It was for me when I was around 30 years of age, single and without commitments, and therefore I was able to be selfish enough to devote the best part of a year of my life to writing the great majority of my first novel.

I never did quite complete it, although this week I have completed it. At least I think I have.

I have a friend that is doing me the honour of reading it and correcting it where necessary, and of course advising on where the sense of sentences can be improved.

I am rather well known for using 20 words when two will do, and often longer words than may be strictly necessary.

These are all of the kinds of things that are essential to enable someone to have the will to read a story that in my case has slight to about 110,000 words.

Perhaps a few less, unless of course my practised reader has any suggestions about additional chapters that might be necessary to complete this work.

And how the world has changed in those 20 years.

20 years ago computers were primitive to say the least, and mobile phones virtually non-existent.

My story does not need me to change the period in which it has been told in my manuscript, and does not require or would not benefit from the inclusion of an occasional mobile telephone.

And so it is preserved in its time capsule, written when I could devote two hours every morning to writing before I went to work full-time, and then spending an hour every evening correcting and often rewriting what I had written that morning.

And this six days a week for almost a year.

Before this project and certainly since I have written numerous short stories, and some not so short stories.

One particular story of mine I have written a 3000 word version of as one is the original which extends to nearly 15,000 words. Hardly a short story.

But completing my novel is certainly something that I feel is a significant event. Of course, it is a first novel, and I did not write it with the expectation of finding a publisher.

And indeed the entire world of publishing has transformed in the time that it has taken me to complete this work.

Now it is so much more straightforward to self publish, and there is so much less stigma associated with it. It is no longer considered to be simply vanity publishing.

And this year, I have almost christened the year of the Kindle, a totally new means by which books can be both published and consumed.

I have already published five volumes on my Kindle bookshelf, and I am hoping that if my editor/reader thinks it is worthwhile, I shall publish this one in the same way. With all proceeds heading for my chosen charity, the Queen Alexandra Hospital just across the road from where I lived in Worthing.

I don't think my next novel will take quite so long, I have an effect already started it, and in some respects this is the most difficult task of all, having a subject and then starting to write it.

This one, Bela, has been based on the PhD thesis of a friend from 20 years ago, who was studying as a mature student for a PhD in Art history.

It was a gift of an idea, and although I travelled substantially ostensibly to undertake research for it, a great deal has simply been invented as a context in which I can tell substantially the story of my friend's thesis.

A couple of times over the last 20 years I have considered that my story is a little worn out by the fact that so many other authors have written something similar, on an art history theme, but the great thing about the novel as a means of telling a story is that so much of it lies in the way in which the story emerges in the context of the individuals that are participants in the story.

And perhaps in some respects it is a different person, myself at just over 50 rather than just over 30, that is so much more able to understand important aspects of my characters and their motivations.

There it is, finally completed. And hopefully soon to be available on every computer with an Internet connection.

So please do consider checking out my Kindle bookshelf, and perhaps taking advantage of the fact that you can borrow it for 90 days free of charge from Amazon before considering purchasing it.

Amazon are offering something like the public lending right so that anyone whose book is borrowed from their Kindle library will get a share of a substantial sum that has been put aside for this purpose.

And you never know, perhaps proper publishers are keeping an eye on what is being published, so that they might see opportunities for new writing talent.

How the world has changed in just 20 years.


http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_2?_encoding=UTF8&field-author=Stephen%20Page&search-alias=digital-text

It's a long way before we get to Manhattan....

Quite extraordinary really that just yesterday £64 million of a potential lottery win went unclaimed and will now be spent on charitable causes.

How far we have come, although of course the government has been raising funds through a lottery since the 18th century.

One of my carers mused as to how she would have spent the money if it had been in her own bank account, and because of some of the discussions we have had recently in our Shower Chronicles, she confided that one of her dreams [just a dream] would be to build a particle accelerator.

This is clearly not a sensible proposal. When pressed, Charlie was much more likely to invest significant sums in social housing, the kind of housing for which there is a chronic shortage, certainly in this country and likely in every developed country.

But this interest in particle physics demonstrates the impact that our discussions whilst I have been having a shower have had.

Beginning to discuss the standard model for the structure of the nucleus of the atom seems naturally to lead to a discussion of nuclear fission.

I have always had a great fascination for the history of how this knowledge came about, and it has surfaced for me in my creative writing.

The final piece of a complex puzzle arrived in the form of one of Alastair Cooke’s Letters From America.

I had already discovered a great deal about the personalities that had been involved in contributing in some way to the discovery of the potential for splitting the atom.

America’s development of the first usable nuclear device, which so dramatically brought the second world war to a conclusion, goes back well before the commencement of the war, and is linked inextricably with the exodus from Europe of so many Jewish intellectuals.

Hungary in particular seems to have been central to so many of the personalities that have been directly involved as physicists in determining the structure of the atom, and then later the potential for fission.

Einstein himself had originally fled from Hungary in the wake of persecution. Initially to London, and then eventually to the United States.

The community of physicists engaged in this particular field of work probably all knew each other and of each other’s work.

Another Hungarian refugee called Leo Szilard had found his way to London in the early 1930s, and it is to him that the credit must be given for imagining the possibilities for the release of energy that would lead inexorably to the detonation of the first atomic device over Hiroshima in 1945.

It is recorded that he came to the conclusion of the potential for splitting the atom and releasing vast amounts of energy as he was walking along The Kingsway, a street in central London, and he was aware of the potential dangers if such knowledge were to be pursued, as it almost inevitably would, by scientists working for the Nazis.

Leo shared his thoughts with a colleague, also a refugee in London, and they both agreed that they must consult with the Old Man, which is how they referred to Einstein. They knew that coming from them, warnings about such potential horrors would mean nothing. They were, after all, simply refugees in England, and although working on research in physics with some of the finest minds at the time in England like Ernest Rutherford, they knew that what they perceived as a possibility must be expressed by someone of Einstein’s stature.

Leo was aware that although uranium is found in many places around the world, the only place in Europe where it was found in significant quantities was in Czechoslovakia.

Germany’s expansionist preoccupations focused on first Austria, and Czechoslovakia would soon follow.

Leo and his colleague knew that Einstein spent his summers in a holiday retreat in the states, and although they knew roughly where it was, they did not want simply to write to him, but to put their ideas and their concerns directly to him, and to see what he thought.

 and so in 1938, they both traveled to the states to find the old man and lay their ideas before him in person.

They couldn’t find exactly where he was staying that first trip, but they returned the next year, early in 1939, and this time they did find him.

In his isolated summer retreat, Einstein agreed that what his countrymen and colleagues had to say was important, important enough for Einstein to write a letter to President Roosevelt. Which he did.

The consequence of that letter, signed also by Leo, was the setting up of what became known as the Manhattan Project, the scientists in which together developed those first devices that were used at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945.

It was perhaps the fact that the Germans had stopped all exports of uranium after they had invaded Czechoslovakia that most concerned scientists that understood something of the potential for such elements.

There was no doubt that the Germans had many scientists capable of stumbling upon on what had already been discovered almost accidentally by one scientist, and if one person had spotted the potential for unleashing such prodigious amounts of energy, then sooner or later someone else would do so. That is the nature of science.

The Shower Chronicles

Over the past few weeks, an idea has been germinating in my mind, stimulated by the conversations that have taken place when I had been showered each day by one particular carer.

Most of you, certainly in the UK, will be familiar with an American television series entitled The Big Bang Theory.

This has probably done more to improve the general understanding among the population of some esoteric theories, particularly concerning particle physics and so on.

Although I am by no means familiar with many such theories, my training has been to have obtained a degree in philosophy, which has in itself introduced me to some extraordinary ideas.

Recently, this particular carer has expressed some interest in some of the ideas that she has been introduced to through The Big Bang Theory.

We have therefore begun a series of conscious discussions which we have entitled The Shower Chronicles, which I have decided to begin to write down an account of before I forget about them.

It is a sad fact of human discourse that it tends to be forgotten quite quickly unless it is written down.

There have been some memorable discussions already, and I enjoy hearing about the way in which the family responds to this new-found knowledge expressed in conversations after work.

This morning was an interesting case in point.

Whilst I was otherwise occupied, I suggested that my carer look up on the Internet the philosophers song from the Monty Python team.

This has provided much opportunity for discussion, and other subjects for research.

Such as the work of the philosopher Wittgenstein, whose name is one of those mentioned in the Monty Python sketch.

I am finding it interesting to revisit some of my studies from 30 years ago, and interesting conversations have resulted.

So for example Wittgenstein only published one book in his lifetime, from which I can only remember one item, when the philosopher states simply that when we come across something about which we cannot speak with certainty, we must remain silent.

This is an unusual case of somebody admitting boundaries to knowledge. And definitely something to store away for Smalltalk at dinner time.

We have also discussed some of the writings of Plato, who records conversations with his tutor Socrates. About whom nothing would be known if Plato had not recorded his Dialogues with Socrates, and thus given the reputation that Socrates has of being one of the worlds greatest ever philosophers.

I sometimes feel as if I am like Professor Higgins from the musical version of the play in which he places a bet with a friend that he can make a Duchess from a flower seller, with extraordinary consequences.

It is wonderful for me to have a reminder of my distant academic past, and an excuse to brush up on so many of the things I have already forgotten from those days.

It is never too late for self improvement, and a reminder of previous education achievements is never a bad thing.

As The Shower Chronicles progress, who knows that they might not make for an interesting series of essays about interesting subjects, explored under exceptional circumstances perhaps, whilst I am simply undertaking my morning ablutions.

It is perhaps yet another example that I have too much time to spend on nothing of consequence, but it certainly makes for a more interesting time in the shower.

And I await with interest the stories of how these extraordinary moments of conversation are received, often with surprising results.

Nothing like keeping one's family on their toes.

Sixty Years Studying The Natural World

There has been a very interesting series of documentaries celebrating the many years David Attenborough has spent exploring the Natural World.

In the time that he has been seen as a fixture in our understanding of Nature, much has changed in the perceptions we have of the Natural World.

In one of the programs, he talked about the work of a young student in Chicago, Stanley Miller, who in 1953 spent six months looking at a practical experiment that was designed to discover if the conditions supposed to have existed during the early years of the primitive Earth might have generated Life.

Suffice to say he created in the test tube many of the organic compounds considered necessary as the building blocks for Life itself.

Laser analysis in 1995 of his test results established that even more complex organic chemicals had been created in the circumstances of his experiment, and in more recent times, it has been shown that deep under the sea there are places where living organisms survive around  the heat of volcanic vents which generate entire ecosystems, deep beneath the sea, that challenge our preconceptions of the way in which life can be established.

these experiments in no way provide any sense of certainty over the creation of life on Earth, and do not lessen the sense of wonder at the variety and complexity of it.

There are so many questions to answer about how fragile the conditions within which the Earth finds itself to have found a suitable crucible in which to fashion life, that a sense of wonder is still undiminished.

That the sun is clearly essential for life seems to be equally balanced with the fact that the solar winds might have stripped our atmosphere, if it was not for the magnetic fields generated because of the core.

We have much to be grateful for, and much still to discover. And no doubt much that must remain unknown to us.

A New Kind Of Publishing

This morning at about 8 AM I finally succeeded in publishing my first Kindle book.

It was quite straightforward in the end, although the process was convoluted, perhaps because it was my first time. There were a number of things new to me that I had to find out, such as the unique identifiers to enable income to me to be paid directly into my bank accounts.

My objective in this publishing venture is to be able to raise funds not for myself, but for the Queen Alexandra Hospital just across the road from where I live in Worthing.

What I have published is the collected blogs for the whole of this year, 2012, which has been such a significant year for myself and for the Nation as a whole.

Since my personal blog reflects my personal interests, and is as much as anything stimulated by what I see and hear in the media, the 75 blogs that I have written since January 2012 have in effect provided my own perspective, as a disabled person, on this extraordinary year.

It is much closer to autobiographical writing than a critique of the year as a whole, and anyone reading this blog will already have access free of charge to the archive of my blog activity over the course of this, my first year of blogging.

Of course, anyone that so wishes can obtain access to all of the blogs included in this Kindle free of charge, but I am banking on the fact that for some people, access to my collected blogs for this year in Kindle format may in fact be useful, and the fact that it is priced competitively at around six dollars [ US ] with all proceeds after Amazon commission going directly to this wonderful purpose may make some purchases from my general blog readership.

And what a readership I have obtained over the course of this year.

Then have been over 1200 page views genuinely worldwide, with some astonishing reading [from my point of view] from countries that I have not expected to be part of my readership.

As can be seen from some of my blog entries, the statistics of the origin of my readership has struck me sometimes as if it were a medal table from the Olympics, so much so that I have begun to lay plans for a virtual Olympics based on where purchases of my first volume of poetry are purchased, copies of which are available for sale directly from the hospital itself (QAHH).

Publishing this volume of my collected blogs as a Kindle at this time of year is very much a toe in the water for myself, since as a lover of books, it is something beyond my experience, although I am seriously considering getting one of these new machines in order to see if it will enable me to read once again, as my disability, multiple sclerosis, prevents me from holding a book and turning the pages.

And so it may in fact be something that will become an assistive device for me, as indeed is already my computer.

Although I am registered blind because of my condition, my eyesight is variable, and in some respects a computer screen, especially one in which the size of print can be altered, is easier for me to be able to read from.

And of course I have discovered spoken books, which can be an extraordinary means of accessing literature.

And so I suppose this is an appeal to my worldwide audience to consider purchasing this electronic book, as a tool for themselves, or as a gift at Christmas for someone who already possesses one of these new machines.

It may well be a revelation to me, opening the door once again to reading, which has been a lifelong companion to me.

And as anyone that has read my blog must be aware, the Queen Alexandra. Hospital is an extraordinary place, providing an exceptional service to those that have served often in extraordinary circumstances in our armed forces.

It has an extraordinary history that goes back to 1915 when it was first founded as the George V Hospital in London, and was the first point to which soldiers returning injured from the trenches of the first world war and were provided with rehabilitation and continuing care.

That work has never ceased, though it carries on unseen by the general public.

This is an opportunity to help this important work continue, and I hope that the success of my worldwide readership for my blog may be translated into sales in this new electronic medium.

The Mysteries Of Life

Now that we are getting closer to Winter, I do not get out and about as much as I am used to during the Summer months.

This is perhaps a natural consequence of the fact that as a disabled person I have to be a little more careful about preserving my body heat as the weather gets colder.

Whether or not this changes the way in which I listen to what my carers have to say to me is an interesting point, as I suppose I do pay more attention to what they have to tell me about what is happening in the world.

This morning, what sticks in my mind from my conversation with my carer is something that she must have picked up from some television program recently, that we share more of our DNA with mushrooms than with any other form of vegetable matter.

On the surface, this is perhaps a rather startling revelation. But thinking about this, perhaps it is not so surprising, since it appears that we share much of our genetic makeup with the plant kingdom in any case.

Perhaps we would benefit from a greater awareness of the extent to which life in all its forms on this planet has much in common and much more than mere surface resemblance might reveal.

Perhaps life itself is entirely interrelated and we are all simply manifestations of the same strange chemical accidents that have led to our sense of consciousness.

That we appear to have self-consciousness may in itself simply be a factor of the complexity to which we have evolved over millions of years, and it is an extraordinarily interesting subject to contemplate.

Perhaps it is only by taking a broadly philosophical approach to our existence that we can draw any conclusions at all from this strange fact, if indeed it is a fact at all.

I have nothing to make me doubt the reality of this information, and it sort of makes sense as a broadly general proposition. that all of life on this planet should share something in common seems to make sense, although perhaps through this fact alone it may be revealing that I am not someone that has a position of faith from which my world view is derived.

To a great extent I have admiration for people that can have a faith position from which to construct their moral perspectives on the world, but I do not. And in some respects, perhaps this is a more challenging position to take than accepting a faith position.

Perhaps it is my education that is the determining factor in my story here, in that I was trained for three years at University College London, the Godless College in Gower Street, where I studied for a degree in philosophy.

Interestingly, UCL was the first institution in the United Kingdom that admitted women, and also people of faiths other than Christian.

It is perhaps something that is not remembered these days, but the Oxford and Cambridge universities were only open to practicing Christians, and whilst Christianity has been an important developmental factor in our cultural and social history, it has also placed limitations on whole sections of our multifaceted population.

Footprints On The Beach The Tide Won't Remove

I am very fortunate that one of my carers enjoys reading to me, and I am beginning to catch up with some of the reading that I missed when I was a child.

I suppose my problem was partly that I had quite an advanced reading age, and although I was always reading, sometimes even when I was walking around school, I missed out on so many of the children's classics, and opted instead to go straight to more advanced reading.

It is only in later life, past the age of 50, and unable to pick up and hold a book thanks to my disability, that I regret this, but am unable to do anything about it. Until now.

I read much of the typical canon of literature for boys, such as Treasure Island, and recently I was reminded of that scene where Robinson Crusoe discovers a footprint on the beach, and later discovers and meets with Man Friday.

Of all things, it was a comedy programme that made me think of it. One of those very funny programmes that was ostensibly about science, but in the course of it you discover interesting things about what we have done to the planet that succours us.

If in millions of years and advanced alien race were to discover this planet and examine it carefully, they might discover traces of the uranium atom decayed into the isotopes of lead that would enable the date of our first discovery of the possibilities of nuclear fission.

On this same programme, it was fascinating that a specialist Professor in the study of meteorites had brought with her two meteorites one of which she introduced as approximately 4.77 billion years old, and the other about 1.3 billion years old, and having originated from Mars.

In other words, much was to be gained from the study of what has already arrived here on earth from elsewhere in the solar system, rather than take the time and expense of sending mankind into space.

It was particularly interesting that these meteorites could be dated so specifically, and on questioning, the professor explained that this was possible because of the amount of the isotopes of uranium that exist within them, that can be analysed quite specifically by the use of a mass spectrometer.

As uranium has such a long half life, its presence in the form of the lead isotopes that it will eventually decay to is a good indicator of the age of ancient rocks.

This reminded me of a story I was told many years ago when my job involved my spending several weeks each year on the Orkney island of Hoy, the largest of the Orkney islands, separated from mainland Orkney by the body of water called Scapa Flow, that has been the home port for the British Navy for most of the 20th century. It is deep water, and protected from the vicious currents that are to be found in the water just North of Scotland.

It was in Scapa Flow that the entire German fleet was kept during the first part of the Great War, until it was scuttled in 1916. Without a shot ever being fired at sea.

Thus a great deal of valuable scrap existed in the deep waters of this extraordinary naval base, and the story I was told when I was hosted on the island by a farming family that lived at the eastern end of the island I have always remembered.

Of course because the fleet was simply scuttled to prevent its use during the war, none of the sunken vessels were considered to be war graves.

Thus the local young men for decades after the second world war, a debt at the use of boats and no doubt at diving, would salvage the valuable chromium plate which formed the major part of the scuttled fleet, which was of exceptional value after the war mainly because it had spent more than 50 years underwater, at a time when the first atom bombs had been used in Japan. Plus all those tests that had taken place in the American desert, and later on Bikini Atoll in the South Seas for the hydrogen bomb.

It seems that this chromium was of exceptional value partly because it had never been exposed to radioactivity of any kind, and this made it especially useful in the manufacture of scientific instruments.

Thus for decades the young men of Hoy would plunder the sunken ships beneath the waters of Scapa Flow, to supplement their meagre earnings from agriculture or whatever supported them on the islands.

Islands which have of course been inhabited for between 5000 and 7000 years, leaving the island rich in Neolithic relics.

The farm location at which I was hosted was described as the Bu of Hoy, meaning that it had first been established at least 1000 years before as a Viking farmstead, and the view from my bedroom window perhaps explained why it was so useful to the Vikings.

From my window, I could see a gently sloping sandy beach that ran straight in to Scapa Flow, ideal for hauling up a Viking longship onto the beach.

And perfectly suited as a point of stocking up on food and water for those long journeys of exploration undertaken by the Vikings certainly to Greenland and to Nova Scotia, and possibly further down the east coast of the United States themselves.

It is quite a sobering thought that it was the discovery of atomic fission that had given such value to the metal concealed beneath those waters, and brings me back to the title of this posting, those footprints in the sand that cannot be removed by the cleansing tide.

My Triptych Becomes A Quadrilogy

I had never expected to become a filmmaker. It is one of those things totally outside of even my most secret ambitions, of course I admire the people that make professional films, but strangely, recently, I believe I have earned the right to describe myself as a filmmaker.

The films I have made have in all honesty been home-made short films, just over 10 minutes in duration. and although I learned about filmmaking partly through employing professional filmmakers in my role as the Director of an Arts Trust, and made films with members of the local community as a means of developing skills in that community, what I have learned is what can be learned by any one these days, certainly anyone with a Macintosh computer that comes bundled with a film-editing piece of software that is remarkably easy to use.

And of course good quality digital film cameras have become much more affordable over the past few years.

In technical terms, what can be filmed and edited at home these days is of near-broadcast quality, and in fact many Directors employ the use of smaller handheld cameras when they want to give a sense of reality to a moment in film.

Strangely enough my first film made entirely on my own initiative was made very shortly after I had stopped work completely because of disability.

It came about almost accidentally because I had the opportunity to have a week of respite, staying in a care home in Ipswich, and I took with me my Macintosh laptop and my JVC DV camera.

It so happened that the grounds of the home in which I was a resident for a week were most beautiful, and the house itself had been originally built as a Chantry Chapel in the 16th century, and later developed as a country home.

It was said to have had plasterwork created in the 18th century by a famous architect of that period, and it certainly was most beautiful in places.

The grounds had been beautifully laid out as a formal garden, and this was surrounded by acres of what had become civic parkland when the estate came into the ownership of the local borough council in about 1945.

My stay in 2004 coincided with a scheme to make the gardens for the first time accessible to the residents, because the pathways had always been gravel pathways, and of course gravel is not terribly friendly to wheelchair users.

It so happened that a banker from the City of London had had an accident that involved a spinal injury, and the last years of that banker were spent in at this home, and as a legacy thanking the home for the quality of the care that she had received in those final years before sadly dying, the pathways were given the funding to be able to be laid with Tarmac. To this point, the gardens had been visible from important common areas in the home, but they had not been easily accessible by wheelchair.

It so happened that my not for profit film project had discovered the importance of a wheelchair as part of the equipping of our studio.

There is nothing better than to push someone holding a handheld camera in a wheelchair to get an inexpensive long tracking shot, if one cannot afford the cost of a professional steady-cam. Which is about £30,000.

And so it transpired that I arranged to have a push by a carer around the grounds of this newly accessible set of pathways, only completed weeks before my stay, and I took with me my digital video camera.

In this phase I took 20 minutes filming, from which I edited 10 minutes of usable material, to which I added just a couple of minutes of additional footage shot within the house itself.

Once again, with the help of creative software that comes bundled with a Macintosh computer, I composed a soundtrack for my short film, and wrote a couple of poems during my stay one of which was directly inspired by the history of the estate, and by my discovery in my filmmaking trip of a small cluster of gravestones, where family pets had been buried at the turn of the 20th century.

In the end what I created became an homage to the quality of the care that I received in my week's stay, and although I was careful to ensure that the dignity of residents was retained, so that no one was filmed in person, the film made it evident what the purpose of this fabulous building was used for.

This was back in 2004, and earlier this year, in February 2012, this film was selected for exhibition at the International Festival of Disability Film held annually in Calgary, Canada.

One thing leads to another, and at that Festival were two of the organizers of the Moscow International Festival of Disability Film, and they saw my film and were interested in incorporating it into their Festival, which was held just last week in Moscow.

Unfortunately, they have a rule that films must have been made after 2007, and so this film was not eligible.

Fortunately, in about 2009, I had been commissioned to make a short film by my County Council in West Sussex, because word of my creative tendencies had reached some of the senior social workers within the authority.

And so I had been given a small grant to enable me to employ a cameraman, and to cover the costs of tapes and so forth, and out of that project came A Short Film About Independence.

This film has been used extensively for the training of social workers within the County and also further afield, so that for example I have travelled several times to Camden in London where social workers have been wanting to find out more about the way in which I have benefited from Self-Directed Support, whereby I am able to employ my own carers directly because my care budget is paid directly to me.

This film was acceptable to the Moscow organizers, and it was shown last week in Moscow.

When I first made the film, I had imagined that I would make a trilogy of films, what I have latterly, to call my Triptych, the first being the one described, the second a short film about interdependence, and the third a short film about dependence.

Hopefully the titles speak for themselves, so that in a progressive condition like multiple sclerosis it is perhaps inevitable that dependence might supersede independence.

However, just this week I received something from the multiple sclerosis Society that might encourage me to make an additional film, entitled a short film about hope.

At present, although I technically am diagnosed with secondary progressive multiple sclerosis, my condition remains fairly stable.

But these new drug trials holds out the hope of a new treatment that will stop the progression and deterioration that can be an ever present part of this chronic condition.

Like any hope in the context of a currently incurable condition, it must be treated with a degree of caution, and it may well be 10 years before trials of this drug satisfy appropriate medical authorities as to its efficacy.

The positive element in all of this is that the two drugs in question are both already approved from a safety point of view, in that they are already in use for patients with high blood pressure.

Anyway, it is quite interesting for me to feel that there is hope that my condition might continue to be stable, in which case the critical thing for me is to maintain a sense of perspective that is I believe already the reason why my short film about independence has been of interest.

Because I feel a strong sense of commitment to not only providing an insight into my dealing with this disabling condition, but perhaps at the same time providing some sense of insight into attitudes which perfectly healthy people may well find helpful in dealing with the pressures of daily life in the modern world.

I suppose put simply, I still have the power of speech, and as a consequence, new technology enables me to be able to continue to write. And potentially with the aid of a cameraman, to be able to write a film script that I can create a spoken sound track to, and edit.

Long may this continue. Who knows where it may lead me, and I suppose I must be grateful for the fact that in Britain today, we have the benefit of the kind of support for people in my situation so that I am able to have carers that enable me to remain positive and well cared for, and of course to quote my first film, I do have the consequential benefit of time. That most valuable of commodities.

My time is pretty much my own to decide how I should spend it, rather than chasing my tail to keep up my expensive mortgage. Because it would certainly be more expensive if I were to be part of the rat race.

Canine Intelligence?

I have a lovely dog called Oscar, who happens to be a girl dog, but this blog post is not about why my dog has a boys name. Something quite different.

Suffice to say we have been together a long time, and many people remark how healthy she is considering her age, which is about 14 or 15. I really can't be certain, simply because she was a rescue dog, and although she was still young when we first met her, her exact birth date is unknown.

That would make her in human terms about 100 years of age.

She is of mixed breeding, which for a dog is probably a good thing, in that she is healthier than many pedigree dogs that have been overbred for the sake of their pedigree.

She is also, in my estimation, a very intelligent dog. Thanks to her having once no doubt gone hungry, from a very early age she could be taught all kinds of simple tricks for the sake of a treat.

One of my favorite films is Contact, starring Jodie Foster and with a script based on a book written by Carl Sagan.

It is about the idea of first contact between humankind and extra-terrestrial intelligence.

When that first contact is made, it is detected by dogged listening to radio transmissions, targeting large areas of the heavens.

When that first contact comes, it is determined that it must be intelligent contact, because what is detected cannot possibly be a natural phenomenon.

It is a series of pulses which register every prime number between 1 and 100 from the smallest through to 100. In order.

Prime numbers are those numbers which are divisible only by themselves and one, and although there are circumstances in which for example the number of petals of a flower can be found to be arranged so that if counted they are a prime number, prime numbers do not occur otherwise in nature.

This in the film leads to the conclusion that it must be contact in the language of mathematics, and the product therefore of intelligence.

Whatever the likelihood or otherwise of the film scenario, it is certainly an intelligently scripted film, and Carl Sagan was a highly respected scientist, with a particular interest in asking questions of the kind that the film raises.

His work did much to popularize scientific thinking among the general public, and there is no doubt that the basis of the film is well thought through, and quite believable, however unlikely it might be that we should live to see such contact take place. Or in this way.

What I have been particularly struck by recently is the way in which my dog seems to bark in prime numbers.

Every time she is let into my small back garden, she will bark, and I cannot help but make a mental note of the number of times that she barks.

This is hardly a scientific study, and in fact it is probably something that is subject to that strange capacity that the brain has for making sense of things where there is no sense. Something that is described in the film The Da Vinci Code as scotoma.

In the context of that film, this is implied to be the capacity that the brain has to fill a vacuum with what it expects to perceive.

When I have checked for a dictionary definition of this, I have only been able to find it described as a condition where sight is partial in part of the eye, and I am reminded from my science education at school of how we all have a blind spot at the back of each eye where the optic nerve enters the back of the eye.

We do not perceive this generally as a blank spot in vision, and this is because the brain is able to make sense of the missing area of vision, filling in the gaps of our otherwise imperfect sight so that we see perfectly, or at least, think that we do.

Anyway, one two and three are all prime numbers, as is five, and so I suppose it may well be the case that there is nothing unusual in what I have perceived to be the case, and my dog is not performing some exceptional feat of mathematical exposition. It is just coincidence combined with my tendency to perceive occasional longer barks as if they are a combination of say any of those small numbers.

However, it does make me wonder the extent to which in nature prime numbers may occur as some accidental factor in such things as how many times a dog might bark.

This is probably something to do with the fact that I don't have enough to keep me active, and as a disabled person, I spend too much time staying around the house, and listening on the occasions when my dog hurls herself into the garden and behaves territorially.

But it is curious that I should continue to notice a tendency towards prime numbers in the frequency of my dogs’ bark frequency, and I would be interested to hear of any other circumstances in which anyone reading this might report similar occurrences.

I would not go so far as to imagine that this is an indication of some greater intelligence at play, more likely simply my tendency to rationalize something that doesn't require rationalization.

Another Festival, Another Film

One of my carers had quite a shock over the weekend.

I had spoken to my Care Manager about the fact that over the weekend, I received notification that one of my films had been selected for exhibition at the Moscow International Disability Film Festival that is taking place just a fortnight away.

I had expressed my desire to be able to attend this Festival, and my Care Manager had sent a text to the carer that was to be looking after me for the next couple of weeks whilst my Care Manager is on holiday.

The shock that came in the text was the idea that she should explore all the logistics of flights and so forth, and all of the things associated with traveling long distances when you have the kind of needs that I have.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the shock experienced by my carer, and she is quite relieved to have had my more considered thoughts that of course it would be impractical at such short notice, not least of all because of the difficulty of arranging a Visa at such short notice.

Anyway, all of my efforts are being focused on making sure that the Festival has everything they need to be able to subtitle the film in Russian, and perhaps technology may enable me to take part in some way from the comfort of my apartment on the South Coast.

My friends are of course delighted, not least of all my cameraman Paul who is a great fan of Bond films, his e-mail response to me was along the lines of From Russia With Love, and equally delighted were my friends that work in the world of opera and and enabled me to use a short recording of their work as part of the soundtrack.

It is most surreal for me to contemplate this latest film success, following from my inclusion in the programme of the Calgary Festival in Canada, earlier this year, and so two of my films have been included in different festivals in different parts of the world.

And a short version of this film was considered to be a runner up and shortlisted for a BBC World Service competition earlier this year, and therefore broadcast outside of the UK in a World Service television programme.

I have spoken to my shocked Carer and suggested a further change to the way in which I describe her work for me, which more recently I have in any case changed from Carer to Minder. Mainly because her principle job when we are out and about seems to be keeping me out of trouble.

The latest suggested change is to Handler, which has a ring about it of someone looking after someone important.

But I am not losing perspective entirely.

The irony of my success with my filmmaking, and also with my writing for a national magazine targeted at Carers and Care Managers, is that it has come about only as a consequence of my becoming severely disabled.

But it is some recompense, and certainly gives me a sense of satisfaction that I am still able to contribute something to the world.

The Reminiscence Of A Fire

This morning, the carer that looks after me every weekend told me a story. It is the kind of story that makes me feel something is very wrong with the world.

For the sake of not upsetting too many people, I won't say exactly which country my carer was talking about, although many of you reading this may well have seen something similar within your own culture.

Whether you’d find it as distressing as I have depends upon whether you are like me or not, and I am a self confessed bibliophile, and my shelves are groaning with numerous antiquarian volumes, which I feel I have rescued from the kind of fate that my story indicates.

What my carer explained was that he had visited a house in this nameless country, and had been impressed with the way in which it appeared to be filled with books. Almost every wall, often behind glass fronted cases were interesting looking books, clearly of antiquarian interest.

At this point, I will make my first small digression.

My favorite old book on my own shelves is a first edition (the only edition) of a book first published in 1676.

It is the kind of book that any university library would be proud to own, and my copy is in poor condition though complete with all of its fabulous engravings.

Included in these engravings is the first ever pictorial representation of what a Druid looked like, and although no-one really knows what they looked like, this engraving is interesting because every pictorial representation after this date of a Druid seems to have been based upon it.

So for example Stukesley, who first surveyed Avebury and attributed it to the Druids in the 18th century, produced images of what the Druids looked like, and these images seem to have been based almost exactly on these first representations of what the Druids looked like.

In fact, Gandalf the Grey in Lord Of The Rings could also have been based on this pictorial representation.

Additionally, the volume contains lineages of the Saxon Kings, and traces many of them back as far as Noah. It is anthropologically interesting, because when King Arthur is mentioned, very little is said about him, because of course so much of what we think we know about King Arthur is a Victorian romance, concocted many years after this book was first published.

I have many other battered old volumes, which in better condition would be valuable to collectors, but I am an inveterate rescuer of old books, especially those with beautiful engravings or images, and I have a sense of duty to prevent them from being broken up so that their illustrations can be framed, often making more money than a copy of the book in poor condition.

Another favorite of mine I always describe as The Rough Guide to London for 1801, a small pocket sized volume which would have been targeted at the Gentleman visiting London for the first time in the early 18th century. It lists all of the places of interest, all of the salons where music can be heard, and is an extraordinary insight into the early history of London.

My copy is worth much less because the external boards have become separated from the book, and besides, I would not be able to afford a copy in good condition.

My carers’ story was simply that the apparent library contents of this house proved on closer examination to be simply the first inch or so of interesting books, in effect to make the owners seem as if they were well read, but in effect demonstrating that they cared nothing for the fate of such volumes, if indeed they had been created by the destruction of original old books.

I was reminded of a poem written ny me perhaps 25 years ago, after my own personal collection of books from my earliest years to my mid 20s were destroyed in a fire, as they were being stored in the attic of the large house that had its roof completely destroyed as the consequence of an accidental fire.

Fortunately nobody was injured in the blaze, but the cost of replacing the roof was £250,000, giving some indication of the scale and historic importance of the house.

I was working at the house, and hence most of my personal property was in storage in this extensive roof space, and unfortunately although the building itself had been insured, staff property was not insured, and so I lost many precious volumes, and all of my University textbooks, from my Philosophy degree, in this unfortunate Winter fire.

And so perhaps the terrible nature of this story told to me this morning can be appreciated. The destruction of books is a terrible thing, and on occasions in the past when it has been undertaken as an act of vandalism, it has usually been associated with some terrible political calamity.





    Reminiscence Of A Fire In 1985


     All the books I have ever read
     lay scattered by the winds,
     charred and burned out hearts
     recognized like old friends 
     as leaves of text flutter in the breeze.

     An accidental pyre in the cold of Winter
     leaves behind the body of my childhood
     to become food for new Spring growth. 

     The love of books is a love of life
     no less to be mourned
     when lost. After the fire
     home comfort to destruction
     what remains will be purged
     by Nature's waiting furies.



Stephen Page

A Moment Of Reflection

I haven't written as many blog posts as I have become accustomed to recently. Over the past couple of weeks or so, so that my September total was quite small, and my October output almost Zero.

This isn't anything to do with me having run out of steam, or lacking ideas. If anything, I have paused quite consciously so that I can observe the rate at which my blog has continued to be read in spite on my lack of regularity in creating new posts.

Interestingly, this month has been an important month for me from the point of view of the way in which my care is funded.

Some of you may have read about the way in which I benefit from something called Self-Directed Support (SDS), something relatively new in the world of providing independence to people with disabilities in Britain.

Instead of having a contracted agency paid for by the local County Council, I am paid directly an assessed amount based upon the strict criteria applied by the Council and according to my needs.

In return, I provide regular reports as to the way in which I have spent the allocated monies, which is principally on the salaries of the half a dozen staff that support me with personal care, providing my meals, and more recently a programme of physiotherapy to maintain the capacities I currently have.

This week, I have had my annual review, in which an officer from the County Council has visited to see how I have been managing on this new scheme, and to see how if at all my condition, multiple sclerosis, has changed, and perhaps affected the way in which I have been managing my care.

It's not that this review has taken up a great deal of time, in fact it was much less stressful than such an annual review might be considered to be, especially in such straightened financial times that we live in in the United Kingdom.

Of far more interest than simply my adherence to the schemes’ requirements and the possibilities of savings, were the outcomes of my participation in SDS. I was able to talk about the sort of things that I have been doing as a consequence of the support my care package has provided, and this has taken into account not only the practical satisfaction of my daily needs such as dressing and washing, but also my social self, my ability to take part in those things that are so much taken for granted when we are able to live independently almost without thinking.

My assessor was very interested in some of the things that I undertake, not least of all my blog, and interestingly there was a significant spike in the number of page views just the day after my assessor's visit which I can only assume has been because she has actually had a look at some of my blog posts, and in fact passed on the details of my blog to some of her colleagues, because of the way in which some of my blog posts have received several hits over the course of a couple of days.

This is very gratifying, and added to the fact that I have just passed the important milestone of my 1000th page view, has perhaps contributed to my taking a moment to reflect on what I might do next.

I think it's important sometimes to take time over these reflections, and my first thoughts have been to look at ways in which I can more effectively promote my blog, and perhaps specifically in order to promote the sales of my special edition of my first book of poetry, all proceeds from the sales of which will be entirely for the benefit of the Hospital Home for Soldiers just across the road from where I live in Worthing.

I have written about this important institution in several of my blogs, and from my 70 blogs, my absolute favorite has been my blog post entitled Diaghilev and Lady Ripon.

I will of course be continuing to write my posts, and I am even contemplating putting together all of them as if they were the chapters in a book, just to see how effectively it might work as perhaps an electronic book. Into the modern age I might venture, with perhaps a Kindle publication, aimed at further supporting the hospital that I have already mentioned.

I continue to write occasional articles for the magazine Care Talk, and this gives me great pleasure and satisfaction. It was always an ambition of mine to write perhaps in some national context, and the fact that it has taken my disability to give me my material is simply background. Nothing to feel saddened by, no more than anything might affect the flow of one's life.

And so a period of reflection, perhaps natural when I have just celebrated my own birthday, and yesterday my mother celebrated her 93rd birthday. More reflection perhaps.

Whatever the outcome of my navel gazing, I will come refreshed to my task, and hopefully witha new vigour and purpose.

As the ancient philosopher Heraclitus once wrote, a human life is like a river, constantly flowing, perhaps varying in width according to the season, and we lead our lives as if we are dipping our feet into this constantly flowing stream.

Perhaps it's about time I started swimming, not necessarily against the stream, but simply because I can still swim.

The Quiet American And Other Stories

It was my birthday yesterday, and like most anniversaries, a time for reflection perhaps. For me, as someone severely disabled, a time to reflect on not only how my life has been changed by my disability, but perhaps more positively how much I have achieved in spite of my disability.

That I can still speak means that I can use the voice-activated software with which I can write my blog.

The fact that I can use my Macintosh computer fairly effectively means that I have a connection still with the world.

Recently, I have discovered that the broadcast films I record with my hard disc recorder can be transferred to my computer, and so I have a library of almost 200 films available at my fingertips.

I am a great fan of good films, films with a good story.

I don't like horror and fantasy too much, but otherwise my tastes are fairly eclectic.

The other day, I discovered something interesting when I watch a film entitled The Quiet American. This is based upon a Graham Greene story, and is not the first of his books to have been made into a film.

It is as fascinating as his output of other novels, and doesn't disappoint when translated to the screen. In this case, Michael Caine is the lead actor, and it is typically thrilling, with a surprising and yet perhaps typically for Graham Greene, morally challenging ending.

What was more interesting for me personally was the way in which it made me realise some of the connections I have made in the world. Before I became not exactly reclusive, but more limited in what I can achieve.

Disability does not stop the imagination, and within reasonable bounds, so much more can be achieved than anyone might typically realize.

So for example, my birthday treat to myself this year was to attend a performance of The Magic Flute at English National Opera in London.

The fact that I am in receipt of Self-Directed Support makes this kind of outing more straightforward to plan, because the lengthy journey means that I require the attendance of a carer, and in this case, there were engineering works which prevented me from getting directly to London by train.

Fortunately, the train companies have taken seriously with the requirements of the Disability Discrimination Act, and provided me with a taxi to pick up the train from Littlehampton, enabling me to travel to London to see the performance, a matinee and the last opportunity to see this production by Nicholas Hytner.

It was stretching my capacity to travel from home to its limit, but it was a success. And a memorable one.

Going to the Opera is a strong reminder of the life I used to lead, in the Education Department of Opera North, the full name for which was originally English National Opera North. A Northern outpost of the London based National company.

Although I am not a musician, my work at Opera North enabled me to go on and become the Development Director at the Scottish Chamber Orchestra in Edinburgh, where I was responsible in effect for the education programme.

This is where I came into contact with the composer Craig Armstrong, who I was surprised to discover had composed the soundtrack for the film version of The Quiet American.

He has also composed the soundtracks of films such as Love Actually, and Moulin Rouge. He has a number of other film credits to his name, but too many to list.

I had tea with Craig in his Glasgow house once, when I employed him to work with students at the Edinburgh School of Art to help them compose soundtracks for their animated shorts. It was part of my work for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra, and the resulting compositions were performed live by a small ensemble of about five musicians from the orchestra, to accompany a showing of the student's films.

It was a great success, and Craig asked for the same person to conduct his music at this event as conducted the music that was recorded for Moulin Rouge.

And so whenever I see one of the films that Craig Armstrong is credited as the composer, I have the glow of pride that comes from having been connected to much greater things in the world.

It is those connections, and the strangeness of them that constantly surprises me. When I saw The Quiet American I was reminded that I had once or twice slept overnight in the house in London where Graham Greene once lived.

A friend of mine was living in the house, which had passed to the granddaughter or great granddaughter of the author, and a number of mainly women shared the house, and therefore its upkeep.

I can remember that one of the girls that had lived in the house had been an unfortunate member of the party that had been involved in the sinking of a boat on the River Thames, when so many young people died in a tragic river accident. The Marchioness claimed so many lives.

And so another sadder connection to world events, and I am sure most of us, if we care to look, can discover a network of connections that stretch strangely far into the world.

A Worthy Challenge For Those Post-Olympic Blues

I suspect I am not alone in feeling bereft of something, now that the Olympic period has drawn to a close.

In the wake of this, I have an appropriate and worthy challenge for all of my blog readers, across the world. Please pass it on.

In the eight months that I have been writing my blog, nearly 1000 page-views have been registered on my statistics, and the reading of the statistics resembles in some small way the medal table for the Olympics.

In other words, a large number of countries have been represented, often surprising to me, and this has given me the idea for a challenge that is perhaps my way of competing for that wave of opprobrium that so many of the athletes, and not just those from team GB, have experienced in that stadium that has no doubt in this focus of a worldwide audience for the past several weeks.

My concept is simple, and like the Olympics, participation need not cost anything.

On the other hand, for a small cost, it will be possible to earn for your country a gold medal in the medal table. Perhaps this cost, because of its charitable application, should be compared to the effort that a gold medallist might invest in their preparations for the Olympics.

The worthy cause I have in mind is a Hospital, and not just any Hospital.

It happens to be just across the road from where I live in Worthing in West Sussex, but it began life in 1915 as the George V Hospital in London, where its construction took place in the shell of the Imperial Stationery Office, which was in the process of construction at the time.

The plans were swiftly altered, and a 2000 bed Hospital came into being, which was the first point of treatment for so many of the badly injured soldiers returning from the front from the trenches of The Great War.

Perhaps unsurprisingly the work of this Hospital did not end with the signing of the armistice in 1918, and until its move to Worthing in 1933, where it still continues to provide support and rehabilitation to members of the armed services predominantly, it was located just north of London in a country house that was provided on a charitable basis by the Charrington Brewery family.

It was the place where Douglas Bader got his tin legs fitted, in the film Reach For The Sky, and today although there are additional patients not drawn from the services, it is still fundamentally a home for soldiers ranging in age from 22 years to 100 years of age.

It is an extraordinary place with an extraordinary history, and I have been greatly honoured by the fact that my first volume of poetry is available for sale through the fund-raising shop online at the Hospital, with all proceeds from sales contributing to maintaining the extraordinary standards that the home achieves.

I think part of the reason for my confidence in approaching the Hospital with this idea for a fundraising proposal was that when I gave two copies of my book of poems to my local Library, one copy was placed in the Lending Library, and one copy was lodged in the prestigious County Local History Collection, recognizing perhaps not so much the quality of my poetry as the fact that I have included in this special fund-raising edition an essay about meeting Dame Vera Lynn at the hospital, and both Dame Vera and the Hospital are considered important enough for my volume to have been included in this collection, where it is rubbing shoulders with works by Shelley, Kipling, and Balzac.

At the 2012 International Festival of Disability Film, in Calgary, Canada a short 12 minute film made and edited by me was accepted for exhibition, and this film includes two of my poems, completed whilst I was on location during a respite week at an extraordinary historic home near Ipswich, which is very much the subject of this short film, and the quality of the care that I received during my respite week there with the Sue Ryder Trust.

I had hoped that my film might have made its way into the Cultural Olympiad which has taken place alongside the Olympics, but have been unsuccessful in my efforts.

But these three things, my book and its purpose, the film and its ambition, and perhaps simply my blog, might satisfy the gold, silver, and bronze which athletes have striven for in competition.

And so what I propose is to produce a medal table, say one year from today, just three days after team GB have paraded majestically through London, in which participation is possible in these three different ways.

A gold medal is achieved if a copy of my poems in this special fund-raising edition is purchased, directly from the Hospital, a silver medal is allocated if the film is viewed and I am notified in some way, and a bronze can be achieved simply by reading my poetry online, which can be done free of charge through my print on demand publisher.

It is a kind of challenge I suppose, but I have been so impressed at the way in which my blog has achieved such a wide readership, that I believe perhaps this could be translated to the purpose I have outlined.

It is so much in the spirit of the Olympics, in that participation itself is the object. I will not benefit personally at all financially, but the Hospital may.

And so I provide within this blog all of the links needed to participate, and you have my word as an equivalent to the oath taken by athletes and judges alike that fairness will be my constant companion.

Perhaps the point to aim for in my special edition is the essay about my meeting with Dame Vera Lynn at the Hospital, which is a short 3000 word piece, and will give a small flavour of the Hospital at one of its annual open days.

At the end of the book, I provide my e-mail address, but comments about the film could be communicated via YouTube, the link also provided.

I will ask the hospital to keep me informed of Gold medal purchases, and as no copies have as yet been purchased, there is no hidden home advantage.

Although you can read the poems for yourself, if you did need any recommendation, I have received my first Arts Council of Great Britain award for a project linked to this volume. This ought to be some recommendation of its quality.
Good luck and thank you in advance if you should take part in this challenge.

It is after all a worthy cause.

To purchase:
http://www.qahh.org.uk/get-involved/donate/shop/

The Film:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPDcI8cTSLo

The poems:
http://www.completelynovel.com/books/50-x-50-useful-poetry-for-troubled-times-extended-edition--2/read-online

A Doorway To The 1851 Great Exhibition

Restoring our 17th century house on the Norfolk/Suffolk border had many extraordinary moments. Perhaps one of the most emotive was when we opened a doorway in the upstairs of our Town House once we had purchased the cottage behind, and went through a doorway that had been bricked up since 1851.

Every house has its history, in the same way that we as people have a history through our family tree. Most people will find many surprises if they explore, as millions do, the extraordinary story of where we have come from.

If houses could speak, or carried with them a potted history of their owners and the lives they have seen, it would be an extraordinary story, especially for a house as old as the one that we found ourselves restoring.

The small cottage behind our house was built in about 1740, and was therefore about 50 years later than own house, fronting on the street.

We pondered much over the history of the house. When we had purchased it, we had been told that we still technically had planning consent to be able to use the room into which our front door opened as a shop.

I looked into this in a small way, and found that in the 1940s, it had been an upholstery shop. I know nothing more than this about the commercial uses of our house, but I am sure it would be fascinating to discover more.

There were some features of our house that made us think that the original owners must have had some ambitions beyond the typical scale of a country town house.

Simply the staircase, which could be dated almost exactly to the date when the house was built in 1690, from the shape of the balusters which formed part of its construction.

It had unusually wide steps for a local house, and was constructed in the way that would be described as a floating staircase, so that there was no obvious support for each tread, and it rose three storeys to the attic on the top floor.

When I showed it to someone who had some understanding of historic houses, they said that they thought it had been adapted for this house, and perhaps had been salvaged from the great Fire of Bungay, which had taken place in 1688, and had destroyed much of the older wooden houses in the town.

And what we imagined was that our house had been originally owned by a merchant, and that the house next door had been built on the site of what once had been his storehouse, perhaps wooden built, in which his stock would have been safely stored, and which he could have accessed simply through a connecting door on the first floor.

This all fitted in with the fact that the house was just one hundred metres from the nearby River, which was navigable to the sea until 1932, when sluices were installed to control the flow of water.

Until that point, the shallow draught vessels typical of Norfolk, the Norfolk Wherries, would have traded as far as the Baltic and Holland.

Our house was roofed with Dutch Pantiles, which may have been used as ballast for the return journey from Holland, and Baltic Pine wall boarding was used for the internal room divisions downstairs.

In the days when security meant having a close eye on your own property, it made perfect sense for a merchant to have his warehouse secure behind his own house.

The fact that we had doorways between the two houses meant that we did not have to get planning consent to combine the two, we simply had to create the openings which downstairs had been cobbled together rather simply, and upstairs had been bricked up.

When we removed the bricks, easily done because the cement used was soft mortar typical of the time using lime, sharp sand and horsehair, so that it was easy to remove the bricks undamaged.

In the frog of each brick was the unmistakable cross that identified them as having been handmade in the 19th century at the St Cross brickworks, only half a dozen miles away.

More interestingly, we found a scrap of newspaper, from which we were able to ascertain that it had been bricked up in 1851, because there was a small article about the Great Exhibition on this scrap of newspaper.

It was 2001 when we removed the bricks and opened this ledge and brace door for the first time in exactly 150 years, perfectly preserved behind a neat wall of bricks.

Perhaps the first clue to the previous use of the next door house, had been the fact that there was almost 2 feet difference in height between the existing floor level of the upstairs room into which we stepped.

In other words, the ceilings for the downstairs rooms were much smaller than the height of our own, which again gave a strong indications that the owners had ambitions which required taller ceilings in a world where scale was often an indication of status.

So for example the staircase in the cottage we had bought was a more typical vernacular style of staircase, where you simply opened a door to find a steep narrow staircase to the next floor.

Quite different to the floating treads of our house.

We kept the ancient ledge and brace door, not even removing its ancient paintwork, that had remained preserved behind brickwork for more than a century.

Later, I discovered and rescued an old copy of The Art Journal, which contained the entire catalogue not of the Great Exhibition, but of the Paris Exhibition held in 1867.

The Art Journal was published annually in a volume, although I suspect was also published monthly and contained wonderful mezzotints and engravings, often of old Masters.

The edition that contains the catalogue for the Paris Exhibition is an extraordinary document, showing examples of fine furniture and furnishings beautifully reproduced for this special edition.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
We called our house Merchant House, because of our sense that it had once served the purposes of a merchant, but we do not know any further details. The current owners of the house have retained this name.

The street on which the house sits was in the 19th century, and no doubt earlier, very much a Commercial Street, as I found described in a volume written by Lilias Rider Haggard, the daughter of the famous Victorian writer, who had lived just outside of our town.

She ghost wrote the memoirs of her gamekeeper, and in one of the volumes, The Rabbit Skin Cap, there is a description of Bridge Street and the businesses that thrived in the street in those times.

All of these things are unspecific to our own restoration project, but throw some light on the romance of our house's history.

Eat, Fast, And Live Longer - We Are What We Eat

I watched a very interesting Horizon documentary recently.

It began with some extraordinary statistics. During the great agricultural depression in the United States, during the 1930s, when thousands of people had less to eat than what we think of as the minimum daily requirement today, life expectancy actually rose. Significantly.

Anecdotally, and speaking from my own experience I know this to be true because my elderly mother lived through wartime rationing, that generation has been statistically healthier and has formed the rump of the ageing population that we are having so much problem caring for.

It seems that several years of minimal nutrition has the surprising side-effect that those people that experienced it have been healthier, and no doubt happier as a consequence.

In this programme the presenter went so far as to purposely fast himself, at first a three and a half day proper fast, with just a cup of miso soup each day, but then a far more manageable fast (in terms of modern lifestyles) which amounted to eat what you like for five days, and have two days for the rest of the week when your calorie intake is significantly reduced. Say, 600 calories rather than a more typical 2000 calories.

It was a very compelling programme. So compelling in fact that I am beginning to experiment myself with reducing the amount of unnecessarily sugary foods, simply by cutting out desserts which I have typically had every night of the week.

And I am missing an occasional lunch at weekends, and avoiding any sugar-based snacks or sweets.

It isn't difficult to do, but the potential benefits might be enormous.

In experiments with mice, the longevity of smaller underfed mice greatly exceeded that of well fed mice.

And in fact, in the smaller calorie controlled examples, the incidence of destructive conditions like cancers and diabetes related conditions was negligible.

And in fact, it seems that the body's capacity for self repair is more likely to start to work when less calories are present.

The lesson is a simple one. Whilst we may think that our comparative richness compared to our ancestors is a good thing, we would do well to heed the lessons of the past.

That literally less can be more, and for someone in my situation, if my body can be encouraged to begin the process of self repair, it will certainly be a price worth paying.

And at the same time, my food bills have been substantively cut. the ultimate win-win situation.

A Georgian Theatre In A Small Town

I have written about the small town on the Norfolk/Suffolk border in which I spent five happy years restoring a 17th-century house.

In that same town, many creative people lived, perhaps drawn by the quality of the environment and when I first moved there, the relatively inexpensive cost of attractive older houses. The town had a long history going back 1000 years, and a ruined castle to prove it.

It had never been a substantial town, but it had been an important market town for the surrounding villages in the rural border where the Waveney Valley provided an attractive border between Norfolk and Suffolk.

In the United Kingdom, East Anglia is the least developed region, which is ironic since in mediaeval times, it was the most highly populated.

It was very much an agricultural economy, and there are many rich churches, often endowed by wealthy merchants that had made their money from things like farming sheep, because the grazing in the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk was so relatively rich. Those beautiful churches are called Wool Churches as a consequence, and there are some of the most beautiful churches in England in these counties, often in what are now small villages with tiny congregations for the enormous size, relatively speaking, of the churches.

In some respects, in the 18th century East Anglia was still an important and wealthy part of the agrarian economy. As such, it sustained businesses that have long since withered and died, as its lack of infrastructure has made it difficult for businesses to reach a sufficient audience to sustain their activities.

One such business was a chain of Georgian theatres, run by the Fisher family. At one time, there were about 12 theatres across this region, between which the Fisher family toured theatrical productions. All but one of the theatre buildings have been destroyed, and the one that survives was, when we first moved into this small town, converted into a commercial warehouse premises, all traces of its theatrical past long since removed.

But a small and growing group of like-minded people wished to restore this last vestige of an old theatrical past.

We were soon encouraged to join this group of enthusiastic people, amongst whom were some notable writers whose work may well be known to some of my blog readers.

Elizabeth Jane Howard, a novelist in her own right and once married to Kingsley Amis, father of Martin Amis, was in fact near neighbour in this most historic of streets where we were restoring our 17th-century house.

Dame Elizabeth was the patron of The Fisher Theatre charitable group, and would often give readings at the Theatre once it had been purchased, and before funding had been found to restore the theatre, not exactly to its former glory, but into a modern multipurpose space that could operate to the requirements of almost any art form that could be enticed to perform in this out of the way spot.

Just on the outskirts of the town lived another famous novelist, author of Birdsong Sebastian Faulks. He and Dame Elizabeth would give readings of their work and all proceeds from ticket sales would contribute towards the fundraising that was a necessary part of ensuring that Arts Council grants could be obtained.

The building itself was purchased for relatively little money, just over £60,000, through the fact that around 250 people contributed one pound per month to the charity, and this enabled a mortgage to be repaid for the purchase of the building itself.

When eventually an Arts Council grant was approved, it was for in excess of £400,000, and the express intention was to ensure that the fitting out of this old building should be to high modern standards, with seating that could be retracted when not needed for performance based activities, ensuring that there was a large open area on a sophisticated sprung floor that could for example accommodate small scale dance.

In the basement, a separate space was developed so that music could be hosted that would appeal particularly to a younger audience, and a catering operation at the heart of the Theatre would ensure that local people used the building regularly as a meeting place.

Typically, just as fate took my partner and I away from our completed restoration, and I was rehoused in more accessible accommodation as my capacities reduced because of the progression of my multiple sclerosis, the Theatre opened after its restoration, and by now, several years later, it is blossoming.

When we eventually sold our restored 17th-century house, it was to two people that were professional musicians, and they have since started a family, and also become regularly involved in activities at The Fisher Theatre.

It is comforting at least that all of our work to restore our own project has been loved in turn by two people for whom it seems the house suits perfectly.

The Paralympics And What They Now Mean To Me

Perhaps like many people, I haven't thought much about the Paralympics, and what they mean.

I've just today watched a very moving film from the BBC iplayer, entitled The Best Of Men.

I haven't been so moved by a film For ages.

It tells the story of how the Paralympic games came into existence, but more importantly it tells of how attitudes to the care of a spinal injury patients were transformed in the Forties and Fifties, and how that transformation gave back the desire for severely disabled patients not only to live once more, but to strive to achieve beyond the expectations of the able bodied.

Perhaps it is predictable that I should be moved by such an extraordinary film, because I am myself severely disabled, not by a spinal cord injury. But by the degenerative condition multiple sclerosis.

In other words, I will never be an Olympian in physical terms, as my upper body strength is negligible, and my muscles are severely wasted throughout my body, thanks to the way in which my nervous system has been attacked by my own immune system.

But I am fortunate in that the muscles that enable me to speak have been unaffected, and if there were a competition that involved public speaking, I would be an entrant.

In fact, the fact that I am unable to work has given me the leisure to be able to use my voice and voice activated software to continue what has perhaps been my most important leisure pursuit.

I have published two volumes of my own poetry, and a book of short stories, some of which were written when I still had the ability to walk, and took it so for granted.

But many of which have been written when I have been perhaps as written off as those first patients at Stoke Mandeville Hospital where attitudes were so transformed by one particular doctor, who was himself a refugee from his own country because of the war that had created so many of the patients that he came to restore a sense of dignity and purpose to.

There have been times for myself when I have not considered myself to have a future.

There is no doubt that it is not straightforward to find a new sense of self from the wreckage of a life, whatever the cause, whether an accident or debilitating illness.

But I would heartily recommend this film to anyone, wherever they come from, if they have access to the Internet and can watch BBC programmes online.

I will certainly be watching the Paralympics with a changed perspective after having seen The Best Of Men, and perhaps too it will make me think differently about the way in which I see myself.

The fact that I can still make use of technology to access a world that 20 years ago nobody would have dreamed existed, means that I have plenty of reason to contemplate a future that is as distant and mysterious and yet achievable as any dreams I may have had when I was young and knew nothing of the condition that has so transformed my life.

Mars Before Breakfast

When I first heard about Curiosity, my first reaction was almost disbelief.

But what seemed to be more like science fiction has become science fact.

Taking almost a year to reach its destination, a new Rover has been sent to Mars, and is now at the beginning of a two year mission to explore the surface of the planet and with the aim of discovering whether Mars may have developed life perhaps in the distant past when it had sufficient water on its surface to enable biochemical reactions such as we suppose might have occurred on our own planet, culminating in the evolution of a complex life forms.

It has perhaps been millions of years since Mars possessed an atmosphere, long since stripped away by the Solar Wind. if it had one in the first place.

Mars has always been the imaginative likely home for life in our Solar System, and has certainly fueled the imagination of writers for a couple of centuries.

And now, with the Curiosity mission, it seems likely that we will discover at least a partial answer to the question as to whether we are alone, in this part of the universe at least.

If life did once develop on our nearest neighbour, it is highly unlikely that it will have survived to the present day. This much seems to be fairly certain from what we already know of the Martian environment, blasted as it is by Solar radiation and unprotected by what we appear to take for granted on earth, magnetic poles that appear to be the reason why we have retained an atmosphere, and by so doing, retained the oceans that seem to have been universally recognized as the origin of life as we know it.

Curiosity is in effect a roving laboratory capable of examining and testing the environment into which it has been introduced, to assess whether there are any traces of what we have seen on Earth as a result of an environment that has developed over millions of years.

It has already been discovered from previous work  that deposits of gypsum can be found on Mars, and this is a mineral that on Earth developed as a consequence of standing water. The chemical composition of gypsum includes substantive amounts of calcium, and on earth this mineral is likely to have come about as a consequence of the deposit of primitive life in those ancient seas.

In some respects, the successful landing of Curiosity is one of the most remarkable scientific achievements ever to have taken place.

The fact that it has landed safely is simply remarkable.

And now, its mission over the next two years will hopefully throw some light on the question as to whether we are in fact an extraordinarily complex singularity, perhaps answering one of the most profoundly important questions for the Human Race.

I like to think that this is a purely scientific mission, but it holds extraordinarily significant questions in its mission parameters.

For if it does discover that no life has ever developed on another planet in our own Solar System, it does perhaps suggest that we may be more alone than our imagination would like to contemplate.

It would be wrong for me to suggest that any answers we may discover will throw any light on the existence of a God. This is not a scientific question at all.

Just as it is for each person to examine their conscience concerning questions of Faith, so it will be for every individual to assess any data that Curiosity may discover from its exploration of the Martian landscape.

I have already become a follower by Twitter of the Curiosity mission, and this has enabled me through a link to the NASA website to see some of the images already sent back by the roving laboratory's cameras.

Thus my title, Mars Before Breakfast. In my most recent communication from Curiosity, I spent a fascinating 20 minutes or so exploring another planet.

Not bad for someone that cannot walk, and perhaps simply another reason why everybody should have regular access to a computer with a broadband Internet link.