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.
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Saturday, 27 October 2012
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
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
Friday, 26 October 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
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
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
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
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.
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.
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