I can't find words good enough

When we woke today it was sunny and about five degrees. Centigrade, fortunately.

We had enjoyed a lovely dinner in Grasmere the night before and had a marvellous suite (yes a suite, with a separate lounge and a blissful bath), had slept well and were ready for any challenge.  So the sunshine came as a welcome surprise.

The views were gorgeous, even before we left Grasmere. They just got better. We kept stopping on the stiff climb to turn and look back at the view - not, you understand because we were tired. The day continued like this with heart breakingly beautiful scenery every time you crested a use or rounded a bend.

We met up with several people we recognized from the previous days: the policeman, Ken, and his wife, Linda; the happy couple with a dog; a young and cheerful man doing the C2C on his own; the Australians. Everyone was happy and cheerful.

The descent into Patterdale gave us excellent views of Ullswater, where we could see small boats sailing in the breeze. A circuitous walk past a cream colored bull rounded out the day. (Our host says the bull wandered down the hill into town and into the reception area of the local hotel one morning.)

What a truly delightful day. A blister the size and shape of Ireland is a small price to pay.

Tomorrow: sixteen miles to Brampton. The last big hills of the walk.

"It were a bit wet ..."

I expect it would be boring to give you a detailed description of the pain I am in, so I won't, tempting though it is.

Instead I will talk about the weather, like any good Englishman of good upbringing.

I see from the BBC website that this year is the wettest on record.  By a curious coincidence, the Lake District is the wettest part of the UK.  Put the two together and what do you get?

Let the answer come from the wise lips of a local, retired shepherdess.  She now runs the Walkers Drop in Cafe in Moor Row, a must-visit if you are in the area.  She said she's never known as much rain.  When we described where we were going she said brightly "You'll have walking poles then?" and a significant "Oh" when we answered in the negative, followed by a falsely cheery "Never mind" which put dread in my heart.

(Just so you know how much pain I am not telling you about, I thought I would mention that I took a pair of Ibuprofen two hours ago and it's still painful.)

On our first evening we stayed at a lovely farm.  The farmer, a retired doctor, now keeps all kinds of animals, including bees.  He said he had eight hives.  "Do you know how much honey I've had this summer?" he asked.  "Eight pounds."

I clearly didn't look sufficiently taken aback.  In retrospect I realise I should have staggered and gasped "No! Never!" but I just looked blank so he said "I normally get 400 pounds.  It's all this wet weather."

All this is by way of introduction.  Shortly after leaving our hotel this morning, we turned into the path on our gentle climb on the route to Grasmere.  There was quite a big puddle which we skirted. And another. And another.  After a while the path just became a stream, with water cascading along it.  I would have written "cascading merrily" but it was cascading along the path I wanted to take, damn it.

For the next couple of hours all that happened was that my boots and gaiters got wet.

Then we got to a part where the guidebook explained we would have to ford a stream.  It didn't explain where we would get a 4x4.  I was dismayed to realise I would have to ford it on foot.  Well that wouldn't do so I walked around the fording point.  I then discovered why it is a good thing to ford the stream.  The alternative is to end up knee deep in the bog.  Which I did.

In the end, one becomes inured to a touch of dampness, to walking through streams and swamps.

On arrival at the wonderful Silver Lea B&B in Grasmere, we rang and when our hostess, Gill, came to the door we asked if we should take our boots off.  She looked at our feet and replied "I think that would be better."

I was shattered.  So was the retired policeman I told you about yesterday, who we met just after supper.

But ...

.. tomorrow the sun will shine and all will be good.

How the worst day turned out

It may have struck the avid reader of this journal that I might have been just the teensiest bit grumpy about having to walk the Coast to Coast with my DBW.

Well today changed all that. It came tipping down and when morning in the bowl of night flung the stone that put the stars to flight I opened the curtains at our delightful B&B (a farm just outside Ennerdale Bridge) to see not the bright summer sun, but gloomy grey clouds scudding across the sky.

I felt a sense of foreboding.

An hour or so later, I felt a sense of dampness. We had just left the farmhouse when a squall of rain descended at high speed. I pulled my hood, allegedly waterproof, over my Tilley hat and marched grimly on. The DBW chattered happily beside me. We spent the morning walking around Ennerdale Water, which I must admit was rather pretty and then gradually climbed the valley.

Within a minute of us entering a youth hostel to have a bite, there was thunder and then hail started falling at 45 degrees. My word, what a lucky escape.  I thought my fortunes must be changing. We set off a few minutes later and the scenery just got prettier and prettier. A steep climb of about 1,500 feet followed and the view changed from pretty to magnificent; gorgeous fells, delightful waterfalls, chocolate box meadows and a strange lack of killer sheep.

A long and gentle descent followed, with far views over Ennerdale Water and Buttermere, followed by the slate mines and a welcome drink and sit down in the cafe there. Bliss! We chatted to Americans from Las Vegas and a policeman and his partner from Scarborough.  Then we kept descending further and further, alongside a rushing river until we fetched up at Rossthwaite.

The hotel was somewhat suspect. Called the Royal Oak, it looked like a bit of a dump. I was feeling misgivings when the manager, Neil, came out and welcomed us.  It is, perhaps, a little tired and retains quaint customs from the mid-twentieth century; a dinner gong and after-dinner coffee in the lounge. Howeve, the service was excellent and friendly and the food (mushroom soup, gammon and vegetables, sticky toffee pudding) was delicious and welcome.

They lack mobile phone coverage, but do have WiFi. And plenty of hot water. And a room to dry wet clothes.  What more could one want?

A good night's sleep.  Which is where I am going now.

Tomorrow: two or three thousand feet up and down some peaks and then into the metropolis of Grasmere.

With rain.

Naturally.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

So here I lie, my painful blisters and bunions stoicly ignored, made weak by time and fate but strong in will.

I tell you, reader, of an epic adventure among these barren crags.  My eye is fix'd upon a distant peak; my mind is fix'd on deeds heroic.

I woke this morning at four a.m., fully prepared for a day that would live in the annals of history.   But then I thought I would prefer a lie in.

It was later on the bus from Kirkby Stephen to St Bees that I began to have doubts.  The journey took almost two hours.  My word, one can cover an immense distance in that time.  Why would I want to walk it?  Well, of course, I didn't.

At St Bees it was blowing like billy-o.  There were legions of sea horses and the sea itself was so churned up that it was brown.  There had been a family in the bus with us whose daughter said she'd barely slept a wink all night with excitement at the prospect of walking the coast to coast.  I sympathised, except she had the wrong emotion.  The son was wearing shorts.

So while these benighted fools set off up St Bees Head, Colleen and I took a short cut up the valley.

Sheep were scattered like confetti across the fields.  One has to be careful of these brutes.  Overtly they are so mild but, given half a chance, they will sneak up behind one and bite one's bottom.  There have been 27 fatalaties this year in England alone.  I took a photograph of one while he was distracted by a svelte ewe but I haven't yet worked out how to upload photographs using Lakeland internet.

On the way up an enormous peak, we ran into some Americans.  They claimed to be from Vegas and felt the lake district was a bit damp.  I told them I thought Vegas was a bit dry.  These were the fit type of Americans, in their fifties and sixties, slim and with perfect teeth which they were prepared to demonstrate in bright smiles.

I put on my sunglasses.

On the way down Dent Hill, I became a little confused.  One guide book told us to go straight on.  The maps said to turn hard right.  At that stage one of the natives appeared, walking three dogs.  I asked which way was right and she said summat like 

"Arr eee ye be wharrkin t' cos tu cos?"  I would quote more from her but I think my iPad would run out of saliva.  She pointed off to her left and cackled something about a cliff.  Ten minutes later I found myself walking down a cliff.  To avoid undue worry, dear reader, I will let you know that I survived.  An RAF Tornado flew by, so low that we were looking down on it.

We arrived at our B&B farmhouse about 4.30.  The lady, a charming retired doctor, said it had rained 2" the day before.  I took off my boot and most of that rain tipped out.  I had a marvellous bath, a hot cup of coffee and recovered.  A day's walk across the fells with no rain.  Excellent.

Tomorrow the rain returns.  Could life be better?

The easy bit

It was a really good idea when I thought of it, six months ago.

"Sweetheart", I said, speaking to the gorgeous item with whom I have cohabited for the last thirty years "Why don't we have a staycation this year and walk the Coast to Coast path?"

"What a good idea!" she exclaimed, much to my surprise and consternation.  I know she doesn't like climbing hills.  I only did it to annoy because I know it teases.  "We'll need to start training."

I put my head in my hands.  She was meant to say "I thought we were going to Canada this summer." Instead with the enthusiasm that sent a chill through my heart she was talking of training.  Training?  That would take all the fun out of it.  I did training when I spent a year in the army in 1979.  In case of any doubt, I would like you to know that training is no fun at all.  My motto is "No pain,no pain" and training breaks my motto into tiny fragments before crushing them beneath the iron heel.

On the plus side, compared with the Lake District, through which the Coast to Coast path passes, Hampshire is like an ironing board.  So we trained by walking a circuitous route to the news agent every morning.  I practised carrying a backpack by carrying the Telegraph, which is a broadsheet and therefore very heavy.  All the way home.

And today we set off for the Lake District, having in the interim bought maps, boots, walking trousers, a compass, a transparent map pocket (which I left at home, together with my pyjamas), hiking socks and a book or two.

My heart quailed so, having got all the way to Bicester, I said "You need some clothes, dear.  Why don't we go shopping?"    I had in my mind that we would spend a few hours there, discover it was far too late to get up to the Lake District and abandon the exercise.

Instead, with unbecoming haste that set new records, the DBW found some clothes that fitted her perfectly within 43 minutes.

So, a few hours later, here we are at Kirkby Stephen.  It's not the worst small town I have been too.  Indeed I am compelled to admit that it has it's own water-logged charm.  Our host, Nick, admitted us to the B&B, which is actually quite delightful.  It's a Georgian house and from the miniature chaise longue in the entrance hall to the sashed curtains on the window, it feels lovely.

At the top of the stairs is a library of holiday reading - hundreds and hundreds of lovely books, from classics to thrillers.  You could easily spend a week reading them.    Let me repeat that: you could easily spend a week reading them.  I may just settle down and let the DBW have a refreshing walk and report back to me on how it went.

"I have a cunning plan"

There are many rewards to being a local councillor, not least (as I am sure most councillors would agree) the feeling of achievement when you've helped someone.  Having a chuckle is not normally a fringe benefit, but it was last night.

Last night was the annual budget debate.  The choreography here is simple: the ruling party lay out their proposed budget, the opposition try and pick holes in it, each defends their position as being in the best interests of the public and the ruling party use their majority to vote the budget through.

Last night in Hart was different.

The opposition came up with a cunning plan.  After years of careful management, Hart has a small surplus.  Once Ken Crookes, the affable and hugely competent Tory Leader of Hart District Council, had presented his budget Stuart Bailey, the ever-courteous and likeable LibDem spokesman for finance stood.  His speech went on for a few minutes but in essence said "Good budget.  Now, since you have a surplus, why not use some of that to eliminate Sunday parking charges and hence give a boost to Fleet business?"

I listened in admiration.  The LibDems had put up this proposal knowing that (a) the Conservative majority would vote down any amendment and (b) voting down this amendment would be tough to explain on the doorsteps when campaigning for the May elections.  It was delightfully clever and - in my view at least - a reasonable proposal.

Now, if the LibDems had proposed a lot of amendments, they could have overreached themselves.  If there's a long debate, the Chairman will call a break and the Tories could have had a huddle.  By having just one amendment, there was no chance for this.

Various speakers rose to have their say with the Tories roughly saying "Not a bad idea, but it needs some thought.  Might there be better ways to spend the money to boost Fleet?  Or should we save it to put our finances on a sounder footing?" and other councillors saying "Jolly good idea: no time like the present.  Let's do it."

Meanwhile, as a Tory councillor, I squirmed in my seat.  I thought it was a good idea on the whole.  In fact, it's a good Tory idea: cut taxes to boost the economy.  The Tory majority on the evening was just 1; a single Tory councillor voting against the grain would be enough for the LibDem amendment to win.  My neighbour, Stephen Gorys, was also inclined to support the motion.

So when it came to the vote, Stephen and I supported the amendment, as did the Tory chairman.  So far the enjoyment had all been on the LibDem side.  However, I am sure they had never anticipated winning the amendment - it was to be a Pyrrhic victory.  Having won, how would they vote on the budget?

Just as it Goes against the Grain for the ruling party to support an opposition amendment to the budget, it is a Fundamental Rule that the opposition vote against the budget.  But if the LibDems voted against the budget, it suddenly struck them that they would be voting against their own amendment, which was now in that Budget.  And since they had proposed just the one amendment, on what basis could they not support the Budget?

The vote was called.  Brian Burchfield, of very nimble mind, asked for a recorded vote where members vote in turn as their names are called.  Suddenly those squirming were on the Libdem benches.  Most abstained, one or two voted against, one or two were savvy enough to vote for the budget.

The result: a good budget for Hart; hopefully (there are negotiations to be held still with Fleet Town Council) some relief for people parking in Fleet; and the most amusing meeting I have attended in almost 10 years as a councillor.

As the Greek said "Be careful what you wish for: your wish may be granted".

Clark and the Feudal Spirit

I've been trying to decide whether Bertie Wooster's Aunt Dahlia, who was famously direct in her language, would have called the Rt Hon Greg Clark an inveterate scoundrel, a lying toad or a congenital idiot.

He was interviewed on Sky News last week.  When talking about the government's proposed National Planning Policy Framework on TV on 21st December, he said

"The purpose of the planning reforms is to have decisions taken by local people who know their area best. That is the reason that we are making these changes.  We want to see local decisions taken locally.  That's what we want to introduce."

Now this is not entirely true.  Indeed, what Greg Clark said is pretty much the exact opposite of the truth.

Let's try phrasing it accurately.

The purpose of the planning reforms is to dilute or remove decision taking capability from local people who know their area best.  That is the reason we are making these changes.  We want to see local people bypassed so that developers can build large numbers of houses across the green fields of England and hence, we desperately hope, give a boost to the economy.

Of course, we have to look at it from Greg's point of view.  He's an up-and-coming MP, hopes to have a glowing career in politics and so he is carefully toeing the government line.

It's interesting to watch him saying these sentences on TV.  As he speaks his eyes flicker and one may imagine he's thinking "I really hope I can get away with this brazen economy with the truth." His body language is so uncomfortable that I found myself thinking "The decent person inside Greg Clark is very, very uncomfortable with what his political persona is saying."  He looks in this interview a little like a rabbit in the headlights.  You can quite imagine that he's wishing he'd never taken up politics and that it may well be that he's only doing the interview because some party whip explained to him that in any political career you have to take a few tough interviews for the good of the government if you want to get anywhere.

Greg needs your help.  If he's to defend himself against these Party Schemers who have backed him into a corner, he needs some ammunition.  The best ammunition you could give him is a bunch of letters from voters across the land who are concerned that their hamlets are about to become villages, their villages to become towns and the green fields in the countryside will disappear under a mass of builders' concrete.

Then, when cornered by some party hack, he'll be able to pull out a few thousand letters and say "I'm not willing to sign up for unemployment benefit after the next election: are you?" and the political conniver will creep quietly out of his office.

So please do write to him.  He can be reached at the Rt Hon G Clark, House of Commons, London, SW1A 0AA.

I realise now I was wrong in the first paragraph.  Armed with  a few thousand letters opposing the government's ill-thought-through national planning framework, and letting his true self come to the fore, Greg will become a Man among Men.  Aunt Dahlia would no doubt rise to the occasion and, with a voice that could be heard in the next county, exclaim "My hero!"

Back to school

My parents are to blame.  Also my wife's parents.

They made each of us feel that the most important thing we could do for our children was to see that they got a good education.  I'm not saying we did perfectly in our attempts, but we certainly tried and it seems to me that the government should have a similar responsibility to the children of the land.

Right now.  Let's just leave that thought there for the moment.  I'll be back to pick it up before it goes missing.

I have watched with bemusement the various occupations of recent months.  Occupy Wall Street.  The St Pauls protesters.  One thing that does surprise me is that the authorities find it so difficult to remove the protesters.  I'm quite happy for the protesters to have their say but not day after day.  There are more important things to demonstrate about.

Like Education.

Which leads me back to the strikes planned for two days' time on 30th November.  For years, head teachers across the land have insisted to parents that their children's education is too important to be trifled with and that unexplained absences aren't acceptable.  Indeed, a good friend of mine recently put up on facebook the following

Dear Head Teacher



Thank you for your recent request for little Tommy to be absent from school during term time. As you have pointed out on several occasions, the school does have a strict policy on this subject. I therefore must decline your request.


(ref teachers striking on Nov 30th)

But what really can we do about it?

Given how important children's education is to their future, it seems wrong that it should be trifled with to make a political point.  Driving into work this morning, I wondered what would happen if parents initiated a protest of their own: perhaps choosing tomorrow to Occupy State Schools.  Perhaps little Tommy or Tamsin could take a sleeping bag and 36 hours' provisions with them when they go to school tomorrow and then refuse to leave - and indeed have their parents join them at the end of the school day?

I am not recommending this.  I just wondered what might happen, since I believe in education.  Blame my parents.

Unforgiveable

H

Well, H, you know who you are.

In the mid-1990s you had us around to dinner.  I don't remember the main course, but the dessert was a simply exquisite home-made ice cream.  Even as I write this, many years later, I find myself salivating at the happy memory, the subtle flavour, the delicious and sublime experience.  I clearly remember saying what a remarkable and excellent dessert it was and how much I had enjoyed it.

Clearly, the Code of the Hostess kicked in. On two subsequent occasions when we were invited to dinner, there was no sign of home-made ice cream.  I assume this is because the Code of the Hostess means that you are forbidden from ever serving the same thing twice.  Blow the guests: it's all about diversity.

Or did England run out of dairy products?

M

Well, M, you know who you are.  (You are not Margaret).

About ten years ago you invited us around for a meal.  You even did the decent thing, knowing what a fussy eater I am, by phoning up a few days beforehand to ask if I ate Mexican.  I clearly remember my reply "Everything other than beans."

So I was a little surprised on arrival to discover the meal consisted of a good deal of beans.  I suspect there was widespread starvation in Mexico that year as there were so many beans in the food.  I did look at the driveway afterwards to see of there were imprints from the tyres of the heavy lorries that must have been needed to deliver all these blasted beans.  Indeed there must have been a platoon of chefs and a portable kitchen required just to cook them.

I ate everything else on my plate and consequently all that was left was a plate filled to the brim with beans.  And a hungry me.  You need to remember advice given to trainee lawyers "Don't ask a question you don't know the answer to."  Strange though it may seem, when I said I don't like beans what I actually meant was I DON'T LIKE BEANS.

I am already working on the steak and kidney pudding for when you next visit us, little missy.  Lots of kidney.

R

Well, Big R, you know who you are.

It's amazing.  I won't see you for two weeks and yet the moment I open my lunch at my desk, there you are, having decided that the ideal time for a business discussion is when my mouth is full of sandwich.  Perhaps you don't like the replies I give you when my mouth is empty; possibly your preferred mode of conversation is a monologue; it may be that you have an astigmatism in your eyes that somehow makes food invisible.

Now this may be a flaw in me.  If one could go back a few million years and see my ancestors, crouched over their latest kill in the wild plains of the Serengeti, you might observe that they didn't like company while eating.  Typically this would have been because when your neolithic neighbour came across to ask how the hunt went, what they really meant was "Ooh, that looks delicious, can I have some?" and when it's taken you three weeks to hunt down the fleeting gazelle that was the best substitute available in those days for cornflakes and that only appeared on your breakfast menu because it was a sickly runt, the whole subject of sharing was something that people did not talk about in polite company.

I suspect those genes have passed down through countless generations to me.  So, Big R, listen carefully.  The only time I am happy to talk business over a meal is when you are paying.  I have a list of restaurants you could invite me to, available at a moment's notice.

I realise this limits you to only eight or nine hours a day we can chat but do be a good fellow and try.

Bad Science, Good Deal

A few years ago my older son gave me Ben Goldacre's excellent book, Bad Science.  It is, quite simply, the best non-fiction book I've read in the last 10 years.  For the rest of the week, the Kindle version is on sale at Amazon UK for just £2.49.  This is an outstanding bargain and if you don't yet have a copy, I thoroughly recommend it.

What's it about?  In essence, it's about how to make sense of a world where science meets homeopathy, how to detect fraudlent claims by politicians and people selling pills and cosmetics, how turmeric allegedly cures cancer and more.  It shows you how to be rationally sceptical without being paranoid.

An excellent read.

Whither Labour?

Wither Labour?

Well, here's the opportunity for you to say.  How do you feel about Labour's chance of forming the next Government? Just vote below!

No smoke

So Ed Balls thinks that he should suggest how we run the economy, does he?  This is the same person who was Gordon Brown's key adviser when the economy was being systematically run down under the last Labour Government.

Why would we put an arsonist in charge of the Fire Brigade?

3,000 More Houses in Hook?

The standard way that government imposes a controversial policy is the following.

1. Give it a really boring title.
2. Claim it's just a draft, for consultation.
3. Publish it during the summer holidays, or while MPs are distracted by party conferences or both.
4. Deride those who oppose it as NIMBYs.
5. Stress that the policy is in the national interest.
6. Claim opponents don't understand the proposal or are exaggerating.
7. Tell civil servants to start giving weight to the policy when making decisions, even before it is implemented.
8. Say that those who don't agree with the policy are creating myths.
9. Implement the policy and when people complain say "The papers were all published and you had plenty of time to comment."

All of these ruses have been used by the Government in the draft National Planning Policy Framework.

Let me explain what this policy would mean for Hart, and Hook.

First, the policy takes away most of the protection for green fields that previously existed.

Second, it says that councils must assess every possible need for a house for anyone who might be in the district or who might choose to settle in the district.  (This is called a Strategic Housing Market Assessment)

Third, the council must identify land where these houses might be built.

What change would this make for Hart and Hook?

At present, Hart District Council has draft plans to build 220 houses a year for 20 years: a total of 4,400.  Of these, about 500 might be built in Hook (this is one option, but not definitely decided yet).  Under the NPPF, Hart might need to identify enough land to build over 1,500 houses a year: 30,000 over 20 years.

Where would these houses go?

They can't go in and around Yateley (in the east of the district) because building there is restricted under European law.  So they would need to go in the centre and West:  Hook, Hartley Wintney, Fleet, Odiham, North Warnborough, South Warnborough, Rotherwick, Winchfield.

It's possible that 3,000 or more would be built around Hook, which would double the size of the village.  In fact it wouldn't be a village any more - it would be a town.  The most likely place to build these houses would be in the fields between Hook and Rotherwick.

Now perhaps that you think this is a good idea.  I clearly don't.  

You have the opportunity to tell the government what you think, whether you like the policy or you don't.  Here's how you can do this.

1. Read the draft document.  It's here.
2. Fill in the consultation response form here.
3. Write to your MP.  You can find out who your MP is here.

The government wants your response by no later than October 17th.  So don't be caught out - please write today.

Don't let Sir Humphrey win!

A Cat Cured My Headache

In the words of Dara Ó Briain  "Well, I know a woman and she had a terrible headache, and then she rubbed a cat on her head, do you know, two days later her headache was gone!" (He puts the case more forcefully and with NSFW language here.)


The point is this: there's a good amount of stuff that's marketed to us daily that has no evidence to support it whatsoever.


Now, I really shouldn't mention this because I work in marketing and it breaks the Code of Marketing BS but every so often there are claims made about products and services that just ... aren't ... true.


And we know this.  We see it often enough that everyone can think of a case.  

• These little pills will cure you.  How are they made?  Well we dilute the "active ingredient" 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times in water.  Sure it will work!
• Detox shampoo.  Really?
• Yoghurt that optimises the release of energy from your diet. How?
• Homeopathy that can treat AIDS.
• Curcumin (a component of the spice turmeric) can cure cancer.

Some of these claims are foolish.  Others are dangerous.

Sense About Science is a charity that clearly and simply explains the facts when it comes to science.  They have started a campaign encouraging people to ask for evidence when they come across an unlikely claim.  It's called, unsurprisingly, "Ask for Evidence". 

Here's what you can do:

• Please read the link above: it will take you just a few minutes and may save you money or, even, your health.
• If you come across an unlikely claim, be sceptical.  It takes little time to ask the company for proof and you may help remove a dishonest claim.  If you do this, please let Sense About Science know.
• If you like the work that Sense About Science does, you could donate here.  They run an excellent organisation very efficiently.

If nothing else, you'll get a laugh reading about some ridiculous claims, and that probably does more to cure a headache than rubbing a cat on your head.

Footnote:  In a related area, there's also Ben Goldacre's excellent, humorous and immensely readable book, Bad Science, for those who'd like to delve more deeply into the subject.

Deliver Them from Evil

As a youngster I belonged to a gang. Indeed, at times, I was a gang leader. We’d go out at night and hide in the shadows, ride our bicycles along quiet streets and slip between pools of light.

I’d tell my parents “I’m going out with my gang” in the evening. Sometimes we’d “roof rattle”: throw stones onto the roofs of bungalows to make a noise and flee with mischievous glee the moment an angry householder opened his door to chase us.

After an hour or so we’d go home, have a bath and sleep the sleep of the not-so-innocent but carefree. I don’t remember how old I was, but probably the between nine and thirteen years old. It wasn’t that my parents didn’t care for me. I know they did. They just thought that I was having harmless fun with my friends and generallyI was – roof-rattling was uncommon. Most "gang meetings" involved James Bond type fantasies and building forts.  Indeed, if any adult had caught me misbehaving they would have spanked me and dragged me back home to tell my parents why and everyone knew this.

This memory has come back to me in recent days as I’ve seen the riots on television, the newspapers and the Internet.

My first reaction to the riots was one of rage at the wicked destruction and the apparent unwillingness or inability of the police to do anything.

Having had a few nights to sleep on it, my views have moderated.

First, I think it’s important to separate the wicked from the foolish. Someone setting a fire is wicked. Someone stealing a bottle of water or a bag of rice is foolish (indeed stupid). I hope that if something similar had happened when I was out with my gang we would have gone home and told our parents “There are Bad People out there.” But I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t have been swept up by the moment and with naughty juvenile glee at least gone along to watch.

I like to think of myself as a Law Abiding Citizen but when I see the stories of some previously blameless kids who did get involved I think “There but for the grace of God …"

I suspect this is true of many upright members of our community.

Our esteemed Prime Minister was a member of the Bullingdon Club while at Oxford. This club is notorious for trashing the restaurants it patronises, although I hasten to add that I have no idea if such behaviour occurred while David Cameron was a member. Speaking of another episode in his student life, David Cameron has said he has done things he "should not have done and regretted".

Haven’t we all?

Does this mean I think we should go easy on the rioters?

My answer is that “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

I think there are some principles we should apply.

First off, if we’re dealing with someone aged under 21 who has a previously blameless record and is accused of a relatively minor offence, then I think the sentence should be relatively minor also - but should involve the offender in paying recompense to the community. For example, sentencing someone like this to spend their leisure hours for several months cleaning graffiti or picking litter would help them better serve their community. It would also give them the chance to think over what they have done and why it was a bad idea. There are dozens of such tasks that could be done in the community: weeding the pavements, cutting the verges or fixing potholes.

Next, put the remainder of offenders, except for the most serious ones, into work. What kind of work? For one thing, there is a lot of highway that needs repairing around the country. There are always litter bins that need collecting. There seems to be a constant demand for roads to be dug up for laying or fixing pipes.  According to the National Audit Office, there is a good deal of military accommodation that needs refurbishing: why not get some of the physical work involved done by these offenders?

So include one offender at a time in groups like these, where they will be surrounded by honest people. There is a twofold aim here: to isolate the offenders among hard working people, as well as making them pay for their offence “by the sweat of their brow”.

For the rest – the organisers, the ones who set fires, the ones who were violent – the standard course of justice is the best I can recommend.

But the key proposal above is not for the wicked, but those who might get caught up in wickedness temporarily and who might well be reformed by a punishment that makes them give back to society to make up for what they have taken.

Would that approach bring to heel the riotous evenings of the Bullingdon? I cannot say for sure, but I expect it might. Would it have stopped the little “gangster” me from roof-rattling? Absolutely!

A Reef Too Far ..

I have the pleasure of presenting another guest post by my travelling correspondent ...

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A Reef Too Far

In April I made a fool of myself and nearly drowned in the process.

After a glorious four days in Tonga celebrating the wedding of a distant niece into a  Tongan family, the guests had started to depart and we had another week to enjoy the sun and sand before leaving ourselves.

We had had a wonderful time meeting family members and friends of all colours, ages and cultures. When one of the party offered me the use of his snorkel I was delighted and went down to the beach with my wife for a short swim and then a read under the trees. It was warm, with the sea and the sky a matching blue and the reef a long low white wave about 250 yards out. Perfect. I'll swim out about half way and look at the fish and coral. About a quarter of an hour say.

Head down in the water I drifted out watching the sea floor of undulating broken coral. Disappointingly few fish and the coral looked dead. The swimming was easy (too easy as it turned out) and then the coral suddenly rose up close to me and in front the sea was suddenly swarming with fish including some very big black ones. In my head alarm bells rang, I shouldn't be here I thought. I realized why the swimming had been so easy.... I was being swept out on a rip. Way out.

I turned to swim back but through my mask the coral beneath me was moving in the wrong direction. I was swimming towards the shore but the rip was stronger, pulling me backwards, out to sea! The shore was not getting any closer. In fact it was receding! 

On the beach my wife was getting anxious. I had been so long. She went down to the shore line and looked out to sea but could see nothing.

In the sea, swimming was not working, I was still going backwards, so (humiliation) I started to call for help. But I was a long way out and, as far as I could see, no one took much interest so I concentrated on the swimming. What I realised was that I was actually outside the protection of the reef and in the open sea and very exposed. I briefly debated the best means of defence when attacked by a shark.

To save energy I swam on my back looking at the clear blue sky while periodically calling for help. Had to be careful, at one point I found that I had turned round and was swimming back out to sea again.

I was totally out of my depth rising up and up and then down and down with the waves. I came across some coral just below the surface and hoping for a rest, was momentarily able to stand up. Relief! But then a big wave knocked me down. It did however, push me towards the shore  but then a terrible undertow pulled me further out again. I tried to hang onto the coral with my hands but the current was too strong. I started to breathe salt water coming down the snorkel tube. Not good. Spat out the tube. A reasonable swimmer shouldn't drown, should at least be able to float!

When I looked towards the shore I could see people resting on the golden sand under the palm trees and splashing in the sea and having a good time, but no response to my calls.

My wife, however, had heard me and was summoning assistance and I could see someone in a kayak set out from the shore. Was he coming to me though? Or just going for a joyride perhaps? To me I hoped, things were getting to be a bit of a struggle and help would be very welcome.

Thankfully, he was suddenly close, indicating to get onto the back of the kayak. I scrambled on but there were no handholds and I slipped and tumbled over the top headfirst into the sea on the opposite side. The boat drifted away from me and I went under. I surfaced, grabbed it and pulled myself on the back again. I heard a big crack in my chest as I did so, guessed that I'd cracked or broken a rib. He fell off this time but I was able to sit in the kayak seat and he then tried to get on behind. Whoops! back in the sea again. It was getting harder and harder to get on the damn thing but I eventually got back in the seat again and he was telling me what to do from the water. Then the big waves started to hit us as we crossed the reef and we came off again. Getting there though.

We now had to cross the 250 yards of water to the beach. Even that was hard to do. The sea was rougher than I expected and it's a long way but even as it got shallower the sea floor is rough coral, uneven and impossible to stand up on.

When I did eventually get in it seemed that I'd been in the water for hours although it hadn't been that long in fact. My wife was on the beach with the owner of the resort and I was never more pleased to see her. Her welcome wasn't quite as warm as I had expected, but then again, she had had a worrying time!

I later bought my rescuer a drink and heard that only yesterday sharks were seen where I had been. And the ribs? Yes, still painful, must have cracked them and it's put a stop to any swimming or vigorous exercise for a while. My wife, for some reason, seems quite pleased.

David Burke

Don't Hurry Love

I grew up in Africa where the mail system is somewhat different to the UK.  If I wanted to post a letter from one town to another, I would have expected it to take a week or two.

No, that wasn't a typo: I did say a week or two, even if the distance involved was perhaps 20 miles.  That's how mail worked and what seemed normal to me.  It was therefore a revelation when I came to the UK and found that most mail should be delivered overnight.  And that you could be confident that it would arrive.

However, recently I had to send some important papers to South Africa and so I thought I had better use a courier, both for security and speed.  I will not say which courier, but the clue is in the title.

The pickup was ordered on Tuesday for Wednesday collection. 

The picture above is taken from the web site and shows that in two days the parcel has got as far as Heathrow Airport.  According to Google Maps, this is a journey of under 30 miles.  Google Maps also has a cute feature that estimates how long it would take to walk that distance.  Here's what they say

Yes, that's right: If the courier had walked it would take less than seven hours.

At this rate, I calculate the parcel will be delivered in a bit over a year. 

Consequently I feel a little aggrieved at being charged £45 for "courier delivery".

It takes me back to my childhood, where post was a "hit and miss" matter and I have to say I have noo feelings of nostalgia for this kind of service.

Don't Hurry, Love.

UPDATE

The bloggers code of ethics compels me to add the following update to this fast-moving story (and parcel).

As shown above, the parcel has now arrived in Cape Town.  This journey of about 6,000 miles, was apparently done in 3 hours, or approximately at an average speed of 2,000 mph.  That's 50% faster than Concorde.  I can only think that the courier company, in response to my original blog, purchased an SR-71 Blackbird to peform the delivery.

I am impressed!

Referendum Myths and Irrelevancies

I am annoyed at the pathetic levels to which both campaigns have stooped and - in something of a rush - I've picked out some of the worst arguments from both sides.  Anyone want to add to these?

FPTP is Fairer / AV is Fairer

An argument can be made for both systems on the basis of fairness.  FPTP does select the single most popular candidate.  AV does select the candidate that has the broadest appeal. 

What neither campaign is saying is that a lot of the time, AV and FPTP will select the same candidate:

•  When one candidate gets 50% + 1 vote on the first round
• When the leading candidate on the first round manages to get to 50% + 1 vote after votes have been redistributed in subsequent rounds.

I don’t know and I haven’t done the analysis, but I expect that most MPs elected at the last election under FPTP would have been elected under AV.

AV is complicated

Oh, it so is.  Especially if you struggled to get past junior school.  However, for anyone who manages something as simple as working out what to serve at a dinner party (“Stephen doesn’t like curry and Amy is lactose intolerant so let’s serve chicken and vegetables”) it’s a breeze.

Really.

The No Campaigners are Bullies

Life is hard.  Get over it.

AV is Expensive

First off, the No2AV campaign count the cost of the referendum itself: that's outright misleading.  Second, they make some big assumptions about the costs of AV.

AV probably will be a bit more expensive to run than FPTP.  But in terms of government expenditure, the amount is tiny: a fraction of 1% of the education budget, for example; a miniscule fraction of a fraction of 1% of the overall government budget.

Hardly Anyone Uses AV

A challenging point for two reasons.

Firstly, if we are to look at which is the most popular system of government in the world today, we’d probably come up with repressive dictatorships.

Second, one of the few governments using AV is Australia and their economy is doing very well, thank you.  If that’s what AV delivers, I’ll have it now, please.

Under AV, MPs will have to work harder

Oh yes, this is a lovely one to play to the angry voters after last year’s scandal.  Unfortunately, it’s not true.  There would still be plenty of safe seats (although some of them would change hands).  More importantly, there would still be plenty of hard working MPs.  My own MP has one of the safest seats in the land and yet remains immensely hard-working and never complacent.

…

That’s said, how will I be voting?

I’m not 100% set one way or the other.  However, I am leaning towards AV: it seems to me that  a system designed to get the approval of the broadest number of voters has a lot to recommend it.

Boxing clever

Today I feature a guest post by a friend of mine, David Burke.
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In Praise of Stand-Alone Post Boxes

There is a Western European nation that suffers long, damp, moderately cold winters. To reduce energy use, it builds new houses with double glazing, walls, roofs and floors with high insulation levels and requires high performance gas boilers. Grants are available to upgrade existing houses. In some cases external doors are insulated. 

This same nation, having done all it can to reduce the carbon footprint of the house, then permits a hole of about 50mm by 300mm to be cut in the external door. This hole is usually fitted with a metal draught flap (sometimes a poor performer) which, after occupation, is often held open, sometimes all day thus obviating much of the benefit of all that energy saving construction. 

The Western European nation is, of course us and as you will have guessed I'm talking about the letter box. The letter box as we know it, is a bit of a villain really. Not only does it lose energy when the flap is held open all day with letters, but it requires the postman walk all way from the road to the house to make a delivery, it's often in an awkward position requiring the deliverer to perform minor gymnastics and once found it can have a nasty bite, scraping hands and fingers. And that is without taking account of the dog behind the door!  And, of course it provides a welcome starting point for the burglar. So why do we do this? Is the no other way of dealing with the household delivery of letters and papers?  

Well, I have no answer as to why we do it, except perhaps that we have always done it.  But there is a way to over come the problems presented by our little friend, the letter box. 

In Australia no front door has a hole cut in it. Or in New Zealand. I don't think that they do it in the USA either (to name but a few). Instead, they provide a letter box at the road side. Sometimes lockable, sometimes not.

The benefits include :-

1. Reduced energy loss
2. Reduced price for the door
3. Reduced carbon for postal delivery as times are reduced and they can often be be done by bicycle
4. Improved efficiency for Post Office as productivity will rise.
5. Improved security
6. Improved convenience as deliverers will have easy and simple access to the delivery point.
7. Reduction in the minor injuries that badly placed and awkwardly designed letter boxes cause.

Set against this are two things: the cost of providing an external box, although this will be partly  offset by the savings to the door, and our cultural wish to have our post delivered to our front door.

If you don't want to do a something then you will always be able to show it can't be done, however I think that the benefits to the nation, of providing kerb edge post boxes far outweighs any initial cost. And the culture? Well how long ago was it when the dustman went round to the back of your house to collect your dustbin? And what happens now?

Finally, the photos (from Australia) show post being delivered by a man on a Honda moped, as well as various post box designs one showing the savings for the post man of not having to walk the length of a huge drive to deliver a letter.      

So there are health and safety advantages, there are energy saving benefits, and there are convenience benefits. Even in these straitened times these seem good enough reasons to me to promote a change in the building regulations.  And, of course, the postal service benefits although I'm not sure that you can make a building regulation for that!

D. J Burke FRICS (Rtd) 

50p to set us free

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Just a year ago Mervyn King was expecting inflation to drop back to its 2% target. Instead it’s well north of 5%. Petrol prices are up. The economy is stagnant. While the press and BBC have daily stories about “cuts”, no one talks about the fact that, even with these cuts, government debt continues to pile up and will do so throughout this Parliament.

It’s time to make the one cut needed to kick start the economy. This isn’t the cut of red tape, although that is desperately needed.

It’s time to take 50p off the price of fuel.

Doubtless civil servants at the Treasury will explain this is unaffordable. The opposite is true.

Lower fuel prices will help everyone: the worker paying a lower bus fare, the business on the edge of bankruptcy facing lower costs, the price of practically anything bought on the high street.

By helping the economy, it will lower government payments to the unemployed; it will increase profitability and tax revenues; it will create employment and consequently generate income tax and NI payments; it will help squeezed councils cover the costs of bin collections; it will help rural workers afford travel to their jobs.

It will drive down inflation so that those in poverty are less hard-pressed; those in the middle class will be able to spend more (or pay off debts faster); those looking for bank loans will be better able to justify them.

It will make the UK a better place to do business and make existing UK businesses more competitive overseas.

It’s win-win-win-win-win.

Can the Treasury see it? Write to your MP and tell him to pass on the message:

“Take 50p off fuel and set our economy free”