Saturday, July 26, 2008

[saturday caption] add your comments

[the unexpected] never at a convenient time

Qatar interior from Wiki


I'm sorry to go on about yesterday's issue of the Qantas flight, when it has been blanket covered by the media but it still really chills me:

"Seeing the hole caused a lot of emotion. People were physically shaking. Many realised how close they were to their own mortality."

It's not just that I've done that run many times and with various incidents - it's something more.

I was once onboard when the flight took off on the second leg to Australia and they told us that a red light was flashing and they were returning to the airport. That delayed us and it turned out to be nothing.

Another was when we were about to take off [from Bangkok this time] and they then decanted us from the plane, all baggage was removed and placed in a large circle and passengers were asked to identify their baggage, open it and await inspection.

Yet another time, we were in the air and I was nervous for some reason. I told the stewardess [sounds really weak, this] about the feeling and she took me up to the cockpit where the flight engineer told me this was the flight which had indeed fallen 15 000 feet on it's last run to Australia from this airport. He explained that the autopilot worked on wave patterns in the air but sometimes these acted irregularly and the plane took some time to pick up on it. No one had been hurt.

More broadly, I was on a BA flight to Heathrow in 2000 and all was normal until we approached Heathrow. Suddenly we dropped 10 000 feet in a few seconds, the airbrakes outside the window shuddering but all the way down it had seemed a controlled drop and hardly anyone was badly affected.

The pilot had been told by aircraft control to immediately be at a different level and now he was told to loop round until a gate was found. What exacerbated it was when he came onto the intercom and said that if we cared to look out of the starboard window, we'd see another plane but not to worry. He'd also been asked to circle round London until a gate became available.

In April-May, getting away from aircraft for awhile, I was doing the usual routine, snug and secure in Russia, then found myself in Sicily in a whirlwind conjunction of events. I have to tell you that that was interesting but a bit jangly on the nerves. It's now possibly arising again in August, possibly not. It's up in the air [sorry for the excruciating pun].

Mortality - how things suddenly drop out.

How to prepare? You can't, simply can't. You just have to meet it as it comes. Promise not to get religious here but it definitely helps a hell of a lot to have some sort of faith as a way through. Also, I suspect all your pigeons come home to roost now too - as you've acted yourself, so it comes back on you now.

It might have just been an incident on a Qantas flight to Australia but it had me thinking very deeply about everything. Don't laugh but yesterday I was in the caffe sipping a coffee and watched them opening the bar in the roundabout between the caffe and the church. I saw the church door open and though I'm not Catholic, I went in there for a while.

Perhaps time to end this before it turns maudlin.

Friday, July 25, 2008

[flight] amazing how these things stay up there

Think they were pretty lucky but the procedures were obviously good.

[flying dutchman] on and on and on


Thinking about this lately:

The Flying Dutchman is a legendary ghost ship that is cursed to sail the seas for eternity. It is often said to have a ghostly glow, and like many other supernatural entities throughout folklore, it is said to herald danger or doom for those who see it.

Quite a few sightings of the Flying Dutchman have been reported throughout history, and stories about the ghost ship's origins abound. Many versions of the Flying Dutchman story set the scene of the ship's loss at the Cape of Good Hope, the Southern tip of Africa.
Nautical version of the Wandering Jew perhaps.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

[your cash] in a shoebox in your cupboard

From the Asia Times:

Since a major effect of inflation is psychological, the fact that inflationary pressure has decisively moved back into the 1970s range is important.

At 5% per annum, inflation cannot be ignored. Investors cannot buy fixed-income securities without taking account of the fact that the principal of those securities will have devalued by more than half by the time they are repaid (if they are of 15 years or longer maturity.)

The combination of inflation and un-indexed income and capital gains taxes rapidly raises the tax rate on capital returns to an extremely high level, depressing still further the incentive to save.


For the layperson, this last seems the key to me - the disincentive to save. So in the light of this, what to make of Sackerson's post today, suggesting, via Mish:

The entire US banking system is insolvent.
In Russia there is a long tradition of keeping the money in a shoebox in the top cupboard, keeping it in hard currency and never trusting anyone's exhortations to part with it.

Griselda Writes ... Advice for the Lovelorn


Griselda Haveschott is the lady from Lower Titcup who opened her account as a guest blogger yesterday. You might recall her version of Stargazy Pie. True to her word, she's this day sent in part of her popular "advice for the lovelorn" column which she writes for the Greater Titcup Echo. She assures me that the two letters from the public below are as genuine as genuine can be.

Hello readers of James' blog, Griselda again with my July 22nd advice column in the GTE. James felt it might assist his readers with their personal problems as well:

Dear Griselda,

Please can you help me? Until a few weeks ago I thought I’d found Mr Right at last. This man is charismatic, witty, handsome and a wonderful lover. He brings me flowers and buys me expensive jewellery.

The thing is, though, that he won’t tell me where he lives or works and he won’t let me have his phone number – not even his mobile. He always leaves my flat before midnight and is never able to spend a bank holiday with me.

When he takes me out he makes me wear dark glasses, a high-collared Burberry and a headscarf tied just like the Queen ties hers. That’s not even fashionable, is it? And he says he has to keep his trenchcoat on and his trilby pulled down over his eyes everywhere he goes. I am beginning to think that we might look a little strange on Weston-super-Mare Pier in summer.

Do you think there could be a slight problem?

Mandy Eastborough
Love Lane

Well Mandy dear, we go back a long way, don't we and I know your thoughts on fashion. With the circle Her Majesty moves in, the Balmoral headgear is quite appropriate and you know there is still a vestige of loyalism in this country which likes to follow its monarch’s lead.

Now about your little problem. Are you talking about last Friday week when Brian came into the Brahms and Liszt with Jenny and while she went into the snug he was making eyes at you? Jenny tells me there was absolutely nothing in that, you know. No, I think perhaps you’re referring to another gentleman altogether and yes, there may well be a little problem there. Might I suggest you don your Queenly garb one more time, pop round to 51 Naseby Rd about 9.30 Saturday morning and have a quick peek?

Dear Griselda

Recently my wife and I gave a dinner party for eight at our new Tudor style near the north end of Rutting Forest. We'd toiled pretty much all day to produce the goods, only to have it ruined when one of the guests, who shall remain nameless, straight after the consomme, went out to his Beema for a CD which he then calmly came back and inserted in our player ... our player, mind ... after first switching off OUR background music, grunting, "Can't stand bloody Bon Jovi". Well, really!

What precisely is the etiquette regarding guests bringing music to get-togethers?

[Name withheld for fear of reprisals]

Ladies and gentlemen, Griselda now throws this one open to the readers for your thoughts on the matter. Should guests bring their own music, are we all being just a little oversensitive these days, could we not put up with our hosts' choice just for a couple of hours? Your responses gladly received.


Finally, two thoughts to leave you with, as I always do at the GTE:


Make sure you know where the main stopcock is in the house, that it is in working order and that everyone living in the house knows where it is. I pinched this from Woman's Realm: Tips and Wrinkles [Pan, 1972].


Also, I saw this in visiting some of James' blogfriends: Never trust a man with a beard.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

A guide to the Yorkshire Dales - the jewel in the crown of Northern England

John Hirst reflects on the Yorkshire Dales:

A guide to the Yorkshire Dales - the jewel in the crown of Northern England

"The Yorkshire Dales is a region in the county of North Yorkshire in England. The Yorkshire Dales contains some of the most spectacular scenery on (and under) God's own Earth. Once you have set foot in a Yorkshire Dale, you will be touched with a magic that will stay with you all your life, as any local will tell you".

"Welcome to
digital Malham ...

On these pages you will find information on the areas of outstanding natural beauty which surround the Yorkshire Dales village of Malham.

We encourage you to take some time out and discover some of the geological treasures that lie within
".

Malham Tarn






Malam Cove







Janet's Foss

"Foss is the old norse word for a waterfall or force and Janet (or Jennet) was belived to be the queen of the local fairies who lives behind the the fall in a cave".





Gordale Scar

"To the north of the Mid Craven Fault in the Malham Formation is Gordale Scar, which was carved as a meltwater channel beneath the Devensian ice-sheet. The sides of this gorge overhang to a considerable extent, suggesting that there was once a great cavern, the roof of which has subsequently collapsed".



Stargazy Pie and how to improvise


Today, Nourishing Obscurity has a scoop.

Griselda Haveshott is a lady I met on my last trek through the west country of England in Lower Titcup, not all that far from Warminster at the local watering hole. When she told me she was the editor for practically everything at the evening newspaper, I just had to get her to guest post on this blog.

She took some persuading but here’s her first piece below without comment. Welcome, Griselda.



James has been corresponding with me for some time, I’m not sure why, and he asked me some time back to do a guest post on his blog. Well I don’t know but I said I’d give it a try if he’d edit it like so I wouldn’t look a complete twat. I write for the Greater Titcup Echo, the evening paper in Lower Titcup, down here in the west country and there’s hardly any time for my own writing, what with being the fashion editor, cricket correspondent and personal advice columnist, let alone Graeme Pollard, that’s my editor-in-chief, giving me the food and wine column as well now that Enid Barnes has left to have a baby and the twin boys are doing fine except for a slight bronchial complication with Justin, the younger by a half-head.

When I asked James what he wanted me to write on, he suggested women’s issues but I’m not the woman’s editor, that’s Bridget Proops, sister-in-law of the well-known Geraldine Proops, wife of Sir Raymond Proops the local squire round these parts although he’s sold off most of the manor and they’ve just kept up the Foss Hill house (we call it the Big House), overlooking Balsall Bridge over the Isk River. Actually, it’s just a stream really before it joins the Aster further down towards the lock but it’s quite pretty you know, the view from Squire Proops’s hill like.

I suppose the best way to open my account (my cricket writing shows out here) is to give you the recipe for Stargazy Pie. I’ve been accused by mean-spirited people of pilfering this from Jane Grigson’s Observer book of British cookery but it’s not, it’s mine, well some adjustments are mine anyway. And I never took nothing from Mrs. Beeton who’s not so pure herself when it comes to pinching ideas, is she?




Stargazy Pie

Roll out pastry for double crust pie plate. Cover the plate, brush the rim with water and roll out another piece for the lid. Keep it aside. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees C or 400 degrees F.

Clean and bone the fish …

NB: Anyone who knows the west country knows that pilchards went out long ago and now all you get is mackerel so clearly you have to compromise here. I suggest pigeons. Yes, I know, I know. You can’t get squabs anymore so the best bet is the readily available wood pigeon. Not as tasty but there you are.

Here we need to go to Mrs. Beeton (Ward Lock edition) who say lop off the heads of a brace of pigeons, cut each of ’em into four and lie ’em on their bed of gore (no, that’s Wallace, i’n it?). Well, all right. Let’s do the chopped bacon and hard-boiled eggs. Well actually, you need to lay the pigeon bits down first, making sure the heads are sticking off the edge of the plate, gazing up at the stars, I expect this dish has to be prepared at night or at the very least, mid-evening.

Push the mix in between the pigeon bits, put the pastry lid over the top, pushing it down to the pastry below so that it forms a wavy effect as if it’s all at sea, this dish like. Did I mention you have to do a pastry base first? Brush with beaten egg and bake for 30 minutes, though as it’s pigeons like well you have to give ’em 15 minutes extra at a reduced heat.

Serve with a jug of Malmsey wine. If James will have me here again, I’ll be back in a few days with advice for the lovelorn: you should see the hanky panky down our way, what with Joe Kelly and Anita Proops the younger (she’s one of the Proops, you know) but that’s a story for another day.

James, how did I go first time? I wanted to put in a photo of the quartered pigeons you know but I suppose you know best and all the pictures are from Wikipedia like.



Didn't have a photo of the pie with the heads sticking out so had to follow this idea and have a porcelain head sticking out of the middle of the pie.

Crossposted at Griselda's new site.

[gore's spin] doesn't alter the phenomenon though


Tom Paine has posted this:

Al Gore is the 21st Century's Karl Marx. His influential presentation of pseudo-scientific gobbledegook and its adoption as gospel truth by the gullible masses (of intellectuals) will kill millions of the real masses and ensure that hundreds of millions more live their whole lives in unnecessary poverty because of arrested economic development.

His ideas justify ruthless centralisation of state power on "humanitarian" grounds and are therefore irresistibly attractive to politicians of a certain ilk, who will live high on the hog behind closed doors while their subject peoples suffer and die. Stupid mug punters will fall for the spiel because it's "for a better future." It will all collapse in chaos, with only Guardian journalists and British academics still believing in it when the scales have fallen from everyone else's eyes. The parallel is exact.
Yes Tom, no argument there. The climate change issue is being used to centralize power on humanitarian grounds. Unfortunately it doesn't alter the basic phenomenon itself, which I've posted on many times. There is firm evidence at least to counter head in the sand sceptics but the best evidence is to visit Russia or other northern area and see it for yourself. Moscow is too "city" to be taken as evidence.

The point is that it does exist but has been hijacked by the Gores for political purposes, one of those purposes, I feel being to discredit the whole phenomenon, which I see has happened in most of the sphere already.

It's more complex than categorical statements would have us believe.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

[adriano celentano] wild man of italian music

Adriano Celentano was, I believe, the first Italian popular singer I ever heard, long before I started studying Italian here or plagiarizing Welshcakes!

The youtube below is my favourite from the wild man of Italian pop who has attracted severe criticism over many decades for his outspoken views and antics, at the same time enjoying great adulation.



Una Rosa Pericolosa

Non provocarmi mai
non provocarmi mai
o scoppia la guerra tra noi
femminilità
son d'accordo ma
ma non marciarci sai
non distruggere
questo amore mai
è tutto ciò
che tu hai
quanti brividi dai
con quello sguardo provochi
Tu accendi i fiammiferi
che poi si spengono
e il buio ritorna
perché lo fai
ci son pericoli
che non si vedono
non sono evidenti
ti accorgi poi

Tu sei una cosa
pericolosa e preziosa
dipinta di rosa
che per il freddo non sboccia mai
nemici noi è un dolore sai
se giochi tu io non gioco più

I fuochi divampano
e accende il tuo fascino
non sai rinunciare e allora vai

Tu sei una cosa
pericolosa e preziosa
dipinta di rosa
che per il freddo non sboccia mai
nemici noi è un dolore sai
se giochi tu io non gioco più

I fuochi divampano
e accende il tuo fascino
non sai rinunciare e allora vai
oltre i limiti c'è l'ignoto sai
pensaci bene
o resti o vai
pensaci bene
o resti o vai
o resti o vai...

[velvet quiz] soft on your mind



1. The 1969 group, featuring Lou Reed and John Cale was the Velvet _____ .

2. The phenomenon whereby one is stuck in a well paid rut is known as the velvet _____ .

3. The story of the Brown girl who rides her horse to victory at the Grand National was known as _____ Velvet.

4. The art of velvet weaving probably originated in _____ .

5. Velvet's knitted counterpart is ___ .


Answers - highlight as usual:

underground, rut, national, kashmir, velour

[tennis, anyone?] tenth ball we've lost


Couldn't resist the above from Theo. Who'd be the ball boy?

Speaking of things ancient, which we weren't, Dick Madeley suggests that the:

Wormwood buttering rack, Edwardian rat-hair doormat, woodworm in French fluting and the set of wooden birthing stirrups ...
... are not necessarily an essential accompaniment to the modern bric a brac home, to which he adds:

I’m constantly amazed by the success of shows that get misty eyed over common-or-garden tat.
Well yes, Richard.

[silly season] bit of doggerel


With apologies:

Silly season, and blogging ain't easy
Fish are jumping, and our friends are high
We're far less than rich, and the news ain't worth looking
So hush dearest bloggers, don't you cry.

One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing
You're gonna spread your wings and take to the sky
But till that morning, there is nothing to blog on
With your readership already out on the fly

In a few days it's my blog birthday and it began in that season where the major bloggers who ordinarily run fiendish comment moderation and word verification now deign to remove them and actually make it easy for the poor reader.

It's the time when those who rely on the MSM for material reap a bitter harvest [mixing the seasons a little] and when the beach and other fine places are calling. What of the dogged blogger then - the day in-day out type who toils to attract the reader?

Here's a toast to you - to all blogfriends who perhaps lack the resources, perhaps lack the plans to visit exotic climes, who blog on and on into the starry summer night with the cicadas kicking up a din outside your window, with the humid wind buffeting their evening stroll to the pub or with those green and pleasant hills beckoning to be walked upon.

Here's to my fellow bloggers.

[top ten] political blogs to think over


Suppose the Top Ten UK Political Blogs would need to include Iain Dale, Devil's Kitchen, Mr Eugenides ... and then the thinking caps then go on as to who would fill the other spots.

Bloghounds' Donal, Steve and Andrew would be strong contenders for a start. What of our economics bloggers?

And will the Scots be allowed in?

Monday, July 21, 2008

[housekeeping] one day out

Looks like one of those paint by numbers pics but it is more likely real.


Major day in Real Life today so light blogging, hopefully later ... plus visiting.

For Bloghounders, can't process anything just now, sorry but other steering committee hopefully will.

Have a good Monday, readers.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

[day at the seaside] bloody hot

Marina di Modica

Not complaining, mind.

Following on from this morning’s post, arrived home and we’d been invited to the beach for the day. This might sound like a wonderful thing but not:


1. if one’s chest is as white as an old man’s flanks;

2. if one needs to be within range of certain facilities, at this decrepit age;

3. with the temperature rising into the high thirties;

4. if it’s envisaged by our deeply tanned hosts that we’ll lie around like lobsters for a few hours on a rocky outcrop near the end of the beach.

Blowhole at the Marina di Modica

We went down to Marina di Modica and it wasn’t half bad. The sea breeze caressed us, the sailboats were out, the base of a large umbrella was stuck down a rock crevice and provided moderate shade and it didn’t feel as hot as it was.

Actually, it was a shortish time, during which I saw an old brick factory from a century ago with blowholes below it which had been used for pumped water way back when, the area where the turtles lay their eggs in season, heard the story of the landowner – the last of the aristocracy – who sometimes loses so badly at cards that he sells off tracts of land which then become developed into villages and other good things and so on and so on.

We also saw the open air theatre which was originally intended as a swimming pool but because certain measurements went awry, they decided to turn it to its current purpose instead.

The place is where the locals go and there are practically no tourists, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, when the area was finally opened up thirty years ago, Modican families built holiday homes down there and very soon the kilometre or so inland was filled up with them.

This in turn meant that large scale western development was not really possible, foreign capital, in recompense, allowed to develop areas left and right of Marina di Modica.

Another reason was that the authorities have specific foreshore bylaws which preclude such development. For example, any dwelling along the coast is not allowed to be altered in style in any way – in other words, no modern renovations.

A third reason is the lack of reliable public transport to the beach area, making it a cars only affair.


View from the balcony of the holiday house. The split level is the thing here which gives a striking effect - that and the peach and pink coloured concrete.

So anyway, it was back to our hosts’ seaside house for an extended lunch after Welshcakes' leaping around the rocks like a gazelle but the Higham pegged out after that and was soon fast asleep on a recliner on a balcony shaded by a canvas awning and umbrella.

Next thing I knew, we were on the scenic route back to Modica where Welshcakes mercilessly, with cocktail sticks, punctured a chicken she’d rolled and stuffed and another sumptuous repast is sitting in the pan ready to be deep ovened as I write and sip.

How was your Sunday?

I liked the light and shade here - the neighbour's staircase providing shade for us and our balcony providing shade for the people below

[sunday olive tree blogging] the not so ordinary life


The church bells are currently chiming across the valley, all 100 of them, calling the faithful to prayer [or is that the terminology of another religion?], I'm about to head down the shady road for a coffee and croissant, to read La Sicilia in its dead wood manifestation and Sunday has begun.

Yesterday we went down to Consorzio again and the sun was fierce along the way. It's got now so that it's too hot by about 9 a.m. and it doesn't let up until about 8.30 p.m. - "let up" meaning that the shutters can once again be thrown open across the town.

We divided responsibilities yesterday, Welshcakes and I - she would concentrate on the food photography and I'd do more of the cafe itself. We'd both commented immediately on reaching our "under the olive branch" haven that the variegated light looked almost surreal on the tablecloths. Welshcakes qualified that by saying it was more impressionist than surreal and she may well have been right.

Click on the pics and see what you think.

That white linen table cloth and napkins, the scrumptious "pranza" or repast, the service, the Moretti beer and the trees and shrubs themselves, let alone the garden furniture - all conspired to let the previous hellish week's troubles ebb away. It was in no way hot under that tree - perhaps it was warmish.

On the way back up the series of tracks and roads leading up the hill, leading to our hillside retreat, it was bloody hot. One thing which impresses here is that they can take what are virtually concrete boxes with holes in them as houses, add some balconies and walkways between buildings, set the boxes at varying angles to each other and paint them in light shades of apricot and peach and the result is the picture postcard stuff you see on good stands.

If there had been sea, you could be sure it would have been azure.

To cap off the effect, they make much use of foliage of the thicker, overhanging kind, many planter boxes and pot plants and the result is pleasing to the eye. When I mentioned to Welsh that the steep hill simply adds to the overall effect, I did not receive the glance of agreement I'd hoped for.

So, down that path again this morning and may your morning be one of great relaxation and pleasure, free of life's vicissitudes - if only for some hours.