Anyone know this weirdo?

Eighty-five quid spent on five series of The Wire was a wonderful investment. Great three-dimensional scripts, if not for the faint-hearted. Plus a revelation that computers can be used by non-experts for Identikit work.

But how good are we at describing – even remembering – faces? Right now I’m trying to remember my own. As a conceit I say it’s gaunt but that’s vanity. Lengthy, cylindrical and lugubrious are better.

The ears were taped flat to my head when I was a baby. This has streamlined me for swimming but the ears don’t work well as sound collectors. Bags under-identify those hanging gardens beneath my hazel (Hard to live with that adjective at school) eyes. A long forgotten author, John Lodwick, used “cement sacks” in painting a debauched character’s face and that phrase does the job.

My hair went grey in my twenties but it stayed put. It’s now white and is deliberately left uncombed to cultivate the hand-on-the-tiller/spume-in-the-face look. It is merely untidy. The mouth? Here objectivity begins to fail. The lower lip has links with that of Oscar Wilde. It could be described – by someone without my interests at heart – as that of a sensualist. From the West Riding?

Let’s finish upbeat. The nose is a success. Straight, incisive, right off the face of John Neville. Women have praised it, though possibly in default of anything else. Have you got all that? Combine the details, create a sketch and I’ll publish the one that comes closest.
Note. No help from the inset. I chose it because of its inappropriate name – Dudeman.

Worth the warmth. Or perhaps not

Been baby-sitting our daughter’s Cairn. A difficult time.

The dog fidgets. Is it thirsty? Does it want to go outside pour faire le pi-pi? Or does it merely want to dump its sense of unease on us?

Going walkies requires a plastic supermarket bag leading to the unspeakable detection of warmth as one fulfills one’s obligations as a good citizen. But this is a story with a happy ending.

It became obvious that the dog (It’s a bitch actually but that word carries semantic risks) needed to be corralled briefly in the kitchen where the tiled floor would provide a more hygienic alternative to the carpets elsewhere. But the kitchen door hasn’t closed properly for ten years and the dog could bounce it open. So I took the door off its hinges, placed it on trestles in the garage, sawed 4 mm off the bottom edge and re-installed it. And now neither of us can get over the sheer pleasure of simply shutting that door.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART
Eclogue 1. Easy writing, hard reading (Not mine, alas)
Example: Emotion should be implied, never described. As in Hemingway’s wonderful short story: “Baby shoes for sale. Never used.”
Note 1. All my novels remain unpublished.
Note 2. I sort of have Lucy’s (implicit) permission to stop apologising for the misuse of “eclogue”.

Blériot was even worse, I suppose

It took three holidays in New Zealand before we learned the best way of enduring the journey (ie, by over-nighting in a Kuala Lumpur hotel with a swimming pool). The other two were nightmares: squeezed into a Japanese Airlines quasi-coffin with a l½-hr stop in Tokyo, and a “wrong way” option via San Francisco which involved an interminable Auckland – Chicago return leg landing in a blizzard.

Even so these were improvements on my first flight – Heathrow to Singapore, February 1956 - travelling to RAF Seletar to practice my newly acquired radio-repairing skills.

The propellor plane (type forgotten) flew slowly at 9500 ft. That microlight altitude exposed us to eight hours of heavy turbulence over mainland Europe until we landed thankfully at Rome. Ninety minutes later, after a fried-egg breakfast, we left for Cyprus for another egg, deep-fried in oil and eaten at about 3 am. Again we were back in the plane within two hours to land at 120 deg F Bahrein. Guess what we had for breakfast.

Another eight-hour flight saw us in Karachi and an overnight stop. Landing next day in Delhi I dimly perceived what I took to be the Himalayas. A quick eggless meal and we were en route for Calcutta where there were four or five hours to kill, but in the late afternoon. In Bangkok I saw an air hostess wearing a cheongsam. Very shortly after arriving at Singapore I went down with an exhilarating attack of the runs. Jumbos do have their advantages.

Beware the electro-mechanicals

Imagine a DIY job you’ve never tackled before. Most of us would botch it, saying we’d do better next time. But some get it right from scratch – always! A very special talent.

My friend Richard figured in earlier posts and had that talent. So has Graham whom I interviewed this weekend for the local website. It was Graham’s second time under the website’s scrutiny: first for his remarkable skills as a taxidermist, now as a juke box restorer. During the day he services domestic appliances.

RAF national service taught me to distrust electro-mechanicals; in any electrical system they tend to be the weak spot and are often fiendish to repair. Juke boxes, especially those made during the Silver Period prior to 1965, are almost wholly electro-mechanical. Not only the arms that pick out the 78 or 45 rpm records but even the systems that convey the choice of record provided by the push-button.

Graham faced such a moment when renovating a 1957 AMI Model H. In brief when he chose Elvis the ‘box played Bill Haley. These days a quick twiddle with the electronics would sort things. But this AMI had been repaired with parts cannibalised from elsewhere and a spinning disc which selected the correct solenoid from a circle of sixty consistently betrayed the punter. Needless to say Graham worked it out. I’d like to say it would have taken me much longer but I’d never have dared take the back off the thing in the first place.

Interment "at today's prices"

“Pre-arranging your funeral means peace of mind…” Post-arranging it may be tricky, I suppose.

I can’t really justify this post other than to say language is a first step in communications and comms is regularly dealt with here. A weasel argument, I fear.

The quote comes from RIAS (Insurance for the over-fifties) who recently went the extra step by linking up with Dignity (Caring funeral services). Note, uncaring funeral services turn you into a hotpot under the cover of darkness. RIAS guarantees my funeral “at today’s prices” but recognises it’s never easy bringing up the subject of funeral planning. “So if this letter has arrived at an inappropriate time” ( Whoops! The corpse is on trestles in the parlour.) I’m to accept their apologies.

The offer will save me woe since “many funerals do not proceed as the deceased would have wished”. But what about the wishes of the living? Are RIAS and Dignity going to prevent them from getting smashed out of their minds or are they aware this is what I may have planned? For the record (I repeat a disclosure I made to Lucy who will think I’m getting obsessional on the subject), the coffin will be cardboard, the Humanist eulogy will be written by me to ensure correct punctuation, the music will include the trio from Cosi, the list song from Don Giovanni and Kodachrome by the guy what wrote it. To drink: real burgundy (Imagine RIAS’s premium!). To eat: Glasgow mutton pies. Those with good memories may recite prose and/or poetry.

What’s more to pre-arrange?

You are old, Father Bonden

I’ve used Word for Windows and/or MsW for a dozen years now, aware that I’ve only scratched the surface of its vast collection of functions. Where I’ve needed to I’ve (reluctantly) taught myself new tricks. As now.

The MS I’ve been editing for two years (a biography) needs converting into book-page format – chapter titles, page numbers, justified text, etc. Word can do this but you must first learn what keys to press and then remember what you’ve learned. I confess page numbering defeated me and I had to call for more skilled help. I was impressed to find that giving chapter headings a style code causes them to appear as page headers.

The problem – as ever – is that complex software needs regular usage to prevent it from lapsing into a set of forgotten rules. When I was still employed Quark Express was the lingua franca of publishing and even the slowest amongst us eventually picked up this demanding DTP package. The contrast came after retirement when I had to teach myself Dreamweaver in order to create the community website I edit. Dreamweaver is based on HTML which, despite Julia’s kind explanation, always seemed like ten steps backwards and I struggled with it. Even now when I return to the website I need a ten-minute tutorial to remind myself about such things as “named anchors”.

Perhaps septuagenarians exploring software represents hubris in its latest form. We should know our place and lie a’bed reading Trollope.

A rare plus for capitalism

On May 19 2005 I bought a Navman satnav (left) that could be transferred between cars. On January 5 this year, as a belated Christmas present, my wife bought me a similar device by TomTom (right). There’ve been major changes in the technology during the forty-four months between purchases.

Price. Since I wanted mainland European mapping I paid through the nose for the Navman: £691.86. The TomTom has this feature and cost £117.47 or 5.88 times cheaper.

Weight. The lighter the device the easier it is to install securely in the car. The Navman weighs 0.49 kg, the TomTom 0.27 kg.

Operating simplicity. The Navman has a four-way joystick button, two increase/decrease buttons and four other conventional buttons, several of them dual-function depending on the menu. The TomTom is accessed via six icons on a touch-screen.

Display simplicity. The full range of travelling info on the Navman requires the selection of six separate “pages”. Virtually all this appears on the main TomTom page.

Locking on to satellites. The Navman sometimes takes minutes; with the TomTom say three or four seconds.

Speed camera warning. Navman, no; TomTom, yes.

Strange lapse. Under Points of Interest (Places of worship) TomTom would have me believe Hereford lacks a cathedral. This may or may not be the case with the Navman POI system but its complexity has prevented me from finding out.

Spending money to save money

On the pavement (US: sidewalk) this morning there’s an unmistakable shape at my feet: the truncated L of an Allen key. It triggers memories of reassembling Ikea knocked-down furniture, especially to furnish the house in France. I’ll withold the joky stories this topic usually engenders in what Damon Runyon used to call “the blatts”.

I’m struck by the techno-financial equation it represents. Allen-headed screws are I suspect more expensive than conventional slotted and/or cross-head screws, and Ikea is renowned for its parsimony. Yet opting for this design allows flush fixings which aren’t visually disagreeable together with the provision of the cheapest of all screwdrivers – so cheap, in fact, it can be regarded as a disposable. But which does the job perfectly.

I once visited an Ikea warehouse in the midst of rural Sweden. The blue and yellow that seem so garish in this country blended rather better with the conifers and silver birches. But then they are the national colours.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART
Eclogue 77. Semi-colon pundits should be required to prove the point.
Example: In 1957 I bought my first car; until then I’d ridden bikes. (Using a full stop would turn the two short sentences into telegrams – remember those?)

Note: Virgil wrote eclogues, or pastoral poems. It must be clear I’m not seeking to compete.

Flaming torches even better

The Daily Express which resembles The Daily Mail but without the necessary hormone treatment has launched a campaign in defence of the incandescent light bulb. In insisting our living-rooms should be lit the same way granny’s was, it snits the government for promoting low-energy bulbs.

Injudiciously the paper quotes technical rather than sentimental reasons, all three of which are wrong. Even incompatibility with dimmer switches has been resolved.

This is said to be little-c conservatism. Were tears shed when outdoor lavs were brought indoors and hundreds of night-soil men were put out of business? Is there always someone who regrets change, however beneficial? Certainly there was when capital punishment was halted. In fact much of that regret is still sharp and ripe.

Such tendencies must make growing older even more of a penance.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART

(a) Semi-colon or comma? (b) Semi-colon or full stop?
Eclogues 76a and 76b. (a) Not an option; the comma divides linked items while the semi-colon separates ideas/concepts. (b) For me the judgement is aesthetic since you could, at a pinch, use either. Choosing depends on rhythm and assonance as much as on sense. Do you prefer two complete sentences, or a longer, subtly linked one? Listen to your ear and/or your noggin
Note 1. My formal instruction in English ended when I was 15.
Note 2. I have raised this thorny subject in response to a request from Relucent Reader to whom I owe a debt of gratitude.

Note 3. Eclogue. Wrong again.

Greed: it has powerful after-effects

Those affected by the financial crisis may be divided into three: those who brought it on themselves (banks, financial experts, tax dodgers and lazy-minded manufacturers), ordinary folk advised by experts and who got reamed (the majority of us) and those who did everything possible to avoid the situation (yet still got reamed). A word of sympathy for the latter group.

While I was still working my magazine carried a story researched by my assistant editor about Nissan’s UK operation. How different it seemed from so many British enterprises. A new factory with a parent prepared to accept losses for a decade, huge and continuing investment in technology and systems, management based on weekly if not daily consultation with the workforce, a reward for anyone whose suggestion helped improve efficiency, training that meant something and involvement in the local community.

Yesterday, Nissan UK laid off a quarter of its workforce. I’m gutted for all those who have suffered but as an observer of industry I’m particularly heart-slufted (a special angoisse experienced only in the West Riding) by this one. It’s enough for me to consider – at least for a nano-second – the possibility of compensation in an after-life.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART

Eclogue 27e. Distrust adjectives, adverbs, related phrases and excess.
Before: “Please, please,” she said in a voice that carried a note of entreaty, “reconsider your reckless driving and pull into that safe layby.”
After: “Stop!” she implored.
Note: Eclogue still misused.

Applaud the unapplauded

Those who understand the internet and who pass on knowledge are rarely thanked. Instead, their inarticulacy is derided, their whey faces laughed at and they are accused of lacking a life away from the screen. Rarely does anyone mention their altruism.

I am presently setting up a second blog in French. Seemed easy enough until I discovered the new is joined at the hip to the old. Translate the profile in one and it appears in French in the other. Blogger Help says true separation requires an additional email account. But Blogger Group Help – an impromptu service provided by those with the knowhow and, it seems, lots of spare time – has shown me a way of bamboozling setpiece Blogger so I can be a former editor in one and un ancien rédacteur-en-chef in the other.

Not perfect, but a step forward. More fiddling necessary at the ISP end. But it’s those volunteers, hanging around in space, waiting for idiots to call in who fascinate me. When I used a similar service for website designers the raggedy advice I received was forgivable given that it came from the Ukraine. While a tricky DIY problem involving a router invoked the cadences of a Brit used to talking about “two-bi-fours” and “three-inch slaps”.

But who are these people who advise the unadvised? I know little about the internet and what I do know I hold close to my chest. I assist others only where it suits my need for self-aggrandisement. Luckily the virtuals put me to shame. A small prayer should be composed to celebrate the pro-bonos out there.

The cheapest of thrills

I’ve got to get this right: the difference between “sensuous” and “sensual”. But checking the dictionary leaves me lost in nuances. As before I must leave this up to my better-educated wider family out there.

But sensuous/sensual are words that find application when using this type of vegetable peeler, especially with carrots. The key lies in the pivoting blade which effortlessly follows the contours, delivering gossamer peelings. And although carrots provide its ultimate tactile experience the practical benefits are best felt with the most awkwardly shaped potato. A sense of gliding, of frictionless contact – and all for less than a quid.

There’s even a small cup-shaped whotsit which digs out potato eyes. Hey, in a world in which most pleasures will soon be beyond our pocket, it makes sense to take gratification where we can.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART
Eclogue 50c. Don’t discard clichés entirely. But always tweak

Example: Having drunk three bottles of Banrock Station, been rejected by my girl-friend and woken up in Victoria bus station, I was – you might say – quite under the moon. Much better example (by a master): Though not disgruntled he was some way from being gruntled. (P.G. Wodehouse)

Note: Yes I know, I’m misusing eclogue.

Trafalgar in reverse

My New Year’s resolution is to use the Net as a source of self-humiliation. How? By issuing comments to French blogs and enduring the subsequent corrections.

First I needed something suitable on which to impale myself. I went to Google’s “Preferences”, switched languages and searched Les blogs francais. Didn’t work for reasons too tedious to mention. Ditched that and tried Les bloggeurs qui voudraient partager (share) leur langue avec un Rosbif. Too long, of course, but it did at least reveal people rather than organisations. Alas, all were ultra-lefties (ie, unreconstructed Maoists) who wanted to discuss politics from a socio-philosophical viewpoint.

So I narrowed it down to the Languedoc, where we spent our last two summer holidays and where we’ve booked for June this year. After sorting through hundreds of thinly disguised publicists for the wines of that region I finally found a spirited lady of 77 who read Jean-Louis Fournier’s last novel with “a tightened throat and a heart full of tears” and who offered for inspection her last poem (“This sky so soft, pale and nacreous, This tranquil winter sky…”). Fine, add her to Favourites.

Then a group of young satirists running a cod poll as to the most appropriate recipient of their Golden Sausage of Political Impertinence. Inevitably a certain M. Sarkozy was leading the field.

But of course the first step is to-do-as-I-would-be-done-by. Hence the new blog. One point: since I share my pseudonym with a fictional Royal Naval bosun who spent the Napoleonic Wars kicking French butt, I felt the need for a less rebarbative flag of convenience.

What industry can get up to

It’s a hand pallet truck (actually, only a model). Slide the forks into the slots of a pallet on the floor, work the pump to raise the forks a couple of centimetres and one person can easily move a one-ton load.

But how do you paint such an awkward shape? Passing it through a paint bath is a no-no. The paint would clog up the raisable undercarriage and the hydraulic pump. Here’s how in a state-of-the-art Swedish factory twenty or thirty years ago.

A skilled sentient being does the job with a paint gun. Attached to the gun is a cassette recorder capable of tracking the gun’s movements. The cassette is transferred to a player which drives a robot. And the robot, equipped with its own paint gun, faithfully reproduces the skilled human’s work. Because the paint, usually in powder form, and the pallet truck are electrostatically negative and positive, very little paint is wasted.

They not only did this but also gave birth to Ingmar Bergman.

WRITING: CRAFT NOT ART
Eclogue 46b. Setting long and short sentences side by side can have a pleasing effect.

Example: With lengthy DIY projects it is quite understandable that the desire to finish the job might outweigh a wish for perfection. It happened to God!
Note: Eclogue is inappropriate but, what the hell, I wanted to use it.