According to some combination of today's Guardian, the Equality and Human Rights Commission and the United Nations, one in five British people are having their rights eroded because they are disabled. This including almost half the people of pensionable age.
A figure which strikes me as twaddle and which will do no favours to people who really are disabled, as the rest of us will just get cross rather than putting our hands in our pockets.
Maybe the people involved ought to spend some quality time in countries which really do have problems. On the ground, not in fancy SUV's swanning around from hotel to safari.
The next day: perhaps the anthropologists who coined the acronym WEIRD'os for people like us had a point. 'People from Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic societies'.
Reference 1: The enduring enigma of reason – Catarina Dutilh Novaes – 2018. My source for the weirdos.
Monday, 8 October 2018
Sunday, 7 October 2018
Heritage Saturday
A couple of weeks ago now, to London for one of their heritage open days. Bit of a swizz in the sense that the listings are cluttered up with lots of places which are often open otherwise - but, that said, there was plenty that was not. Far more than one was apt to get round in a couple of days, never mind the half day that we had allotted.
A cold day, windy and wet by turns, made worse by my forgetting to take a scarf, despite having thought about it the night before. Maybe another time I should put it on the dining room table, along with outdoor spectacles, telephone etc, when I first think about it. Assuming that is that we don't want to dine between whenever that is and the off.
Pleased at Raynes Park to be reminded by the steel yard there that we still do metal bashing in London, albeit in a small way. See reference 1 for a ten year old notice of decline in these matters.
From Waterloo, the 172 bus to Unilever House, the large white building with pillars, visible top left from the south side of Blackfriars Bridge and described at reference 2. Another swizz, in two senses. First, the building might be art deco outside, but the inside has been stripped out and replaced by a modern office building, with its many floors arranged around a large light well, aka atrium. There were lots of notices about photography being forbidden, but the security guard I asked managed to suggest that he would not care if I did take pictures if I was reasonably discrete about, without actually saying as much. I decided to hold to my law & rule abiding image and desist, despite the activities of some of the others.
The atrium quite handsome and impressive in the way of such things, rather marred by some very ugly suspended art - with it seeming that the people in charge of corporate headquarters buildings are just as much suckers for ugly art and worse as town councillors. See, for example, reference 3.
There was also a very handsome model of the new building, handy for helping one make sense of what one could see from the bottom of the light well, the only part of the building that was open. A model which, judging by the £40,000 or so spent on a model of Nonsuch Palace a few years ago, must have cost a great deal. See reference 4.
Refreshment required at this point, so we made our way to the café in the basement of the International Headquarters of the Salvation Army, the place on the steps leading up to St. Paul's from the vibrating bridge - as it happens, another bit of ugly, suspended art.
On the way taking in the rather florid London offices of the Scientology Movement, last noticed at reference 5.
We did not stop, although the chaps on the door were very welcoming and quite happy for me to take pictures, unlike those at Unilever House.
Tea and Danish with the Salvation Army. The chap with the food thermometer was still there, poking around in the cold display, so perhaps management rather than public health inspector (see reference 6). Café busier than usual, with the team including a band practising in one of the conference rooms adjoining. We asked at the desk about praying facilities for staff, to learn that the rank and file used one of the ground floor conference rooms, lightly adjusted for the purpose, while the General had a private chapel. While I was impressed by the aura which came over the lady I was asking when she said the word 'General'.
Back up the steps to the Tourist Office by St. Paul's, staffed, needless to say, by two smart young ladies from abroad. A bit of a wait, as some tourists were doing complicated stuff, but I was rewarded with the free book of the heritage days, much easier to use than flogging through the listings on my telephone.
We had intended that the next stop would be the hall of the Chartered Accountants, perhaps up to the standard of the Scientologists. But we got waylaid by the London headquarters of ING, described at reference 7. The lady volunteer on the door was not impressed when I got ING, which was Dutch, muddled up with the ABN, also Dutch, the takeover of which was responsible in some large part for the downfall of RBS. Upstairs, we learned that ING was the lot which bought up the wreckage of Barings when they went bust, including the fine collection of modern (and other) art which had been amassed by the directors.
The bit of the building which was open was the customer suite, up on the seventh floor. A suite of very swish conference rooms, complete with the odd balcony and roof garden and with said fine collection of modern art. Another lady volunteer was completely thrown when I asked how big a customer you would have to be to be allowed to smoke on the roof garden. She did know that smoking was completely forbidden to staff, anywhere on the premises, but she had clearly not thought about big customers before. I associate to an anecdote, some years old now, about a Greek shipping magnate calling for an appropriately large ashtray in the offices of one of his London lawyers. There, the ashtray was forthcoming in short order.
A sample of the ING art is snapped above. The general standard was quite high, mainly from the first two thirds of the 20th century, with this sample looking to be from the time when my wood engraving uncle was most active, say some time between 1930 and 1950. I detect similarities in style and treatment, difference in media notwithstanding.
As well as the art we had a selection of interesting exhibits from the Baring Archive of reference 8 - a website which does not seem to include the pictures on these walls.
And then, at reference 7, we have the art from ING proper, generally more up to date than the stuff collected by the Baring Brothers.
The general standard of trusty was quite high too, mainly, I think, young people volunteering from the back office, plus a sprinkling of partners - that is, the civil partnership sort rather than the managing partner sort. And given that the back office people were so smart and friendly, what on earth would the front office people have been like?
We got a bit lost on exit, with my excuse being the confusion caused by all the work on Crossrail, but we eventually made it to a proper, brown wood establishment called the 'Lord Aberconway', A Nicolson's house near Liverpool Street station. Staff a bit left over from their Friday nights out, but we managed to get some food and drink, in my case a sausage sandwich. Not bad, but the sausages were full of herby flavours more suited to a veggie than to yours truly. I like my sausages to taste of meat. I also like my sandwiches not to be toasted and, despite a certain flurry around the till, they did manage that.
Note the headless punter, bottom right.
I close with a few snaps from being a bit lost.
When I was much younger, near fifty years ago, I used to pretend to be a carpenter and at that time working the fancy brown wood, mostly tropical, in the City banks was near the top of that profession. On two Saturdays I was tried out at the discrete bank which occupied the building snapped above in Austin Friars. With my performance only being redeemed by one of my colleagues being an even bigger chancer than I was.
I was amused by this bracketing of cyclists with VIPs at this back door. We did not trouble to find out how grand the front door was.
The rather healthy looking hostas we came across in a planter somewhere near Liverpool Street. In much better condition than the ones across the road from us, here in Epsom. Or, indeed, in Holne last week. Maybe the City can afford the odd watering can.
Reference 1: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=death+anachronism.
Reference 2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unilever_House.
Reference 3: http://psmv2.blogspot.com/2012/12/messages.html. We have not visited Ilfracombe since.
Reference 4: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=nonsuch+palace+model.
Reference 5: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-land-of-thetans.html.
Reference 6: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/08/jumping-wheeler.html.
Reference 7: https://www.ing.com/Home.htm.
Reference 8: https://www.baringarchive.org.uk/.
A cold day, windy and wet by turns, made worse by my forgetting to take a scarf, despite having thought about it the night before. Maybe another time I should put it on the dining room table, along with outdoor spectacles, telephone etc, when I first think about it. Assuming that is that we don't want to dine between whenever that is and the off.
Pleased at Raynes Park to be reminded by the steel yard there that we still do metal bashing in London, albeit in a small way. See reference 1 for a ten year old notice of decline in these matters.
From Waterloo, the 172 bus to Unilever House, the large white building with pillars, visible top left from the south side of Blackfriars Bridge and described at reference 2. Another swizz, in two senses. First, the building might be art deco outside, but the inside has been stripped out and replaced by a modern office building, with its many floors arranged around a large light well, aka atrium. There were lots of notices about photography being forbidden, but the security guard I asked managed to suggest that he would not care if I did take pictures if I was reasonably discrete about, without actually saying as much. I decided to hold to my law & rule abiding image and desist, despite the activities of some of the others.
The atrium quite handsome and impressive in the way of such things, rather marred by some very ugly suspended art - with it seeming that the people in charge of corporate headquarters buildings are just as much suckers for ugly art and worse as town councillors. See, for example, reference 3.
There was also a very handsome model of the new building, handy for helping one make sense of what one could see from the bottom of the light well, the only part of the building that was open. A model which, judging by the £40,000 or so spent on a model of Nonsuch Palace a few years ago, must have cost a great deal. See reference 4.
Refreshment required at this point, so we made our way to the café in the basement of the International Headquarters of the Salvation Army, the place on the steps leading up to St. Paul's from the vibrating bridge - as it happens, another bit of ugly, suspended art.
On the way taking in the rather florid London offices of the Scientology Movement, last noticed at reference 5.
 |
| Scientology Corporation |
 |
| Salvation art, with fire extinguisher |
Back up the steps to the Tourist Office by St. Paul's, staffed, needless to say, by two smart young ladies from abroad. A bit of a wait, as some tourists were doing complicated stuff, but I was rewarded with the free book of the heritage days, much easier to use than flogging through the listings on my telephone.
We had intended that the next stop would be the hall of the Chartered Accountants, perhaps up to the standard of the Scientologists. But we got waylaid by the London headquarters of ING, described at reference 7. The lady volunteer on the door was not impressed when I got ING, which was Dutch, muddled up with the ABN, also Dutch, the takeover of which was responsible in some large part for the downfall of RBS. Upstairs, we learned that ING was the lot which bought up the wreckage of Barings when they went bust, including the fine collection of modern (and other) art which had been amassed by the directors.
The bit of the building which was open was the customer suite, up on the seventh floor. A suite of very swish conference rooms, complete with the odd balcony and roof garden and with said fine collection of modern art. Another lady volunteer was completely thrown when I asked how big a customer you would have to be to be allowed to smoke on the roof garden. She did know that smoking was completely forbidden to staff, anywhere on the premises, but she had clearly not thought about big customers before. I associate to an anecdote, some years old now, about a Greek shipping magnate calling for an appropriately large ashtray in the offices of one of his London lawyers. There, the ashtray was forthcoming in short order.
 |
| ING art from Barings |
As well as the art we had a selection of interesting exhibits from the Baring Archive of reference 8 - a website which does not seem to include the pictures on these walls.
 |
| ING art from Poland |
The general standard of trusty was quite high too, mainly, I think, young people volunteering from the back office, plus a sprinkling of partners - that is, the civil partnership sort rather than the managing partner sort. And given that the back office people were so smart and friendly, what on earth would the front office people have been like?
We got a bit lost on exit, with my excuse being the confusion caused by all the work on Crossrail, but we eventually made it to a proper, brown wood establishment called the 'Lord Aberconway', A Nicolson's house near Liverpool Street station. Staff a bit left over from their Friday nights out, but we managed to get some food and drink, in my case a sausage sandwich. Not bad, but the sausages were full of herby flavours more suited to a veggie than to yours truly. I like my sausages to taste of meat. I also like my sandwiches not to be toasted and, despite a certain flurry around the till, they did manage that.
 |
| Brown wood |
I close with a few snaps from being a bit lost.
 |
| Austin Friars |
 |
| VIPs |
 |
| Hostas |
Reference 1: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=death+anachronism.
Reference 2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unilever_House.
Reference 3: http://psmv2.blogspot.com/2012/12/messages.html. We have not visited Ilfracombe since.
Reference 4: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=nonsuch+palace+model.
Reference 5: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-land-of-thetans.html.
Reference 6: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/08/jumping-wheeler.html.
Reference 7: https://www.ing.com/Home.htm.
Reference 8: https://www.baringarchive.org.uk/.
Country driving
The second incident was more of an own goal. Wanting to get from Buckfast to Holne, less than five miles as the crow flies, rather than use the main roads which would have been ten, we got stuck in another narrow lane behind a tractor mounted hedge cutter, advancing in the right direction at foot pace, completely blocking the lane to other traffic. Rather than wait, we thought that there was a way round, but actually found ourselves at the back of Buckfastleigh, on the way to the Camphill Community. A rather surly local assured us that all we could do was go back and wait behind the tractor.
Then we remembered that there was a back way out of the Community, having used it before on a fete day, and so we decided to push on. Got through to the back way and through the first couple of gates. Nearly got stuck on the hump in the middle of the track but failed, it seems so far, to do anything dreadful to the exhaust pipe. Perhaps they are more protected these days than they were of old. After a more few twists and turns, made it to the outer gate, with a more or less public road visible beyond.
An outer gate shut with a sturdy padlock and chain. It was now late afternoon and anyone we were likely to be able to raise in the office was likely to take a dim view of the matter, perhaps with dark talk of trespass, and to suggest that we came back in the morning. Visions of a several mile walk back to the village to try and find some accommodation for the night. At this point, I thought a proper inspection of the chain was in order, to find that one link was a karabiner, the sort of thing used by climbers and rope men, so the gate was not locked at all.
Not too many minutes later we made it back to a real road, rather relieved that we had not had to walk back to the village. As it was, the surly local was perhaps wondering where we had got to.
Reference 1: https://www.camphilldevon.org.uk/.
Reference 2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carabiner.
Dannimac
I quote from the snip left: '29th October 1996: factory to close with loss of 255 jobs: a rainwear factory in Middlesbrough is set to close with the loss of 255 jobs according to union officials. The GMB union says staff at the Dannimac factory were told of the closure yesterday. Cheaper production costs in factories abroad especially in the Philippines are being blamed. The GMB says the closure part of a programme of 500 jobs cuts will be implemented over 18 months'. Which makes the coat of my coup more than 20 years old - while appearing to be brand new. It had presumably been sitting in the cupboard of some house bound senior citizen all that time.
I associate to a conversation in a train, back in the 1980's, with a textile machinery engineer who told me that he spent most of his time in the Far East selling them our finest textile machinery, perhaps at that time the finest in the world. Good business for now, he said, but when we have finished, our industry will be finished too.
I am reasonably confident that this factory closure is real news, that careful checking would reveal it to be true news. But it is now time to put this hare down and I shall try to restrain myself from checking further!
Reference 1: http://www.whathappened.website/OCT2996-008.htm.
Reference 2: http://www.bmb-group.co.uk/.
Reference 3: http://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/10/a-coup.html.
A coup
Furthermore, it is well made, mainly cotton, more or less brand new, a Dannimac made in England, with Dannimac being BH's brand of choice for rain coats back in the early eighties of the last century. I think she must have gone through several of them over the years. The label says it is medium.
Done for £35, a great deal less than I paid Cordings for my smart but short raincoat, noticed at reference 2.
Being offline at the time, I ask my telephone about Dannimac, a brand which was well known to ebay and which did appear to be for sale new at an outfit called J. D. Williams, but I fail to find a website for Dannimac proper. Back online this morning, Google tells me about an outfit called Simply Be, who will do me a ladies' Dannimac trench coat in polyester for £40. So now quite unclear about the current status of the brand and how much of a coup it was.
But I remain clear that it was better value for money than Cordings.
Reference 1: https://www.stlukes-hospice.org.uk/.
Reference 2: https://psmv2.blogspot.com/2016/01/mainly-schubert-1.html.
Saturday, 6 October 2018
Dream
Yesterday being Saturday, was pill day. That is to say that on Saturday evening I fill up my pill box with its four kinds of pills for the week following, a process which takes about five minutes.
It was also a day on which I received a promotional email from 'Compassion in Dying', an outfit from the same stable as 'Dignity in Dying'.
And, last not but least, after a week spent in an area with strong army traditions, if not present presence. Also a week in which I spent some of the time reading a Maigret story, involving, as it usually does, an interrogation which results in the confession of the criminal in question.
Which previous resulted in this morning's dream, which seemed to take place on some ill-defined army camp.
Somewhere outside, I find a carton containing a lot of small boxes, not unlike the long thin boxes my pills come in. Each small box contained a lethal dose, made up of three or four components, to be taken one after the other. Rather more complicated than the lethal doses which I believe are issued to our air crews when they go on combat missions, in case of accidents.
I decide that I will trouser two of the small boxes, for which I might have a use some day. But I then start to worry about getting arrested by the military police for theft of government property, some stores' clerk having noticed that the carton is two boxes short.
There does not, in the dream, seem to be any question of my being caught with the stolen boxes in my possession, but the MP's do know that I have stolen them and it is just a question of them getting me to confess. And I know that they know. And so on. In these circumstances, will they be able to wear me down and get me to sign a confession? First, I am thinking that probably they will. Second, I start to think that maybe I should brazen it out. Yes, I did steal them, but it is my human right to have access to such pills. What are you going to do about it?
At which point there seems to be a pause in the dream, after which I move into a second part, in which I am still on the same army camp, but have morphed into some kind of army medico and I puzzling about how it is that I am in the army, but do not seem to have done any kind of basic training. No drill and no weapons.
Then I start to wake up, wondering about the whole business of confessions, of the police working on a suspect, hopefully a criminal, until he or she confesses. A working on which should not need to involve actual physical abuse, nothing involving fists, boots or coshes. After which the criminal admits defeat, gives up and goes on to a straightforward trial at which just deserts are dispensed. I only hope that people training for duty in the criminal justice spend quality time on studying how all this should be done.
PS: some time later, I start to wonder about the fact that we talk about army camps, while our friends in the US talk about army forts. Fort Knox, Fort Meade and Fort Drum. Later still, I check in Wikipedia, to find that our friends talk about both forts and camps.
Reference 1: https://compassionindying.org.uk/.
Reference 2: https://www.dignityindying.org.uk/.
It was also a day on which I received a promotional email from 'Compassion in Dying', an outfit from the same stable as 'Dignity in Dying'.
And, last not but least, after a week spent in an area with strong army traditions, if not present presence. Also a week in which I spent some of the time reading a Maigret story, involving, as it usually does, an interrogation which results in the confession of the criminal in question.
Which previous resulted in this morning's dream, which seemed to take place on some ill-defined army camp.
Somewhere outside, I find a carton containing a lot of small boxes, not unlike the long thin boxes my pills come in. Each small box contained a lethal dose, made up of three or four components, to be taken one after the other. Rather more complicated than the lethal doses which I believe are issued to our air crews when they go on combat missions, in case of accidents.
I decide that I will trouser two of the small boxes, for which I might have a use some day. But I then start to worry about getting arrested by the military police for theft of government property, some stores' clerk having noticed that the carton is two boxes short.
There does not, in the dream, seem to be any question of my being caught with the stolen boxes in my possession, but the MP's do know that I have stolen them and it is just a question of them getting me to confess. And I know that they know. And so on. In these circumstances, will they be able to wear me down and get me to sign a confession? First, I am thinking that probably they will. Second, I start to think that maybe I should brazen it out. Yes, I did steal them, but it is my human right to have access to such pills. What are you going to do about it?
At which point there seems to be a pause in the dream, after which I move into a second part, in which I am still on the same army camp, but have morphed into some kind of army medico and I puzzling about how it is that I am in the army, but do not seem to have done any kind of basic training. No drill and no weapons.
Then I start to wake up, wondering about the whole business of confessions, of the police working on a suspect, hopefully a criminal, until he or she confesses. A working on which should not need to involve actual physical abuse, nothing involving fists, boots or coshes. After which the criminal admits defeat, gives up and goes on to a straightforward trial at which just deserts are dispensed. I only hope that people training for duty in the criminal justice spend quality time on studying how all this should be done.
PS: some time later, I start to wonder about the fact that we talk about army camps, while our friends in the US talk about army forts. Fort Knox, Fort Meade and Fort Drum. Later still, I check in Wikipedia, to find that our friends talk about both forts and camps.
Reference 1: https://compassionindying.org.uk/.
Reference 2: https://www.dignityindying.org.uk/.
Tea
Back from a week in a soft water area, I thought I ought to report on the effect that soft water had on our tea.
Some people do not like the change from hard to soft or from soft to hard and I certainly used to notice the change from hard to soft, but my taste buds must have weakened, as I no longer notice the change in taste, but I did still notice the change in appearance.
Which change is the more or less complete absence in the soft water area of the unsightly brown scum, on the surface of the tea, or sticking to the sides of the cup or mug, which we get with our hard water here in Epsom. Scum which slides about on said sides when fresh, but which then dries on, making removal a serious matter.
I also noticed the much quicker brewing from tea bag with soft water, more or less instant when pouring boiling water onto a first use tea bag. Furthermore, one can get two good cups of tea and one adequate cup of tea from the one (Tetley's) tea bag.
Just one cup of tea with an unpleasant taste, which I put down to too much washing up liquid in the dishwasher of the café in question, or too little rinsing after washing. A problem which we know all about here in Epsom.
Just one cup of tea with (red) skimmed milk, which I did not care for at all. While I did not notice the difference between (green) semi-skimmed and (blue) regular, which I did when we first moved to semi-skimmed, some years ago now, which took me several weeks to get used to.
Some people do not like the change from hard to soft or from soft to hard and I certainly used to notice the change from hard to soft, but my taste buds must have weakened, as I no longer notice the change in taste, but I did still notice the change in appearance.
Which change is the more or less complete absence in the soft water area of the unsightly brown scum, on the surface of the tea, or sticking to the sides of the cup or mug, which we get with our hard water here in Epsom. Scum which slides about on said sides when fresh, but which then dries on, making removal a serious matter.
I also noticed the much quicker brewing from tea bag with soft water, more or less instant when pouring boiling water onto a first use tea bag. Furthermore, one can get two good cups of tea and one adequate cup of tea from the one (Tetley's) tea bag.
Just one cup of tea with an unpleasant taste, which I put down to too much washing up liquid in the dishwasher of the café in question, or too little rinsing after washing. A problem which we know all about here in Epsom.
Just one cup of tea with (red) skimmed milk, which I did not care for at all. While I did not notice the difference between (green) semi-skimmed and (blue) regular, which I did when we first moved to semi-skimmed, some years ago now, which took me several weeks to get used to.
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