Hooptedoodle #502 - The Bigliest Attack Since WW2

I've gradually developed an alternative lifestyle in which I avoid listening to the news, and subjecting myself to Official Lies about the world in which we have to live. There are still a few handy escape hatches - I've always been a big football fan, for example.

Well, not so fast. Having just about survived the dodgiest World Cup in history, I find the escape hatches are getting a little blurred. That nice Mr Infantino's Great New Idea to open up control of football competitions to the highest-bidding influencer seems to have hit the buffers for the moment, thank goodness, but there was a spectacular windfall lined up for the Kushner family (who must know at least as much about football as they do about international diplomacy and crypto), so I expect the US Supreme Court to be involved in an appeal any minute now.

On balance, I think I should play it safe and avoid sports news too. My life is getting quieter, that's for sure - I found I suddenly had a lot of spare time after the World Cup ended. I have a couple of bottles of Schloss Schadenfreude stored away, waiting for some exciting new changes - I even put a bottle of decent Prosecco in the fridge recently, in hopes that the Orange Lard Barrel may self-destruct in the near future, but I guess I won't hear about it now. Not to worry - it seems likely that the OLB will insist on taking us all down with him. Keep me posted, if you will - if I don't hear anything in 6 months I'll just drink it anyway.

In moments when I forget to concentrate on nothingness, I wonder what can possibly be wrong with these people? Ignorant nihilists who worry about who has the biggest wedge - I obviously missed something along the way.

Never mind. All the best, chaps.

Hooptedoodle #501 - pipistrellus pipistrellus

Here in South East Scotland we have not had such extreme heat problems as elsewhere in the UK, the drought conditions have been helped by the occasional downpour, and the fact that in a sparsely-populated county like ours there is little chance at present of the imposition of a hosepipe ban. The World Cup required me to watch (or listen to) live matches at strange times like 1am, usually in pretty warm conditions up in the attic, so I beebled about in a state of constant jet-lag for a while.

Nature took the opportunity to muscle in as well; Brian the Roof Man was here about 2 weeks ago to fix some broken slates, and repair some cracks in the harling (that's probably pebbledash to you?), and he was chased off the premises by clouds of wasps. Stephen the Wasp Man arrived a day later and exterminated 5 separate nests from our roof. Sadly, he had to come back because he'd missed one, so chalk up 6. Five had been a record, but it didn't last long.

 

We assured Brian the Roof Man that we weren't much bothered by wasps - he reported back fairly quickly that we were mistaken. This is a library photo - the idea comes across well, I think

Never experienced wasps in such numbers. Stephen tells some good tales of his work, complete with the necessary tingle of Gothic awfulness. Apparently wasp behaviour has changed a bit in Scotland in recent years; changes in the climate mean that we now get some species which used to be unknown here. One of the significant incomers is a small (but persistent) German strain, which is quite happy to build a nest right next to an existing live nest, a practice which was generally verboten previously.

Since the heat has diminished a bit, waking and eating times have settled down and we are disposing of relatively few walking wounded in the wasp department, so the evenings are much more acceptable now. I've even got back to trying to do some reading, and a little music practice.

Anyway, I was reading in bed last night (Richard Feynman - laugh if you will); at about midnight the Miles Davis album I was listening to (Milestones) ended and I was puzzled to hear a rustling noise. Maybe it was from the curtains - I wasn't sure - maybe I had imagined it, or it was just the timber roof cooling down. I carried on reading for about another 10 minutes and then a bat flew across the room and settled on the wall above the door. I wasn't terrified (of course), but past instances of this sort of thing have usually banished sleep until further notice. You have to try to avoid thinking in terms of having a room that you can't use any more...

What to do? I reasoned that if I turned out the room light and opened the Velux roof light then a sensible bat would just fly out without thinking twice. So that's what I did. It worked, but there were a couple of panic breaks when the thing started to fly round and round in the limited space - they are very fast, extremely ugly, totally silent. They will not bump into you (or they shouldn't), but these circuits of the room bring on moments of mindless terror. Oh yes, and they bump repeatedly into mirrors, glazed pictures, the TV screen - just saying.  

 

pipistrellus pipistrellus - again, this is not my photo - I didn't have the resources or the detachment to get a photo of my own; this shows a specimen flying about in a more suitable environment, apparently in daylight, and a long way from me

I got the window open (in near-darkness) and Batty sat on the frame for a moment - I nudged him with my wasp-basher and he flew outside - window was closed without further incident. Pulse returned to normal levels some time afterwards. I have no idea how it got in - maybe it flew in somewhere else and made its way to the top of the house; maybe it came in when the window was open on a hot day and has been sleeping there ever since. I don't like this last idea much, especially since that means there will be messy evidence somewhere. 

As far as I can see this morning everything seems clean and tidy, and satisfactorily bat-proof, so I have to assume it visited only briefly. I'm sure it was more scared than I was, in which case it was pretty scared. Thinking about it, we have had a number of bat episodes over the years, but I think the last time we had one in that particular attic room must have been around 2001. I was a lot braver and faster in those days, but I do remember it surprisingly clearly. 

 

 

Hooptedoodle #500 - Oddie Man Out?

 I am sorry to note that Bill Oddie, entertainer and birdwatcher, has died. I confess I did not know a great deal about him, I found his TV persona in his later years a bit cute for my taste, but he was a major contributor to the popularity of birdwatching in the UK, and the author of two very good books on the subject which we have handy on our kitchen dresser, so overall he was a good guy, and I certainly offer my respects and regret at his passing.

That's really all I wanted to say about Mr Oddie - I am sure that there will be many tributes elsewhere.

Mention of him and his birding interests reminds me of a very silly old story about my Dad, from years ago. My father could become unreasonably obsessed over things which he personally found interesting, but he treated other people's interests (and abilities) in a dismissive sort of way. For him, birdwatching was somewhere in the middle; he found the birds themselves quite diverting, but disliked what he regarded as the "sort of people" who typically spent their time in the field studying the things. Especially, of course, if their expertise dwarfed his own.

The story, then. Because of some of his other personal characteristics, he, my mother and my handicapped sister, every year for maybe 10 years, used to take a holiday in a very isolated cottage on the Isle of Gigha, which is somewhere near Kintyre (if you care). I saw many of his photos, and heard at huge length how the place was idyllic, being almost completely deserted; strangely, you might think, my exposure to this has resulted in my never having had any wish at all to visit there, though I'm sure it's lovely.

The particular incident in the story must have taken place some Autumn in the 1990's. My dad went out for a walk on his own, to the next bay, while my mother and sister prepared the evening meal. While he was walking along, in his big boots and ancient waterproof jacket, armed with his enormous ex-Russian army Zeiss-rip-off binoculars, he suddenly found that there were thousands of very large brown birds sitting all over the sand hills on the next bay. It is likely that they might have been Pink-Footed Geese on an Autumn migration - I wouldn't know.

He was very impressed by the sight - it was getting too dusky for a photo, so he watched them for a minute or two, and then clapped his hands, loudly, twice to watch them fly away. Then he discovered that many dozens of people in strange outdoor clothing were rising to their feet from behind gorse bushes, sand dunes, clumps of coarse grass; some of them were shouting, some waving their fists, all  of them were very displeased, and a few were heading his way. It seems that many enthusiasts come to this isolated spot at this time of year, in the hope of seeing this life-affirming event.

He must have been having an unusually sensible day; he scarpered, round a headland, and eventually got back to the cottage, a bit late for supper. To be fair about it, he used to tell this tale at his own expense ever after, while my mum rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Oops.

A further digression follows. In those days Gigha was privately owned. The owner of the island was reputed to be a bit eccentric, and he used to manage the letting of the cottages himself. One year, in his desperation to ensure he managed to book a cottage in August or September, Dad contacted the owner (by letter, of course) around February time. The owner wrote back, very politely, and thanked him for his repeat business, but explained that he was not intending to open the holiday cottage books until the beginning of April, so he would get back in contact when that happened. He also assured my dad that he would be allocated a cottage in August.

Dad couldn't cope with not having the deal finalised, and fretted about it (driving my mum bananas, of course), and then started sending weekly letters to the owner, demanding that a formal booking be completed NOW. This went on for a number of weeks (the number varied, depending whom you asked), until the owner sent another letter - still very polite - saying that enough was enough and that my Dad and his family were now permanently off his customer lists.

Oops.

The geese and the birdwatchers were probably quietly pleased. The Isle of Gigha was later the subject of a Community Buy-Out financed by National Lottery and the Highlands & Islands Enterprise. I have no idea where the former owner now spends his own holidays.

Hooptedoodle #498 - It Was Only a Matter of Time

It seems that the Almighty Festering Lard Barrel has decided to interfere in the World Cup. Well of course he has; what took him so long? 

He truly is an inspiration to us all. I'm writing to the US Supreme Court this afternoon, to see if they would like to review a few VAR offside decisions from Scotland's brief involvement in the competition. It must be worth a shot, you would think?

Hooptedoodle #494 - Google AI Gives Us the Lowdown...

 A friend of mine - who must be remarkably short of things to think about - asked Google AI about my blog (this very one you are reading), and he sent me an extract from the reply, since he thought it would amuse me. At least I hope that is why he sent it.

Here it is:

Can't really protest too much about any of that, though I am maybe a little saddened by the perceived balance. It makes no direct reference to bullshit, for which I guess I should be grateful. You probably expect me to set about checking out all sorts of AI reports now, but no. 

Not going to.

Out of perversity, I asked Google AI to describe Google AI (yes, I used to watch Star Trek many years ago - I know how to upset robots). Disappointingly, the description read much more like a marketing push than an analysis - I shall not reproduce any of it. There is enough bullshit around already... 

Hooptedoodle #493 - Cherry Cake - They'll Never Believe It

As I get older and less receptive, I am saddened to note the increasing importance of Schadenfreude as part of my life mission.

Despite my better judgement, I spent some time yesterday watching highlights of US Attorney General Bondi's Congressional Reality Show on TV. American politics is really none of my business, but decency and the future of the planet are certainly worthy of focus.

If the facts are against you, argue the law. 

If the law is against you, argue the facts.

If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell

― Carl Sandburg

 

It seems to me that, years from today, people all over the world may remember that there was once a very strange woman who postured and smirked and overacted her way through a very serious, very noble and very visible forum, and committed the most public career suicide in history.

 

I can only assume that she is getting paid an awful lot of money and has the promise of a very big piece of cherry cake. I doubt whether anyone will remember her name.

 

Speaking of names, I have a little list of them, and I have a special bottle of wine put aside for Prizegiving Day. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Hooptedoodle #492 - The Business Model of the Souq - a little Xmas karma for me

 I hope anyone who reads this has had an enjoyable, relaxing Christmas period. We've had a very quiet spell - my mother passed away at the end of November, so things have been a bit distracted, but I'm very pleased that she had such a peaceful end, and I do not have much to discuss about that.

It would be wretched to come up with a miserable, Scrooge-like theme for a Xmas post, but I thought I'd share with you a small, recent personal triumph from among the extended tangle of my coping with the way business works these days.

Here are a couple of parables - the first one is obviously fiction, and silly fiction at that.

Parable A: An elderly man takes a sliced loaf to the checkout at his regular food supermarket. The checkout girl tells him the cost of this loaf is £3; the old chap protests that this is very expensive, and that he can get the same loaf for £1.58 at the local ASDA store. The girl says, "Well, we can't match that, but since you are a regular customer, you can have the loaf for £2".

The customer is not happy, but he can't be bothered going somewhere else for his loaf, so reluctantly pays the £2, and leaves, muttering. He feels that this doesn't seem very fair.

Parable B: The setting for this one is about a year ago. I received a renewal reminder and quotation for my car insurance, from a firm I have dealt with for many years, and was disappointed by how high it was. I contacted them, and pointed out that I could get the same cover for about half the cost from another provider. The customer service rep on the phone never missed a breath, and immediately reduced the quoted premium to a figure which was rather more than half of the original figure. No problem at all - they obviously expected people to phone up and haggle. I was pleased that I had reduced the cost, but the system seemed unfair - especially in a world where the possibility to shop around online has apparently removed any slight concern that not everyone has the opportunity to do such comparison, and may in any case not be inclined to waste so much effort on a routine transaction. This unfairness was emphasised to me last year since the same pantomime had been acted out the year before.

My insurance renews on 16th January, and, sure enough, the quotation for my insurance for 2026 arrived a week ago. The insurer (let us say, for the sake of the story, that they may be called Direct Line) requires me to pay £697 for the year; I realise that this is just them chancing their arm with an opening bid, in case I am daft enough to fail to notice, but I am well tired of this game. I have no wish to waste time and blood pressure phoning to negotiate.

Without contacting them, this year I have arranged identical cover, online, simply and quickly, from the mighty Automobile Association, no less, for the cost of £395. When the documents arrive, next week, I shall ask Direct Line to place their esteemed policy where the sun does not shine. I have, in fact, merely shuffled out into the modern world and shopped around, but it still stinks. 

A small matter, but gratifying. The world does not muck around with Scrooge McFoy, I can tell you. 

Hooptedoodle #490 - Power Supply Management in the Post-Truth Age?

 

Last night I received a text message from our electricity supply company, apologising for frequent short outages over the last few months, and especially during 27th-30th Sept (?). This remarkable note explains that these are due to environmental situations such as trees touching overhead lines and cattle rubbing against electricity poles - yes - you did read that last bit correctly. They go on to state that they are going to build some fences and do some tree-trimming to address these problems.

 

Of course we have to be grateful, and one is keen not to say the wrong thing, but it seems there may be evidence of bulls making a bit of a mess as well. I would be more convinced if the lady on the supply company's helpdesk in Birkenhead hadn't told me a month ago that the problem seemed to be the supply being (automatically?) switched between areas at times of peak load. [We the customers have already done some investigation to check whether the outages coincided with time-switches turning on the big grain dryers on the local farms, which was interesting, though inconclusive.]

 

It also surprises me that cattle should rub against the poles at exactly 6:30am or 7pm each day - creatures of habit, obviously. I consider it unlikely that there are any livestock (apart from horses, which are fenced away from poles, and pigs, which are kept indoors) within 30 miles of here. Generally, I'd be more convinced if the note didn't read as if it were written by AI, or maybe Ms McOswald's class at the primary school.

Hooptedoodle #489 - It's a Living

 My compliments to Count Goya, who has outed me. He sent this evidence of my current gig in the real world. Well, in Fife, actually.

It isn't easy keeping things together when you are a a 250-year old retired general without a Skilled Worker visa. If you live near Kinghorn and you want a little plastering or light joinery work done, I might know someone. Cash only, please.  

Hooptedoodle #487 - A Taste for Alternative History

 This last week I took the opportunity to read the starter volume for the Very British Civil War. It has taken me a very long time to get round to this, and my interest is not because I have any particular wish to play the game; I just have a great fondness for what-ifs, how history might have been if the wind had blown the other way. What prompted my renewed interest was some other reading about the 1930s in Europe and (all right, I'll admit it) my watching, also after a very long delay, the movie The King's Speech.

 

The VBCW booklet is absorbing - a thorough, thought-provoking job - I do like my fantasy with detailed embroidery.

Right on cue, in the last few days, one Mr Huckabee, a man described without apparent irony as a diplomat, former Fox News host and current US ambassador to Israel, voiced his opinion that if Sir Keir Starmer had been the British leader during WW2, the United Kingdom would be German-speaking now. 

Maybe that's true, I have no idea; interesting. More alternative history. If we're playing this game, it also seems to me that if the present US Administration had been in charge in Washington in 1939, they would have been solidly aligned with the Axis, so WW2, if it had happened, would have been a walkover. Which means that Huckabee's current gig in Israel wouldn't have existed either; interesting.

 

Major rally of the German American Bund in Madison Square in Feb 1939 - maybe they didn't get a fair chance?

Möge sein Arsch eitern, as Anton Drexler used to say. 

Hooptedoodle #484 - Unwanted Immigrant

 

I am depressed to be reminded that Jeffrey's ugly friend will be arriving on Friday for a 5-day visit to Scotland. 

Why is he coming? We certainly don't want him here, and - given his record - I'm surprised they would let him in.

It seems he will visit his own golf courses at Turnberry and Aberdeen. No doubt he will break the course record at each, and there may be some carefully vetted press sessions, so that he may rant incontinently about irrelevancies. I certainly expect that any incidental exposure he has to the actual Scottish public will leave him in no doubt how much he is loved and respected here.

 

The clubhouse at Trump Turnberry was not looking its best in April this year, after it was subjected to an attack of what is officially termed "malicious mischief". It has been cleaned up now, and there are also some very expensive enhancements to the course. No doubt our VIP visitor will be reopening it. I hope it pisses with rain.

Our Prime Minister is to travel up here for a meeting of some sort in Aberdeen. Whatever. Why a meeting in Aberdeen? Maybe it will be easier to avoid someone punching the Orange Nose this far from London? Starmer's attendance has something to do with refinements to an earth-shaking non-event masquerading as a trade deal. Why Sir Keir would waste his time having a discussion with a lunatic who changes his mind every day, and who hasn't the merest grasp of the basics of trade, diplomacy or integrity, escapes me. 

[Digression: In an idle moment, I was wondering whether anyone knows whether Washington or Lincoln used to spend all their time making stuff up and spouting about how great they were? Maybe they had other things to do - history doesn't seem to mention it, anyway. I think I am sufficiently interested in this idea to see if AI could manage a suitably edited re-write of the Gettysburg Address.]

Mostly I'm avoiding news topics like this at present, and I must say my health appears to be showing some benefit as a result. However, I also have to say that I am very uncomfortable about the forthcoming state visit (no capitalisation) when the Unmentionable One is to visit our King at Windsor Castle. It is probably polite to extend the hand of hospitality to heads of state, but this visit is going to be met with considerable public hostility, which potentially places His Majesty (that's His REAL Majesty) in a difficult position politically. Maybe, to ensure there is no trouble at dinner, a company of Beefeaters could attend, in full dress?  It goes without saying, the beefeater joke would be further enhanced by the serving of a vegan dinner.

Also, King Charles might take the opportunity to ask his guest where he was educated, since his spoken English is clearly not anyone's first language. 

Hooptedoodle #483 - A Little Help Goes a Long Way [Artificial WHAT?]

 Two days ago, I am awake at 05:00. It looks a bit gloomy outside, so I am pondering whether I will need to do my early morning pyjama run, watering the shrubs, and whether I will get a chance to do a little more weedkiller spraying of the gravel driveway today.

I decide to get advice from the electronic friend and helper on my phone, who is always faithfully awaiting a chance to serve.

05:06 - "Siri, what is the forecast today?"

Siri - "Today it will be mostly clear; daytime temperatures will rise to 18degC, with overnight lows of 13degC"

Fair enough - maybe I should keep an extra sweater handy, but that sounds OK. My alarm is set for 06:30, so I can enjoy a preparatory snooze until then. Better just check...

05:10 - "Siri, will it rain today?"

Siri - "There is very little chance of rain"

Righto - that will do nicely.

My snooze is suddenly disturbed by heavy rain hammering on the Velux window above my head. What the...? What is the story now?

06:15 - "Siri, will it rain today?" 

Siri - "There is very little chance of rain"

Maybe an alternative approach is required...

06:16 - "Siri, at what time will it rain?"

Siri - "It's raining now"

 

It's OK - this is a library photo of someone else's garden, for dramatic effect

We have to be grateful, I know, but I may go back to keeping a piece of seaweed in a jam jar on the window-sill. 

Hooptedoodle #481 - The King's Card

 

It will be my mother's 100th birthday on Monday. She doesn't know it will be her birthday, and she will not notice when it happens. The poor old soul is resident in a nursing home in Berwick upon Tweed, where she is wonderfully well looked after and is as comfortable as we can possibly make her, but she cannot walk, or see, or make sense of any sounds. She sleeps most of the time - they get her into some sort of semi-conscious state to feed her, but she doesn't communicate and as far as I am aware she has no idea where she is or what is going on.

I visit once a week, though she is not aware of my visits, and in fact she hasn't known me for about 5 years now. That's OK - it's a routine - I visit this very old lady, who doesn't remember me and appears to have nothing to do with any mother I ever had. Mostly, I think, I do it for my own peace of mind. I sit with her for an hour or so each week - I haven't seen her awake in about 6 months. I make sure her radio is quietly tuned to her favourite classical station (just in case she can hear it) and before I leave I chat with the staff about how she has been.  

A 100th birthday is a serious business in the UK. You get a greeting card from the Monarch. One advance in recent years has been that, if you are in receipt of the State Pension, this all goes ahead automatically. So I have been waiting to see how it all works.

About a month ago I received an undated letter from the DWP, the main message of which was:

We have attempted to contact you to organise congratulatory messages for their 100th birthday.

As their representative, you can arrange for cards to be issued from the King via the Centenarian Team.

All we need is for you to confirm that the personal information we hold on the Department for Work and Pensions' records is correct.

What to do next

If you would like the team to organise the messages on your behalf, or you would like more information, please get in touch with us. Our contact details are at the top of this letter.

Yours sincerely

 

W R Swanson
Office manager

Righto - here we go - the system has everything under control. Only slight concerns were:

(1) There was no mention of what personal information they wish to have confirmed, though they gave my mother's name and National Insurance number, and they obviously have some idea that she is going to be 100.

(2) The National Insurance number was incorrect. [Goodness me - don't tell me that all this digital magnificence is manned by idiots, after all? Surely no-one expected that?]

 I leaped into action - I spent a singularly unproductive 45 minutes waiting for someone to answer the supplied phone number (which is in Newcastle), and then typed up an old-fashioned letter and sent it to the supplied postal address (which is in Wolverhampton), confirming that, yes, I did want the Centenarian Team to send out a card, thank you very much, and pointing out the error in the NI number.

Two weeks later I received another letter from the DWP, which turned out to be an exact repeat of the original undated letter, complete with incorrect NI number. With some vague idea that I was already in the system, I refused to worry about this, and waited for a meaningful reply, aware that the time left for arranging a greetings card was disappearing fast.

I received what was clearly a reply to my letter - this dated 3rd June, though I received it on the 9th. All it contained was some generalised acknowledgement of my notifying them of a "change of circumstances" - there was no mention of greetings cards, and the Newcastle phone number no longer appeared. I am left to assume that the DWP's computer is very busy. 

In two days I shall travel down to Berwick for the "big" day. I expect that no card will be sent to me before then; it is possible that there may be one sent direct to the nursing home (the DWP have that address), but I doubt it. Since my mum will not know that it is her birthday, and since no-one would in any case be able to explain to her that she had received a card, or what a card was, I have to accept that it really doesn't matter. I may be pilloried by the nursing home staff for failing to arrange the King's card, but that is the least of my worries. 

 

I understand that this is what the card looks like, if you get one. I have to say that I am very impressed with the idea of sending a picture of oneself as a birthday greeting, and am thinking seriously of getting a supply of suitable cards printed up. No expense spared for my friends, I assure you - I know how much they'll appreciate it

 

***** Late Edit *****

 

Well, the card did turn up on time, so all due credit and respect to those involved. The system works, even if it does not feel very robust during the process. I knew the King wouldn't let my mum down...

 

 

********************* 

Hooptedoodle #480 - Something to Do with Having Your Cake

 I've always been fascinated by how memory works. Part of this has been reinforced recently by living through my mother's mental decline, and also by my occasional sifting through the big box of old photos I rescued when we sold her house. 

The photos themselves can become a little misleading, since sometimes I can remember seeing a photo before, and am no longer sure whether I can remember the actual event depicted. This may also have something to do with having a strong impression that my early childhood was all in monochrome!

How far back can we really remember? They say that between ages 2½ and 3½ is when we start to put together coherent memories - it probably depends on how spectacular one's early years were. I have some photos here of a weekend I spent with my parents at the seaside at Borth-y-Gest during the Summer when I was 2. There are pictures of me playing with my toys, and I can remember some of these toys from having known them in my later childhood, but I don't remember being there. I don't even remember that my dad almost drowned us all by taking us out in a rowing boat when there was a gale warning, which must have been fairly memorable. 

I am sure there must be bits of real memories in the early mixture, but the first definite event I can remember and put a date on was shortly after my 3rd birthday. I went to stay for a few days at my Uncle Ernie's house, across the river in the Wirral, because my mother was in hospital giving birth to my sister, and unfortunately (always having been a klutz) I fell off the swing in Ernie's garden and broke my left leg. I can't remember the swing or any of the trauma, but I have very vivid memories of two days spent in Birkenhead General Hospital; I remember the strangely-coloured lights they had on at night in the ward, and I remember very clearly playing in my cot with a Dinky Toys refuse truck which Ernie brought me by way of apology.

Just like this one, in fact:

 Dinky Toys model no. 25

I also have pretty clear memories of travelling with my mother by bus back to the hospital however-many weeks later to get my plaster cast removed. 

One thing that doesn't necessarily attach itself to old remembered images is how I felt about what was going on. However, during the recent annual festival of Gorging on Chocolate which has replaced the religious themes of Easter, I was reminded of The Incident of the Easter Chick Cake, and this may be a very early sample of my feelings about events.

This must have been my 4th Easter, so I would be 3-and-a-bit. My mother came in with some groceries, and she handed me a small paper bag, which contained a simple little novelty cake she had bought at the baker's. It was a very plain likeness of a small Easter Chick, not much bigger than a real live one, I guess, made of two balls of sponge cake, covered with yellow icing, with currants for eyes and a little beak of folded orange marzipan. It must have been pretty crude, really, but I loved it, and no-one had ever bought me a cake before. I spent some of the afternoon staring at it, being its friend; at teatime it was served up on a little plate, and I ate it.

I was heart-broken. Inconsolable. It hadn't been all that wonderful to eat, and I now knew for a fact that I would much rather have kept the cake as a friend. My mother was actually quite worried, and the following day she quietly went out and brought me another little bag. Yes - that's right; she had gone back to Mr Osborne the Baker (in South Street) and they had one Chick Cake left. I can still just about remember how wildly happy I was - all of a sudden life contained the possibility that something you had lost could be replaced. I had maybe never thought of that before. It probably ruined me for life, in fact...

This time, I decided, I was going to keep my cake safe, forever - you may have some concerns that this might not have gone very well. What actually happened was that the replacement cake was served up on the same plate, at teatime on the day of its arrival, and I happily scoffed it without hesitation and without any subsequent qualms. It seems that, once I had explored and enjoyed the personal tragedy of having eaten and lost the first one, I was ready to move on to more orthodox gluttony. I have never looked back. 

I find this interesting. We must put together a whole life-set of values and feelings based on personal experiences; I'm sure mine started a long time before the cake, but this is the first one I can identify.

And you know what? Both the Chick Cake and the Dinky refuse truck are remembered in full colour. Hmmm. 

Hooptedoodle #478 - Don't Go Down the Market, Daddy - Death by Cookies

This post may be for Neil, I'm not sure. This is something that happens to me now and then.

A couple of evenings ago, I was reading the website of MSNBC, which - if you don't know (and even if you do) - is an American news and media channel with somewhat liberal leanings. I was attempting to catch up with the latest doings of the FBI*.

While I was in there I was interested - pleased, you might say - to note that the bots that work for the agencies who buy advertising space on the site had sent me a personalised ad. Imagine, if you will - they had used unauthorised access to the personal and location information on my computer to target this ad just at me. I was flattered. Maybe I fit some desirable class of potential client - wealthy? sophisticated? Maybe this is why YouTube sends me all those notes from single women in the Ukraine? Maybe they also know I tend to buy Terry's Chocolate Orange Minis when I visit Tesco's? I'm digressing here, but you will gather that I was a bit excited.

I mentioned this to my friend, Charlie Farley, who knows about these things. He was disappointingly sceptical. Since the advertisers seem to know all about me and where I live, I was surprised they had not found a better picture of North Berwick harbour, which, as far as I remember, looks like this:

 

I was also concerned about these spare 2024 cruise cabins; did this mean that I would have to take my reduced-price cruise in 2024? How does this work, Charlie?

Charlie dismissed the whole deal as a con. Not only are there no actual cruises available, says Charlie, but if I click on this ad something very bad will happen to my bank account, and those trainers I bought from Hotter last month for working in the garden will no longer fit properly. Someone in the old Balkan States will steal my identity, and then absolutely everything will go down the toilet.

Of course I am disappointed that I am not getting a cheap cruise out of this, and I am also scared by what seems to have happened to That Internet, but I'm also not a little angry. I have come to trust MSNBC to tell me the news with the sort of spin I approve of, but they will not let me read it unless I allow these adverts to appear. That in itself is not too serious, but it seems there is a layer of scuffling piracy in there as well - there are, as Charlie says, invisible, bad people just waiting to trip me up and leave my body somewhere behind the recycling bins down at the harbour.

That really is a bit much. I might add, in passing, that if someone does pinch my identity then I hope they get better value from it than I did.

 

* Fat, Brainless Idiot

Hooptedoodle #477 - Årstid and the Acer - a week for time travel

 No garden progress this week, since it has been raining steadily (which is, of course, perfect for new plants). I've been doing Other Things, an underrated pastime in my opinion; as ever, Nature likes to chip in with the odd minor accident or inconvenient coincidence, but it's all part of the Great Plan.

Årstid

I really don't wish to know how this is pronounced. One small event which could have been a big nuisance is that the bedside lamp in the attic room has packed up. Broken switch. Needs to be replaced, and the first obvious issue here is that it must be 25 years old. I realise these little domestic mishaps are sent to test our faith, so I don't take it personally.

I had a look online to see what is available, and felt a familiar sinking of the heart as I was confronted by the riches of endless, bewildering choice. I find much of this choice is not what I'm looking for, since, stupidly, I have no interest in a lamp which is rechargeable, or has a USB socket for charging my devices, or is dimmable, or is touch sensitive, or can be spoken to, or switched on while I'm still on the train, via my phone, or is light sensitive. What I do want is something very like the old one, which takes big, screw-in bulbs, is tall enough and has a big enough shade to light up the room yet not be scorched by the big LED bulbs I use. I want it to have a simple pull-switch, which I can operate without upsetting everything when I wake up - in the dark, for goodness sake. Cheap and simple would be good characteristics.

My wife, who is extremely good at this stuff, found that what we currently have is an old IKEA design called Årstid. She also found - wonder of wonders - that IKEA still sell it, and it is very cheap. Here it is:

With a bit of luck I should have a new one up and working by tonight. My ability to read in bed is depending on this, so it is not a trifling matter. One great thing about this big old-fashioned model is that modern LED bulbs will create an astonishing amount of illumination without offending the current or heat limits of the old 40w-rated design. 

The Acer

Tonight I am hosting a Zoom wargame to test a modified version of my Corporal John rules. This version is deliberately designed to facilitate remote gaming, and also to cope with games involving more than two players. I mention this (briefly) to remind myself that this is supposed to be a wargaming blog, but will say no more for the moment, other than to take this opportunity to thank Jon Freitag and the Jolly Broom Man for their generosity, patience and wisdom in helping me with a couple of the proposed changes in the rules. Gentlemen, I am in your debt.

Part of the changes requires some thorough testing of dice systems for combat, and, as often happens nowadays, I found myself lamenting that I no longer have access to my old QBASIC facility on the PC, which made it very simple to run extended series of simulations, varying the conditions and the numbers of dice. Stochastic testing for idiots, which I used to find enjoyable and useful. Same thread as the broken lamp story; the world has moved on. It is probably possible to install a virtual environment to simulate DOS on my iMac or my current Windows laptop, but - while such a project would have been very stimulating some years ago - I find the very idea of attempting it now brings a great weariness. To be honest, I would rather have a cup of something and get on with my book.

The laptop screams at me, every time I switch it on, that I had better upgrade to Windows 11 or I shall be excommunicated. A few key programs (that's "apps", sorry) will not run if the machine is not connected to the Internet, since the software has to check online that my licences are up to date. Sapristi. 

I find that in some ways I miss laptops which I had in the past, which were less user-friendly but actually let you use the machine in useful ways by getting behind the Eternal User Interface (EUI) without going on a nightschool course first.

And then, out of nowhere, I remembered that, somewhere in the bottom of the Junk Trunk in the attic, there is a little Acer Aspire One which I bought in about 2009 - specifically so that I could keep in touch while on holiday. It has a 10inch screen, runs Windows XP, and will allow me to duck behind all that front end and run in old-fashioned DOS. The QBASIC editor should be there, along with my old testing suites, not to mention various bits of the old Elan game I wrote to manage solo Napoleonic miniatures games (last time I played Elan was with Clive Smithers, about 15 years ago, and he was impressed enough to take a copy of the software, though he never installed it. Life is a bit like that). 

I still have my QBASIC textbook - if this works, I could get a little useful fun and keep a few neurons firing.  

Because the Acer will not be able to connect to the Internet (since we have changed our modem/router/hub at least 3 times since it was last switched on), I can't think of any reason why DOS and Windows XP shouldn't still work. If they are not supported into the future, well I couldn't care less. I have found the machine - it looks OK, and is charging up now. I suspect the wireless mouse may have died, but I have a few suitable museum-piece mice with wires which will do the job. 

That should keep me entertained for an hour or two tomorrow.

In the meantime, today's priority task is to set up the table and the cameras for the Zoom test game.

Busy, busy.

Hooptedoodle #476 - Macdonald Road Library (Leith Walk, Edinburgh)

 I read recently that the public library in Macdonald Road was 120 years old last year - I confess that I was rather surprised to learn that it is still open; Leith is well out of my usual stomping ground these days, and public libraries are not doing too well, I fear, since Google has made it unfashionable to actually know anything.

Why mention it, then?

Well, back in the early 1970s I had a fleeting acquaintance with the old place - bear with me, and I shall attempt to explain in a pleasantly businesslike manner...

 

Appropriate monochrome photo of the library in 1930 - note the tram cars in Leith Walk. For some reason, my memories of Edinburgh in the early 1970s seem to be monochrome as well - maybe it was that sort of place

 

 

I think that military and wargaming books were indexed under code U - not that I wasted my study time with such matters, of course

Back in those days I was working as an actuarial trainee with a big (old) insurance company in Edinburgh, and part of the deal was that I got two half-day study periods a week during the winter (90 minutes each, in fact), which I had to take in the designated study room, in the attic above Accounts, which was filthy and unheated, and my recollection is that most of the students chain-smoked. Grim.

One winter my department moved. This sort of thing didn't happen often at the time, but the company's group pensions business was expanding quickly, and some of the pensions departments were relocated to a new building, in Leith, a good distance from the main offices in George Street. If the mention of a new building sounds promising, it must be borne in mind that the building in question had been built as an investment, but the proposed new occupant (Scottish Gas, I think) disliked it so much that they ducked the contract, so my employer cut their losses by using it themselves; it was probably good enough for us peasants in Pensions, anyway.

I now had an additional snag in that my twice a week study periods would be on the other end of a 30-minute journey each way. I made the mistake of asking the Personnel people if some other arrangement might be possible, and contempt was served up from a great height. If I chose not to use the facilities which were so generously offered, then that was my problem, etc etc.

As it happened, my boss was a nice old guy, and I agreed with him informally that I could absent myself on Tuesday mornings, and spend 3 hours in Macdonald Road library, which was only a few minutes away.

This worked well. The library was large, and very quiet indeed, and my 3 hour visits were much better for serious studying than the filth-hole up in George Street. I was surprised how deserted the place was - there were 3, sometimes 4, pensioners who came in to keep warm in the cold weather, otherwise there was very little happening. Maybe it was crowded in the evenings.

One of the pensioners was always very busy, scribbling away - the others seemed to sleep most of the time.

Eventually I struck up a nodding-terms relationship with the librarian in charge - Miss Gilhooley, who was a rather timid-looking young lady - pale, with red hair - and sometimes she would offer to make an extra cup of tea for me. This was kindness of a sort that actuarial trainees were not used to.

It turned out that Miss Gilhooley lived somewhere on the South Side, as did I, and on one occasion she sat next to me on the morning bus into the city. I learned a little of daily goings-on at Macdonald Road. It seems that the pensioner who did all the writing was a Mr Duguid [I have no idea how or why I remember this stuff], and what he liked to do was to bring in a ballpoint pen, and fill in all the letters o, e, a, b, d, p, q (etc) in the library's public copy of the Scotsman newspaper - he also liked to draw spectacles on the photographs of people in the news. I am pleased to add that as far as I know he didn't do anything worse than this, but what he did was relentless - he worked at it for most of the day. Miss Gilhooley used a cunning plan, and would lay out an old newspaper for Mr Duguid's use, but this didn't work, since one of his companions could read (Mr Duguid could not), and tipped hm off that it was not today's edition. Mr Duguid refused (quite correctly) to waste his effort destroying an out-of-date newspaper, so a Plan B came into use. Miss Gilhooley did a very brave, unofficial thing, and ordered a special second copy of the Scotsman for Mr Duguid. This seemed to be working, though the auditors would no doubt find out eventually.

Miss Gilhooley's worst experience had been a morning when another elderly chap came in, but he was wearing a Rangers FC scarf. This caused an actual punch-up with the regulars - Macdonald Road is right in Hibernians territory - and Miss Gilhooley had not witnessed hooliganism of this sort before or since. The only casualty was the maintenance man, who was struck with a fire extinguisher - or claimed he had been.

As I recall, my visits to the library only lasted for one winter. I can't remember why, but I know that you didn't get study time if you had to resit an exam failure, so maybe there is a clue in there somewhere.

Lovely city, Edinburgh, but I have a strong memory of it being a cold, grey, unfriendly place for a young man far from home! And there is some lingering whiff of the Council's disinfectant...

Hooptedoodle #473 - a New Beginning

 I must start off here with an apology to my various American friends; nothing personal, chaps.

It's been a bewildering few weeks at the start of what is obviously to be a New Age. All previously assumed givens about ethics, patriotism, honesty, justice, democracy, diplomacy and a lot more besides are going out of the window. Maybe it's overdue; maybe I just don't understand.

OK - deal with it.

I have to hope everything works out all right, and try to avoid saying the wrong thing. Stay out of the way.

However, there are some fundamentals. Since Mr Trump has decided to stamp out world trade (out of spite, as far as I can see), I had better climb aboard, dizzy with excitement, and cast off anything I ever learned or believed. I even propose to have a little initiative of my own. Not quite a New Year's resolution, but I'll give it a bash.

The markets are everything, so out of respect I propose to follow the new lead. If European goods are  to be subjected to the rumoured 25% US import tariff, then I shall follow suit, like a good fellow. From this point, as far as possible, I shall avoid purchasing any products which are made or branded in America, or which contain American ingredients.

I don't suppose the USA will notice, but if a billion other people follow my example, that would make a difference.

Hooptedoodle #472 - Odd One Out?

 Naturally I am not clever enough to understand this stuff, but a friend sent me this idea. No prizes, it goes without saying...

Which of the following places is the odd one out?

* SUDETENLAND

* UKRAINE

* GREENLAND 

* PANAMA

* GAZA

 

There are probably various different answers, but as far as I know Gaza is the only one which has been considered for annexation as a theme park

 

Hooptedoodle #471 - Whatever happened to...?

 This follows a lighthearted conversation with a friend, in which we were lamenting things from our past which, somehow or other, seem to have slipped into ancient history when we weren't paying attention.

For example, what happened to:

 

Comfortable shoes...

 

Proper, cheap, French vin ordinaire...

 

 

Google+...

 

I'd be interested to get some suggestions for other things which we might miss in wistful moments - the sillier the better, of course.