Doodling

Oil on canvass [35.5 x 25cm]. Morning over Norwich with vapour trails.

Ink on paper, across two pages of sketchbook [32 x 20cm]. Snow over Norwich. [The inks are difficult, the medium dries within seconds, making blending of pigments problematic.]

Oil on canvass [80 x 30cm]. Evening light over Norwich.

Oil on canvass pad [23 x 15.3cm]. Early morning fog over Norwich.

Metallic coloured pencils on paper, across two pages of sketchbook [32.5 x 22cm]. Early morning fog over Norwich.

Oil on canvass pad [23 x 10cm]. Late afternoon light over Norwich.

Atacama Dreamscape?

Even now, as I start to tap out these thoughts, so it is almost as if I am still slightly unsure that I am 'actually' awake- it is 03:23 of a Tuesday morning. This posting may read as a tad self-dramatic, but I thought that I should quickly note the experience, before some significant detail is whisked away and is gone from my grasp. By the time that it is posted the 'moment' may already lie several weeks in the past, but at least it, or that vital essence of it, will have been 'captured.'

To clarify, I am referring back to a dream that I have just had (31st October 2017). It was quite so 'real' as to have left taste in my mouth and a sense of arid sandy soil between my toes and upon my clothes, a sun-scorching sting to my eyes. More, it was one of those dreams from which one may awake more than once, as I believe that I did, and to be left unsure that one is not still quite dead to the world.

Track to Parinacota.

I believe that I awoke at the very least once before, to find myself still asleep, yet also fully enveloped within the afore-alluded-to dream. Such dreams- I have not reliably had one so vivid since I was a child, or at the very least a far younger adult- may leave one so stricken as to warp one's belief as to quite which is real and which is not.

Atacama Sunset.

Elon Musk is undoubtedly but one of many souls to have speculated that we are far more likely virtual than real. "There's a billion to one chance we're living in base reality," he has claimed. At least a decade prior to this, Nick Bostrom pondered that we might 'simply' be, "living in a simulation," in which case of greatest concern should be that "our 'future selves,'" might simply, "switch us off." In its various guises the idea dates back at least as far as a speculative 17th century. Many of the variable musings as to the degree of reality, or not, that we might perhaps inhabit are not even those of the chemically adjusted mind... and who's to contest that even this mode of thought might not be some form of enhancement to significantly better our perceived understanding?

The Andes at dawn.

Encapsulated within this concept, we may also find a far more credible space for humankind's various guises for what sometimes passes as God. Would he, she or whatever then really much care which particular model we chose to adopt or to pseudo-worship? There is not seriously the acreage here for even merely my own ponderings upon the very tenuous nature of 'reality.'

Church at Parinacota.

Except to briefly mention a still quite vividly recalled 'moment,' back in the late summer of 1996. I had woken some time in the dead of night and had, upon an inexplicable urge, been drawn to the bedroom window- at this time I lived opposite a church, and within a village uncursed by street-lighting, so would sometimes not bother to pull the curtains closed of a night.

Flat plain

Having, in the small hours, just climbed from my bed I knew that I was 'awake,' yet I had somehow carried with me some fragment of the 'dream' from which I had just awoken. Lit by the moon, the church opposite had been transformed into a 17th century (another 17th Century reference?) white-washed Chilean church, and all about its walls had been the gently-ruminating, dusty Atacama Desert. I still well recall being both fascinated and perplexed, unsure whether to somehow further explore this phenomenon, or else to ease myself back into that 'real' world?

Andean Sunset.

To commit the experience properly to paper is and has always proven quite impossible, a credible explanation also requires being able to search within my pleading face and eyes, to be assaulted by my insistent voice. Even then I doubt I would be properly believed. It was as if I had somehow woken into a moment which was untethered, neither of this world nor of that one. A listener, or reader, would surely assign the moment to one of perhaps sleepwalking, or else to some such other similar category. But there would surely have to be left just that tiny element of uncertainty?

So, round-about-the-houses, and back to 'last night's' dream.

Chungara.

This alternate reality took me back, again, some twenty-now-years to that same holiday in Chile. I was again at altitude upon the volcanic plains about Mount Parinacota, secreted within the Lauca National Park. The altitude sickness, which incidentally has pursued me from dream to this reality, was with me, the taste of vomit still unfresh upon my tongue. A couple of concerned Israeli fellow travellers had earlier expressed much concern when I had opted to be dropped off at the sandy junction to some half covered track, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. But also there was this wild excitement at having found myself, during the following days, seemingly almost-virtually alone at some 4,500 metres, fully immersed within a cornucopia of Andean wonderment. There was the constant presence of arid soil between my toes, the dust in my eyes and upon my clothes, a sun-tightened feel to my face and a certain altitudinous wild sensation that lingered about my nostrils.

I had daily risen prior to the sun, whilst its presence was just barely evident at the eastern horizon, and I had leap-frogged out into a freshwater lake, the shallow waters held in abeyance via a certain volcanic rockscape. The freezing temperatures of the night had hardened the various mossy bofedal clumps, enough that I might venture just far enough from the shores. And I had sat within the magical puna landscape and filled my notepad with all manner of detail, and my camera with just a tiny taste of the High Andes.

Bofedal

Once again, referencing my notebook, running along uncannily parallel to last night's dream, I am now reminded of the sheer radiance and of the burgeoning aliveness of the place. I had noted the eruptive joy that I had felt at the moment that a small wading bird had alighted just a few metres from where I was sitting; it duly commenced to completely ignore me as I sketched away. The Diademed Plover had lain close to the top of a long list of hoped for wildlife, and had duly set the day upon a perfect course, excepting the pounding headache which never quite left me during my days at this altitude. I am reminded also of a niggling nose-bleed that would never quite relent.

Route out towards the lake.

The list of wading birds, the slightly less-buoyant Andean Swallows and Andean Lapwings, the various species of flamingo, the ducks, the various coots, the vast array of finches and other species, is both as immense in the notebook as it was in the dream. For this I am thankful, but also slightly curious.

Lake shoreline.

I had made the questioning observation that the higher-altitude Silvery Grebes could not possibly be of the same species as those I had seen two weeks previously, bobbing as a small raft upon the Pacific. The note, unknowingly 'supported' via far more copious and scientific observation, has since come to just fruition. I had, hours later, padded less assuredly back towards the lake's shoreline- the bofedal was fast softening under the quickening heat of the morning. A gem-like Andean Negrito flashed its primary flight-feathers, before dropping to the plain and substituting a zipping run for the labours of the air, a rich rufous-earthy back upon a muted charcoal body. The drier landscape was already quite awash with all manner of grey ground-tyrants, many sporting their own specific cap-come-nape-patch as a clue to species, many not. Somehow, defying the significantly enhanced drag of gravity, way up in the eye-scouring blueness, a pair of juvenile Mountain Caracaras were whirling to no immediately apparent purpose. The far more handsome, and thus absent, adults were having none of it!  

Receding peaks 

Even the most seemingly insignificant minor-slopes were able to conjure a throbbing heat to the temples, drawn from the dull ache at the back of the skull, but the effort was quite rightly deemed worthy, merely for the greatly enhanced proximity of a resplendent Black-hooded Sierra-finch. Surely these creatures had somehow thieved something of the essence of the setting sun upon their backs? Even so a scuttling Vizcacha might still set the heart to yet greater pounding, and the skull to yet greater pain, as it scaled a sheer slope as if 'twere horizontal; nether rabbit nor mouse, instead some bizarre other rodent-type, equipped also with a miniature beaver-type-tail to waft at the air in departure.

Moss as hard as pumice.

Defying the almost prickly-pumice qualities of the strange mountain-moss, I sat to permit the pounding to subside, becoming aware, as I did so, of a family of humbug Puna Tinamous, neither bustard nor grouse, but either way appearing instantly very akin to a snack-upon-legs. "Such plump and vulnerable-seeming birds will certainly have evolved their own peculiar means of surviving," I considered, although at this sort of range none was immediately evident. The flashing flight of the earlier noted White-tailed Shrike-Tyrant again animated the puna-desert-dreamscape. Although perches were at a premium this bird evidently had a greater claim than did most other species; there was a multitude of ground-tyrants and shrike-tyrants from which to choose. No sooner had it alighted than it was beating ten bells out of some uncertain former lifeform.

Andean Flicker nest holes.

I had already noted the 'unlikely' holes, drilled high into the ridge, but it was the echoing call which finally drew me to the ground-feeding activity of several Andean Flickers. Although the landscape was quite immense the absence of sound was, at times, almost more so. I had watched the towering twisters wandering intermittently across the desert but, even then, it wasn't until I had determined to stand and embrace the form as it whipped about my ears that I could actually hear the fine scattering hiss of sandy particles, severely chastising any areas of exposed flesh. The experience left me with sand-choked hair and much grittiness about my face, ears, hands and clothes, in the ears and especially in the mouth!

Andean sunset.

I had planned to spend the best part of the final day walking to Lake Chungara, but opted instead to abandon the effort when yet another semi-feral dog set about snapping at my heels. I had heard the beast drumming across the sands from more than half-a-mile away, and that was before it had commenced barking its war cry into the void. The distance afforded me just time enough to arm myself with a few meatier stones. Our brief engagement saw me landing at least two significant blows upon the damned creature, before a sharp whistle brought the whole affair to a much-appreciated conclusion. Whatever the damage, clearly I hadn't, at least not significantly, damaged the bugger's legs. I know that one stone thudded into the side of the ultra-angry face- I think that I had winced at the sound of stone upon tooth- but far better that unsightly mess than my ankles, I had reasoned. Whatever the damage, the unseen whistler never thought to question my hastily-elected approach to evading dog-attack. At lower altitudes I had grown accustomed to arming myself with any from the most thorny of boughs, but up here this more benign and defensive manoeuvre had been denied me.

Route to Cotacotani.

It was at the point of perhaps greatest isolation that I was, I had initially thought, once again to be 'challenged,' but this time it was by a virtual dot at the foot of a low line of arid hills. Thankfully this beast remained put. Upon closer binocular inspection this transpired to be another of the lama-like Guanaco- I was impressed that the creature had so distantly and instantly recognised me as a potential threat, even though I was far from this. I took the time to sit for a while, by the icy crystal stream which I had been tracking, and there I noted my only Red-backed Sierra-Finch. It was instantly separable from the wealth of alternative finch species that had earlier been on offer, a stunningly rich-red saddle, set behind a soft grey neck and head. I had known that such a sighting was almost a 'gift,' but had not yet realised quite how sought-after these jewels had become. I know that I was able to spend fully fifteen minutes studying the bird, as it scraped about at the edge of a chiselled bank. And all the while my presence was punctuated by the distant bark of the solitary Guanaco.

Atacama Desert.

A decidedly more substantial twister was seen to be gathering strength some distance off to the west. I watched with mounting interest as the rising cloud slowly resolved itself into one caused by a wandering Land Rover. I think that I must have watched the vehicle's approach for well over a minute and a half before there was even the faintest hint of a mechanical growl- all the while my sentinel was echoing 'his' warning into the vastness. It was only as the engine became a background constant that I thought to look more carefully at an 'islet' of isolated boulders rising at the centre of the valley.

Track to Parinacota.

Upon a far closer inspection of the rocky cluster I noted that the shadows here cast, such as they were, had now assumed rather more of a fluid presence, seeming almost to ripple across the surface of the nearest and the most sheer of the visible surfaces. Assuming the strange spectacle to be some sort of trick of the rising heat, I watched on, almost absent-mindedly awaiting some sort of credible resolution or further clarification. The shadow, almost dreamesque at this juncture, appeared to lengthen and then it twisted and thinned outwards, stretching itself almost to breaking point before contracting into the form of some sort of creature... a cat maybe?

So, this had been the cause for alarm, and all the while I had been unaware. Had the approaching jeep not drawn my attention back towards the outcrop it is most unlikely that I ever would have spied the feline. It transpired that the 'shadow' had in fact been more cat than shadow, albeit more visibly liquid than solid, and so I concluded this to be the form of a black Jaguar. I pressed my eyes to my binoculars, as if attempting to push them clear through the lenses and ever closer to the beast. I caught the eyes ever so briefly- green, I thought- and in that moment it was evident in such casual behaviour, that the beast had all the while been watching me. As the Land Rover drew level with the mound so the ripple shimmered one final time and then simply 'melted' into the flat surface of rock.

Before shaving and drinking heavily, or perhaps after drinking heavily?

I mentioned the sighting to my driver, Gary, before we set off down to the lower altitudes of Putre, where the altitude sickness would thankfully decline to follow. At first he reacted sceptically, but would not completely write off the likelihood of such a cat. So, before setting off, we slowly circled the mound, which conspired to be rather more diminutive than it had at first appeared, certainly no higher than ten feet at its peak. We twice drove round the perimeter and at such a slow and meticulous pace, never once glimpsing so much as a dubious shadow, but still Gary remained adamant upon us staying put, securely inside the jeep.

Framed within one of the vehicle's wing mirrors I was confronted by a vaguely familiar face, spied for the first time in several days, and I was curious to note that so much unkempt hair and patchy beard had afforded it something of a 'different' persona. All that it needed now was some sort of beret, maybe the barrel of a rifle peeping out from behind a right shoulder?

A far more benign Putre.

Scratching away at a mat of unaccustomed facial hair, I squinted into the light; suddenly so much older those features appeared in the bathroom mirror. Head cropped tight, and jawline uncharacteristically clean shaven? Instantly, I regretted having glanced at the offending wing-mirror.

Best get some of this down, before the memory fades...

Recycling

When I lived that little bit closer to Norfolk's delightful coast, trundling off to the edge of the ocean was something that I fairly regularly managed to achieve. Now that the city of Norwich is my starting point the sea seems oh, so much further away.

Of course, it is, sort of. But the 'oh, so much further' is really far more of a subjective call than it is one of relative distance. Were I to set out determinedly, upon any of the various and more direct routes, I am reasonably sure that I would quite soon make up the difference. The thing is, however, that, for me, the journeying now is every bit as worthy as is the destination. And yet, having now written this, I am again reminded that I do still yearn longingly for that wild and evocative coastline whilst I am relentlessly turning those pedals.



So, the dilemma? To cycle enjoyably along those quiet country back lanes, or to suffer the occasional impatience of some of our larger vehicles, vehicles with loads to unload and targets to meet, that I might once again reconnect to that wonderful untamed ocean? This 'dilemma,' quite naturally becomes ever more so as age gradually and determinedly replaces relative youth. That is to write that one's ability to avoid or otherwise ameliorate any of cycling's potential and multifarious mishaps also becomes increasingly compromised, as previously sharp reactions are cruelly usurped by something approaching torpor.

In the course of my variable meanderings I have never yet come to any serious harm, although several times I have found myself unseated. Thus, I now always endeavour to don my trusty cycling helmet before venturing forth. But, this wasn't always the case.



There was a time when I didn't even possess a cycling helmet; I used to love the feel of the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and the merest thought of encasing my fragile skull in a helmet would never have occurred. Events have moved on apace since those more hedonistic days. I can all too vividly recall an incident, not so very long ago when I found myself upended within a shallow ditch. The event wasn't so very memorable as of itself, except in the exiting of the aforementioned ditch.

I remember thinking, "Who is this?" as I struggled to align memories of a more agile younger self with those of a entirely more decrepit older shell. At the time I had been wearing a helmet; it wasn't this mishap that had brought me to my senses, that had happened a couple of years previously. And it wasn't so much any specific sort of a mishap either. It was rather more an imagined pinnacle, a gradual dawning of sanity- it had anyway taken far too long for me to come to my senses. Maybe this 'incident' had merely been that final 'nagging drip.'



As I recall I was somewhere approaching Warham Camp, although I don't believe that this had been my ultimate destination. I believe that I was returning from somewhere further to the west, and was attempting to rejuvenate tired legs by standing upon the pedals, such that this might stretch my aching calves. I remember slipping and losing control, as a left toe dug itself determinedly into the road's surface- fortunately this act of stupidity was not observed by others- and I recall hitting the grassy verge and being thrown over the handlebars and onto the raised bank.

Even then, immediately after the impact, I knew that the bike was okay; in need of a bit of realignment maybe, but otherwise fine. But, when I attempted to sit up it became clear that I had thumped my head against a softer part of the bank. There had been other and less forgiving features with which I might have collided, but my point of impact had been a relatively soft and well-covered grassy mound. Even so I found the immediate act of sitting up to be unattainable. So, I opted instead for a moment of quieter contemplation. I simply laid where I had fallen, using the aforementioned mound as some sort of temporary pillow. The day had been one of generous allocations of sunshine and the grass was longish and, at the site of my landing, free from thistles or other more troublesome plant-life. A short while later- as thoughts of remounting gradually began to usurp those of taking a short nap- it was more the idea of troubling any passing motorist that eventually brought me again to upright.



I hadn't then noticed the fact that the impact had also severed a small bag from just under the rear of the saddle. This I found several days later, still lying in the grass, but shredded by whichever mechanical grass cutter had since mowed the verge. I observed also several of the now exposed and alternative landing sites, many of them entirely less forgiving. When I had mentioned the mishap to my partner she (more or less) insisted upon the wearing of a helmet, a 'request' with which I have always since complied.

But 'to wear or not to wear?' although seemingly clear cut, is not quite so secure in its apparent guise as it might at first seem. There are other factors to be considered, factors other than those of the blindingly obvious.

'Other factors' might necessarily include the most obvious one of the un-helmetted' cyclist being more attuned to the potential pitfalls of the road. Another consideration might therefore be that the motorist- the motorist, not all motorists- actually tends to consider the un-helmetted cyclist as more fragile and will act accordingly. Pertinent to the second consideration, the passing distances of other vehicles has actually been measured; I think that the increased margin is somewhere in the region of six to seven inches.



There is the fact, assuming the skull is not otherwise compromised in any mishap, that the resultant neck injuries may be worsened by the subtly altered contours of the head, shoulders and neck. There is the fact that the tiny restrictions of the straps of the helmet interfere, albeit very minimally, with one's finer attunments with the immediate environment. The issues are seldom quite as conveniently simple as we might wish them to be, or indeed 'as they are often sold.' Most of us can muddle by with this state of affairs.

But I cannot yet fathom the curious decision that some riders choose to make, that of riding unhelmetted whilst a child rides along, helmeted or otherwise, cautiously ahead of the assumed parent. Were we living in less confrontational times one might deign to ask the adult 'quite what is the plan here?' And, I would imagine, always assuming that abuse is not forthcoming, that the answer would be something based upon considerations pertinent to the aforementioned points. Maybe something along the lines that 'the adult' is going to be more finely attuned to the potential hazards of the road. Still, it does not fill me with confidence, to see such an arrangement. I might tally, that surely the adult's finer tunings are going to have been compromised through the distractions of thinking also on the part of the child.



Drivers, some of them, can be fairly impatient, often more so if they are not also cyclists. If would additionally be fair to observe that even the sparsely trafficked roads are becoming ever more compromised, as some of the more rabid effects of targeted austerity bite deeply into the nation's tarmac.

I don't know if this makes me appear more chauvinistic- I'm sure that age is also at play here- but I have found myself evermore anguished at the sight of younger female riders, more so those with the longer, flowing locks, who float along the busier roads. But then, it may even be the case that the flowing tresses act as signpost to the vulnerability of the rider? They're certainly signposting this argued 'fact' to me.

The weather has finally tipped that point where I can feel that winter might never relinquish its determined hold upon the temperatures. I have even managed to dust down my own bike and to again work those pedals, although as yet to minimal effect. But this is just the most recent in a wavering line of sprummers (spring and summer, but should really also include autumn, so maybe sprumtumns) and my mind has been persuaded through the accumulated hard miles, impatient trucks, and confrontation; this year I will be wearing the helmet, and yet again opting for the scenic over the efficient. Still this will not, I think, be able to prevent me from becoming increasingly distracted from my own journeying at the choices that others may have elected to take.

And so, for this one-more-season, I shall settle for being able to cycle enjoyably along those quieter country lanes, preferring not to suffer the impatience of some of our larger vehicles. Those deepening potholes might yet have their 'say'...

Urban Mycelium

I've long had issues with capillaries, especially those that are located within my fingers. Often when it's cold I have found myself fast losing the sensation in my hands; this much I would imagine is not uncommon. My affliction- I've been 'reliably' informed that this is known as Raynaud's Syndrome- sometimes now affects me when I've forgotten to eat, or when I have worked for an overly long time at some task or other, even when the surrounding environment is otherwise quite benign.

On such occasions I have found, upon returning home, that for an age I am unable to properly manipulate the requisite number of fingers. This lack of feeling may steadfastly refuse to relinquish its hold for as long as an hour, and this when I am languishing within a suitably heated environment. Maybe this trait is simply another manifestation of a sugar-low or some such thing. It would be fair also to write that, during those more pronounced bouts, there has sometimes been an accompanying feeling of otherworldliness not unlike being unexpectedly drunk. I think that age is not without some blame here.



Today the creeping numbness was again present as I set about attempting to record an entirely different set of capillaries, those belonging to the fair city of Norwich. These particular microbial pathways being the cuts and alleyways that creep so stealthily between the more purposeful structures of the greater conurbation.

And, not unlike so much mycelium, these almost subliminal afterthoughts often appear seemingly invisible to the significant majority of the city's human inhabitants. If not literally 'invisible' then effectively inconsequential, there more by mistake or inconvenience than by any specific product of design or forethought.




As I wandered through a city to which I have, over the years, become increasingly attached I was given to ponder the creeping corporate blandness of certain quarters, the absence of those smaller and more delicious gems that have been slowly esponged from the more fondly frequented areas, the corner shops, the 'unchained' establishments. The 'noise' of commercial busy-ness has often found me withering into the cracks, my mind otherwise elsewhere; it has invariably been the more unique pieces of the larger jig-saw within which I have sought solace.

That is not to write that Norwich has been entirely subsumed by the corporate dollar. I was happy to relocate here several years ago, and that affection has far more morphed than died. Norwich remains a city that is (reportedly) proud to have retained such a wide spread of independent shops and eateries. Fair play... maybe?



Speculating upon my fascination for these tiny rivulets of essentialness (the alleyways), I found myself drawing all sorts of bizarre parallels. Quite what was it that has drawn me repeatedly into the shadows and away from the neon lures? To where the pavements lack so much of the lustre, to where the bright facades are entirely absent and, curiously, to where so many of the 'doorways' appear now without further purpose?



I considered that it was, at least in significant part, the more evidently organic aspects of such places that still reached out and drew me in. I considered that these places are not entirely unlike those rainforest glades that may have been opened to the sky through the demise of some strangler-fig targeted behemoth; the monolith no longer standing so we may now be permitted to ponder the smaller and more ethereal alternatives, thus to me the verticality of these places is also relevant. Here there lies juxtaposed an illusory gateway to freedom, yet encapsulated within the more immediate and claustrophobic embrace.

After a certain hour these places are transformed into something else, something far less reflective and decidedly more forbidding. But, when the sunlight may be permitted to dapple the sides of the 'canyon' then we may afford ourselves time to reflect upon its more organic and wondrous properties.



There are the meandering trails of barbed wire, perhaps the scattered presence of shattered glass, either glistening upon the variable or undulating ground, or else jutting threateningly from the tops of rambling walls. We can note the black-painted pipes, coated thick and treacly, that silently deposit their unmentionable cargoes deep into the earth, and branching off are the smaller tributaries, winding upwards and away from the mother-pipe. Limpeted to the 'cliff-faces' we may see the clustered air-conditioning units, perhaps awaiting the predicted catastrophic rise in sea-level. There are the frosted and dusty windows, layered as much as decades deep, cowering behind their heavy bars, and those mysterious sealed doorways into other worlds now lost, the angry or tribal graffiti, invariably hastily scrawled upon any 'suitable' canvass, weathered brickwork and broken paving slabs unlikely to have been scheduled for any sort of swift repair.

These micro-environments are, of course, littered across our fair city, either effecting a shortcut to another part of the city, or else trailing away and into an effective dead-end. Here, in this posting, I have opted to highlight the less-trained thoroughfares, many other alleyways have gradually been humanly-utilised, transformed in part into far quainter courtyards, mostly now locked safely away behind cast-iron gateways.



Our mark upon the planet at times seems so indelible that we often forget the almost ethereal briefness of our tenure. Several of our more enduring plants will have been here long before much of this urban sprawl set up its squat; it is to be hoped that some (plants) will yet linger on long enough to usher the globe through to the 'other side,' whatever that may transpire to be.

If we dare to believe it, to peer into the cracks and the more conducive corners, we may bear witness to a few of nature's more tentative scouting parties. Way up in the highest gutters already the spores and the saplings are taking root, secreted still inside the pores of the most porous the avant-garde are, at this very moment, determinedly reaching for the light. Inside one urban glade I encountered a door-shaped panel of verdant mossiness, already perhaps hinting at the alternative gateways we might yet pursue, not so much clinging on in the corners as already setting about eroding and replacing humankind's more transient obstacles.



And we were encouraged to believe that we were making such a positive fist of it all.

Rights of Passage?

Much as I may not care for certain individuals- in extreme instances perhaps wish them misfortune- I am not, nor could I ever be, a killer. The idea of violence on my part is something that I reserve entirely for those that might cause harm to close friends or family, thus currently it languishes in the realms of fantasy. 

True I would wish to remove, from the most greedy, entire fortunes, acres of land and mountains of superfluous self-indulgences, that we might better address our collective social responsibilities. But, to extract that reasonable retribution armed with hammer or knife, no thanks! I would rather see our society redress the growing imbalance through more democratic means. Of course, the chances of this happening, when huge swathes of the electorate are politically inept, remain pitifully remote, but one can dream.

Just to qualify 'ineptness,' I do not necessarily regard these individuals as worthy of contempt or even of mild dislike. Perhaps instead, extreme disappointment. They may well be, in every other sense, utterly delightful individuals, generous of possession and of spirit. But, when I witness (young) people so, so disengaged as to blindly follow the lazy voting preferences of politically inept parents, or I am given to converse with those who do not know, at the very least, who might best represent them, then I am very disappointed. Incidentally, I do also recognise the act of political abstention as a valid choice, infinitely more so than either of the previous options.

The utter simmering contempt is reserved for the neoliberal system, and for those individuals who slavishly uphold its supremacy.

So, how better to meld the three points that I here wish to expand upon other than randomly?

Always grateful for these images, Gerry Gaffney

My first point is still fresh in my mind, my heart still beating, my temper still simmering. It involved a schoolboy. He, upon a bike, almost wiped me out, speeding down the St Stephen' Road slope to the underpass. He skidded, I stepped aside, muttering, "Christ!" we avoided one another and he was gone! I never even had the chance to shout at the stripling.

Had I been sharing the slope with another, he would have collided with someone, and at considerable speed! Had it been my beloved grandchild, I may well now be either pacing a hospital corridor, or else in heated discussion with a rare member of the constabulary. Potential consequences chill my blood, and may well have spilled the blood of several others. I'm sure that I don't need to elaborate further.

He never stopped to see if I was okay, or to apologise. He may be sitting in a classroom still shaking, or he may be laughing it up with mates, who knows? Maybe he collided with someone else, just around the next corner. And, if he did, I know who I'd like to think came off worse.

Secondly, Monday night's TV viewing caused me to chance upon a programme about London's moped gangs. Of course I didn't waste more than a few moments to consider the 'entertainment,' but that was more than enough. Gangs of armed- hammers and knives- young men, filmed targeting the easy money? The 'easy money' came largely in the form of £40,000 wristwatches, weighted upon neoliberal manikins.

The violence was disturbing, certainly something that I would endeavour to avoid. And I found myself reacting with a deal of anger to these CCTV filmed acts. That quite so many had been captured upon film is altogether another debate. The contempt for 'fellow human beings' was in itself contemptible. Any regard afforded to those foolish or brave enough to intervene, I would imagine, would have been similarly minimal.

But ultimately, as with so much societal violence, the levels are a carefully calculated balance of potential personal gain set against potential retribution. Inside the head of the villain this might simply equate to, 'The risk of imprisonment for murder is or is not worth the chance of not needing to find gainful employment for another couple of months.' The footage, and any subsequent acts,  would seem to suggest that the youths had opted for the latter.

In the short space of time that I watched the barbarism, the maximum gain captured upon CCTV was a forty grand wristwatch. It told the time, and hung a lot heavier upon the arm than does mine... which also tells the time. In defence of his badge of superiority, the chap (target) raised a broom. Three armed thugs against a broom handle? No chance!

Cut to the Chief Superintendent with a plan. One might briefly have been forgiven for believing that the British Police plc. are still rather more than corporate mercenaries with ever-so-tiny frills, but only very, very briefly.

Again, much appreciated, Randy McDonald

And finally, yesterday's drive to Waitrose, along the full length of Norwich's Newmarket Road, brought about reasonable use of the rear view mirror, as should all such journeys. And, as journeys go, this one wasn't so very different to numerous others that I've had. Not so very different, in that I happened perchance to witness a young lady driving a black SUV whilst texting. I was stationary, at a traffic light, she was slowing down to join the back of the queue, not the most blatant use of a mobile whilst driving that I'd ever witnessed.

The lights duly clanked round to green and the chain of vehicles chugged up through the gears. The texting woman afforded the road a cursory glance, before drifting onwards. Not too close, again not the worse case of mobile phone use whilst driving that I'd ever seen.

Up through the gears, another flick of the eyes, before the text was again prioritised. Clearly, this text was judged to be more important than the life of any temporarily distracted pedestrian. Walk five minutes through the city and one'll encounter more than a few of these distracted pedestrians, heads buried within similarly important texts one would imagine.

Finally, I reacted! I opted for hazard lights, the texting was, after all, a hazard! She duly slowed, whilst continuing to text. The line resumed, me driving, she texting. I attempted a second time to make my point. The text prevailed. Upon a third burst of hazard lights the woman was seen to be less than happy. She presented an angry face, probably uttered something of a derogatory nature and gesticulated her impatience by waving her arms about. Perhaps she had considered my driving to be dangerous, I don't know. Either way she wasn't that happy!

When I turned off she was still texting as she sped onto the duel carriageway. Perhaps this had become one of the more sustained uses of a mobile phone whilst driving that I've yet seen. I feel confident in my assumption that she hadn't devoted much time to calculating the likelihood of any potential death(s) into her decision to text.

Thank you, Avital Pinnick

Lives are very much upon a sliding scale consideration in neoliberal Britain. All three of the above instances involved fleeting calculations as to its worth. When a Norwich bus driver jumps the lights at a busy crossing, or when IDS lies and misleads and bullies genuinely sick individuals back to work, and then fights tooth and nail to prevent resultant fatality figures from being published, all these instances involved placing human lives upon a sliding rule. The covert implementation of TTIP, and especially ISDS, into European legislation will be permitting many more corporations to push human life down this sliding scale.

Now, for whom should I reserve the greater contempt? Who's most likely to kill my granddaughter?

Nicer!

The Norfolk and Norwich Hospital presents as a curiously rambling affair, erected as it was upon the disputed intersection of three of Britain's most ancient ley-lines. One can say whatever one likes about these wondrous and deeply misunderstood pathways but they do tend to wreak havoc with one's sense of time.

It's oft been said, where such slippery things as timescales are concerned, that particular sections of the hospital are now so wildly out of kilter with others that the whole structure appears to wink, not unlike the dying embers of some sort of immense bonfire, when viewed from the outer fringes of the Earth's atmosphere. Astronomical sources can be notoriously difficult to pin down on the subject, but simply glimpsing that infamous knowing smile from Alfred Watkins, in his last televised interview on the subject of those, "ancient pathways," can be hauntingly spine tingling!



Truly, there are staff who have been working at the hospital, since almost the turn of the century, who have yet to discover the whereabouts of the oft-whispered-about Shaman(ism)ology Department, despite its well-documented and relatively pellucid referral system. Honest to God, if one stands upon the 'right' corridor junction and squints, somewhat obliquely to the east, it's almost as if the world is washed clean again, and once more free from sin. But, enough of all this nonsense...

... Let it suffice to be written that fully seven hours were duly recorded upon my own peculiar timepiece, despite what other contradictory sources may have implied. And, during my seven hour experience no fewer than three separate departments were visited.



We commenced our stint in the Venous Thromboembolism Department, where a delightful gentleman finally stamped his determined foot and said, "Enough is enough!" Such was his disillusionment with the practice of validating rat poison (Warfarin) as an NHS drug that he duly whisked the decision well out of reach of the NHS accountants. Whilst grinding the patient's remaining tablets under the heel of an angry shoe, he fiercely penned a prescription for a far more viable alternative, something by the name of Rivaroxaban. Yet early in the day and already the 'visit' was bearing impressive fruit.

Altogether far more alarming, one Chloe Smith- the Spirit of Christmas Cancelled- was witnessed to ghost along one corridor, tape measure flapping hungrily in hand. Speculation has it that, if she can tie at least four 'adjacent' departments to the same approximate real estate epoch, she's already identified several interested private 'investors' simply biting-at-the-bit to carve-up the place.



Our second port of call would have been that of the Radiology Department, specifically for yet more X-rays. Should 'we' be able to persuade the technician (at next week's MRI) to incorporate the patient's feet and 'we'll' have a complete composite body set, replete with 3,000 bonus loyalty points; saving up for that replacement knee joint. I swear to God, that at one particularly unsettling moment, I found myself staring open-mouthed along a gently undulating quaking aspen ride, facing towards an altogether brighter and more youthful sun. Had an orderly not punctured the bubble, by enquiring if I was lost, I feel that I'd still be there, adrift somewhere upon the mists of time.

Armed with the shield of truth- no longer its former proud acetate self, now merely a sad ciber-replica- our final port of call was the much-heralded Rheumatology Department, where angry needles were drawn and thrust unlovingly into the very joints of the now waning patient. Staunch and brave she was, whereas I had to excuse myself, under the pretext of fetching the earlier prescribed spoils. In my absence magical steroidal potions were wafted invitingly before the patient's eyes.



Ultimately, stiff as the competition genuinely was, it had to be Rheumatology that won the day and the purse. With sandwiches and several cups of tea on offer- for the patient and her companion- and seats that actually reclined, Rheumatology rightly won this lady's favour.

'Tis to be hoped that frittering away the private 'investor's' spoils, with such cavalier disregard, might perchance one day manage to exorcise the ghosts of such as Ms Smith, that the once mighty (now besieged) NHS might once again soar!