tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40232040827116302112024-03-19T08:48:33.866+00:00A Yorkshire MemoirA personal memoir of the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s and laterTasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.comBlogger467125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-11766986057688668672024-03-14T16:39:00.006+00:002024-03-17T17:40:52.226+00:00Follow The Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCX5LbCet_K6Kw15r78b29aA4nYEidVnb3mCfYjMKnjLcZcTtCz-KlymZ-GiIYiR1JswRy3PMYsi7agF8IrmwFdJmcHIQ2OHf_zihAMSUvXSRcTYY-Lz0bUUP1sgtY7P-6RUORI4e1hggkCrlI7LnYDKV99QMb6ioFUfuEtQmfMZlmi7fyVoIcqbO7KHk/s2022/sweetthings%205.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2022" data-original-width="286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCX5LbCet_K6Kw15r78b29aA4nYEidVnb3mCfYjMKnjLcZcTtCz-KlymZ-GiIYiR1JswRy3PMYsi7agF8IrmwFdJmcHIQ2OHf_zihAMSUvXSRcTYY-Lz0bUUP1sgtY7P-6RUORI4e1hggkCrlI7LnYDKV99QMb6ioFUfuEtQmfMZlmi7fyVoIcqbO7KHk/w90-h640/sweetthings%205.jpg" width="90" /></a></div>
<p></p><p>A few weeks ago, <a href="https://jabblog-jabblog.blogspot.com/2024/02/golden-syrup.html" target="_blank">Jabblog</a> wrote a post about Lyle’s Golden Syrup, which, by the ways and wanders of the mind in the night, took me to a party game. </p><p>I was about six or seven, and it was my birthday. Mum invited a few friends round. I fancy there was Dennis and Johnny from the next street, maybe Jack the neat writer, and Geoffrey Bullard, not yet the monster he became. Girls? I don’t know. Maybe my second-cousin, Linda, and her funny friend, Margaret. I liked them. We were all in the same class at school. I can’t really remember. The more you try, the more you make up. </p><p>I imagine we ran around in the garden for a while, and had tea. It would have been treacle on bread or treacle sandwiches (our name for Lyle’s Golden Syrup), or possibly honey. We often had that for our tea. Some people used to have condensed milk sandwiches, but I never liked the way it soaked into the bread and seeped out at the edges. For pudding, it would have been Rowntree’s Jelly and tinned fruit, with Carnation cream (which is what we called evaporated milk). And fizzy Tizer or Vimto to drink. Such was the nineteen-fifties diet. The school dentist was always busy. </p><p>Even now, I have honey on toast for tea when lazy, and Carnation “Cream” on tinned pears or apricots is luxury. Everyone here complains it is too sweet, so I have to have the whole tin myself. I don’t have treacle now, but the empty metal tins are great for all those bits and pieces you don’t know where to put: bath plugs, light pulls, door stops, picture hooks. Shame they risk disappearing in a squeezy plastic rebranding after 150 years unchanged. “... consumers need to see brands moving with the times and meeting their current needs. Our fresh, contemporary design brings Lyle’s into the modern day, appealing to the everyday British household while still feeling nostalgic and authentically Lyle’s,” said the brand director. “Drivel, bollocks, and bullshit,” said I. </p><p>As regards the party, I have only one clear memory. Dad said we would play a game called “Follow The Moon”, but would say no more about it. The time came, and we waited outside the front room, with Mum and Dad inside, the door closed, and the curtains drawn. We were called in one by one.</p><p>The first went in, and after a short time cried “Aarrgh!” Then the next went in to join them, and made the same sound while the first person laughed. The third went in and reacted in the same way, causing the first two to laugh, and so it continued. </p><p>I was last because it was my birthday. There was a sheet hanging vertically in the darkened room, with a circle of torchlight shining through. That was the moon. I had to keep my nose as close to the moon for as long as I could, while it moved around. It went up and down, and side to side, then faster in a circle, and, as both the moon and my nose reached the top of the sheet, a soggy warm wet sponge full of water came over from the other side and dunked me on the head. The others all roared with laughter. </p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-48714996804185800122024-03-12T16:51:00.002+00:002024-03-12T16:51:39.057+00:00Last Apple<p>The last of last year’s apples from the garden. Variety: Fiesta.</p><p>Unlike many other people, we had a big crop. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4nn5Un-sRRi_47aoM156uWCajLSsTICItjMWZ7k9dmQepmFX8QCvWTp4FqAjsE1dFcs6JPBuP75WPlPkTM7Gdr3sk-rwvLxONlsxCf1W-qEydDChnPPQY6jtuEDcF2BORbS9PWnCUB81jHnz66AaKoMN1X11SrH6m6zkEWUwmXp47FPqAy9wOfRpq2A/s1207/2024-03-12%20Last%20Fiesta%20Apple%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="1207" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4nn5Un-sRRi_47aoM156uWCajLSsTICItjMWZ7k9dmQepmFX8QCvWTp4FqAjsE1dFcs6JPBuP75WPlPkTM7Gdr3sk-rwvLxONlsxCf1W-qEydDChnPPQY6jtuEDcF2BORbS9PWnCUB81jHnz66AaKoMN1X11SrH6m6zkEWUwmXp47FPqAy9wOfRpq2A/w400-h380/2024-03-12%20Last%20Fiesta%20Apple%202023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-50306681876893096532024-03-07T10:32:00.006+00:002024-03-17T17:44:58.708+00:00The Nineteen-Eighties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq271Mt23SovSC-H21UQkBs74l20ZzvHb6s6H-RIQrwEl5Sb1zbmdFQ6B5rkDk4-_7EvujoNIViFh-lNF2oJXfg2Bv4ROikU-8dVXse1VpN7T4H4SRodViKysNInkIbhMhkur6f6mEQMS5VRiMHka3GsrFEm7jsueq8mifWFkotWfBhkYl3vz59l-7KWk/s788/strike.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="788" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq271Mt23SovSC-H21UQkBs74l20ZzvHb6s6H-RIQrwEl5Sb1zbmdFQ6B5rkDk4-_7EvujoNIViFh-lNF2oJXfg2Bv4ROikU-8dVXse1VpN7T4H4SRodViKysNInkIbhMhkur6f6mEQMS5VRiMHka3GsrFEm7jsueq8mifWFkotWfBhkYl3vz59l-7KWk/w400-h225/strike.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I missed most of the nineteen-eighties. I was working as a university researcher, writing a thesis in my spare time, and volunteering with the Samaritans. As well as all that, my mother was in and out of hospital with breast cancer, and then died. It left little over for anything else, and I gave no great thought to events taking place around me. Even the re-runs of old Top Of The Pops programmes from that time have seemed refreshingly new to me in recent years. </p><p>Yet, in Britain, it was a decade of great change: to commerce and industry, to individual and national identity, in lifestyle, and in politics. Almost every week there was some new controversy about the morals of the young and the state of the nation. Most of it went over my head. </p><p>So, forty years late, I have been back in the nineteen-eighties. I started with a 2016 television documentary, “The 80s With Dominic Sandbrook”. If nothing else, it is wonderful nostalgia. </p><p>It takes us through the years of Margaret Thatcher and the IRA Brighton bombing, her “special relationship” with Ronald Reagan, and her nation of young computer programmers. Our hearts and minds are invaded by Japanese video games and VCR video nasties such as Cannibal Holocaust, much to the outrage of Mrs. Mary Whitehouse, a puritanical Christian campaigner. We fall under the influence of the American consumerist dream, and the lifestyles of television shows such as Dallas. There is the civil unrest of racism, and we are terrified by the “gay plague” of AIDS, fought with surprisingly frank publicity and the example of Princess Diana. There is a gradual increase in sexual tolerance and acceptance of diversity. We go to war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands, and with the striking miners. </p><p>Is it rhetoric to say “we went to war” with the miners? It was certainly planned like a military campaign. The miners and other trade unions had been causing trouble for years, and the Thatcher government was determined to see them off once and for all. A sweeping programme of pit closures was announced, bringing miners out on strike throughout Yorkshire and elsewhere. The government had prepared by stockpiling mountains of coal at power stations, and were fortunate that the Nottinghamshire miners stayed at work, thinking their jobs were secure. An information assault was mounted, branding the miners as “the enemy within”, portraying then as uncouth animals making outrageous demands, prepared to be violent if not met. The image and persona of their leader, Arthur Scargill, seemed to fit perfectly. The mainstream media reinforced it, with reporting doctored to portray the miners in an unfavourable light. It had elements of regional and class snobbery designed to appeal to voters sympathetic to a right-wing government. </p><p>But another documentary, made to correspond with this year’s fortieth anniversary of the strike, gives a different perspective. “The Miners’ Strike: A Frontline Story”, recalls the personal experiences of fifteen men and women involved in different ways: striking and strike-breaking miners from working and striking areas, their families, and members of the police force. It is powerful stuff, with harrowing recollections of hardship and brutality. </p><p>One of the worst incidents occurred at Orgreave near Rotherham on the 18th June, 1984, where the miners planned to carry out peaceful secondary picketing. The police allowed them to approach and assemble without hindrance, and then brutally attacked them. The police were armed with batons, shields and riot gear, and hacked down the miners from horseback. It was like a medieval rout. At the time, it was widely presented as an act of self-defence by the police, but, later, miners were compensated for assault, wrongful arrest, unlawful detention and malicious prosecution. </p><p>The strike ended after a year when the defeated miners went back to work. Essentially, they had been trying to defend their communities. They accepted that mines had to close, but not that it had to be done so abruptly, leaving whole villages near-destitute. You cannot “get on your bike and look for work”, as one cabinet minister told them, when you have a mortgage on an unsaleable house, and there is no work to be had anyway. And you can’t go to university late like I did when you have a family. The changes could have been introduced gradually, with support, as with later pit closures. Many of the affected areas never recovered, and remain amongst the poorest in Europe. </p><p>Even now, there are many who choose to believe the media propaganda of the day, rather than recognising Margaret Thatcher and her Conservatives as uncaring, self-serving leeches who sold off the country’s assets and gave away the money. </p><p>At the end of his programme, Dominic Sandbrook wonders how Britain might have looked had the miners and IRA succeeded. Would it have remained a trade union fortress holding out against globalisation and the advance of technology? No, it would not. Change was unstoppable, and trying to hold it back would have been futile. But it did not need to be handled with such incompetence. </p>
<small>
<p>LINKS</p>
<p>The second of three parts of the series “The 80s With Dominic Sandbrook” (59 minutes) is online and apparently accessible without restriction at: <a href="https://clp.bbcrewind.co.uk/6b0ca8405623eacd3c490e87398bb3b9" target="_blank">https://clp.bbcrewind.co.uk/6b0ca8405623eacd3c490e87398bb3b9</a> </p>
<p>Currently there appear to be no legitimate copies of parts 1 and 3 online. </p>
<p>“The Miners’ Strike: A Frontline Story” (89 minutes) is on the BBC iPlayer (UK only): <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m001wm1x/miners-strike-a-frontline-story" target="_blank">https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m001wm1x/miners-strike-a-frontline-story</a> </p>
<p>However, much more is generally available on the BBC website (search for “The Miners’ Strike”), such as: <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-scotland-68442261" target="_blank">https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-scotland-68442261</a> </p> </small>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-81152459555435471232024-03-04T11:14:00.001+00:002024-03-04T11:14:33.527+00:00I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-XoylcJyRRJ2B4srvK76gLfzR87kI5xX-4ulvUpus9kBrZGzIS9k6MwWFG5hj6uUqG52Mn-dDpoov8QkahStZpBdHFCpmOrP34SI_9STJmBiuFwWfs-wATVVXsrx6NeRTEW_UgCuMl2UrBouVT3SolLOorCSBug-PuopJ_8ycwcRU8Dae5qZuOjZ6KQ/s620/ISIHAC1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="620" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-XoylcJyRRJ2B4srvK76gLfzR87kI5xX-4ulvUpus9kBrZGzIS9k6MwWFG5hj6uUqG52Mn-dDpoov8QkahStZpBdHFCpmOrP34SI_9STJmBiuFwWfs-wATVVXsrx6NeRTEW_UgCuMl2UrBouVT3SolLOorCSBug-PuopJ_8ycwcRU8Dae5qZuOjZ6KQ/w400-h234/ISIHAC1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p><a href="https://disasterfilm.blogspot.com/2024/02/im-sorry-i-havent-cluelive-and-complete.html" target="_blank">John Going Gently</a> recently mentioned the long-running BBC radio show “I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue” (ISIHAC). For those who don't know, it is a spoof panel game in which teams are asked by the chair to do silly things, very silly, very funny. It started in 1972, and has been running almost continually since: an incredible 52 years. </p><p>John included links to a couple of examples, and as he said in a comment, they should be prescribed on the NHS as treatment for depression. The one titled “The Complete Lionel Blair”, a compilation of a double-entendre gag running across a large number of shows, is almost too painful to take. You cannot believe such delightful dirty-mindedness could be broadcast on the radio. </p><p>In 1972, I was still in the shared house in Leeds, where we often audio-taped television and radio shows to hear again. We fancied ourselves as comedy script writers, but apart from a couple of snippets in the magazine Private Eye, all else was rejected. </p><p>ISIHAC was one of the series we recorded. Most of it is now gone, but I still have a tape with the very first four programmes from 1972. They were lost to the BBC for many years, and some may still be.</p><p>Humphrey Littleton was the chairman from the start, continuing until his death in 2008. Much of the success of the show was down to his deadpan delivery, as if genuinely baffled by the audience reaction to what he had to read out. Barry Cryer took over in the second and third programmes, but Humph returned for the fourth. The first panelists were Graeme Garden, Jo Kendall, Tim Brooke-Taylor and Bill Oddie, with John Cleese instead of Jo Kendall for the fourth programme. All had been in the show’s precursor, “I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again” (ISIRTA), which we also recorded; also mostly lost. </p><p>I digitise the shows to refer to in another post. For what it’s worth, here are the four half-hour programmes again. The BBC seemed uninterested when I tried to give them back some years ago. </p><p>The production took time to settle into its established format, but many of the elements are there: one song to the tune of another; swanee whistles; late arrivals; limericks; the non-associated words game. These episodes are probably more of historical interests than classics, but they still raise a laugh: “Announcing late arrivals at the Plumbers’ Ball: Mr. and Mrs. Closet, and their son, Walter Closet.”</p>
<p>Series 1 Programme 1, 11th and 13th April 1972: <a href="https://youtu.be/D6EfHMvCEws" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/D6EfHMvCEws</a><br />
Series 1 Programme 2, 18th and 20th April 1972: <a href="https://youtu.be/z8zjDKMTZiE" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/z8zjDKMTZiE</a><br />
Series 1 Programme 3, 25th and 27th April 1972: <a href="https://youtu.be/wPVGOgcy734" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/wPVGOgcy734</a><br />
Series 1 Programme 4, 2nd and 4th May 1972: <a href="https://youtu.be/tuYAWVzuGWs" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/tuYAWVzuGWs</a> </p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-87981994127307723362024-03-01T11:33:00.006+00:002024-03-01T11:33:00.139+00:00School Woodwork<p><span style="font-size: small;">New Month Old Post: first posted 1st April 2018.</span><br /> <br />The practically skilled will mock the mess I made. If I could do it again now, I think I would have the patience to make a decent job of it. At school, I didn’t care enough. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgkJul5qQ5gGQfp6sWo4FkhB11XtWETCEcQDet_3K8vvpOOqXxFUDeQ53gfbf_GkiFqE6saCnwz7UpWOfYlm9TzpbwZ6cgh43n1xDOK35mreHkQP3jEUi1fqfaadC1r7FPdTAxzPKappkHdv2vOjXXGMtcXmX4ANDPZj6z60232rImWbnD5yPFlDX/s778/WoodworkToyBoatDrawing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="778" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgkJul5qQ5gGQfp6sWo4FkhB11XtWETCEcQDet_3K8vvpOOqXxFUDeQ53gfbf_GkiFqE6saCnwz7UpWOfYlm9TzpbwZ6cgh43n1xDOK35mreHkQP3jEUi1fqfaadC1r7FPdTAxzPKappkHdv2vOjXXGMtcXmX4ANDPZj6z60232rImWbnD5yPFlDX/w400-h153/WoodworkToyBoatDrawing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The room smelt of sandpaper, sawdust and lacquer. It housed eight
workbenches: the solid wooden kind with shoulders at the sides, tool
cupboards underneath and a vice at each corner. And in our tough new
carpenters’ aprons: loops around necks, strings tied at the back, deep
pockets at the front, we really looked the business. <br /> <br />With that pencil-behind-ear can-do competence that only real woodworkers possess, Tacky Illingworth showed us how to shape a piece of wood into a ship’s hull by pointing the bow and rounding the stern, how to chisel out a couple of recesses in the top to leave a bridge, fo’c’s’le and fore and aft decks, and how to attach dowel masts and a funnel, simpler than but not dissimilar to the model in the picture. Mine was awful: irregular, lob-sided, gouge marks and splinters where it should have been flush-flat smooth. At the end of the year I didn’t bother to take it home. I think we made them only because it involved a variety of tools and techniques, rather than for any functional purpose.<br /><br />I did learn to love the beautiful, age-old tools though: the tenon saw with its stiffened back, the smoothing plane, the spokeshave, the carpentry square, the brace and bit, the mallet and woodworkers’ chisels, and best of all, the marking gauge. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4Mr-PxY8pzPAnEE1E17ukqJYaT7CLXeySLuxjuiP4JajFtSgx6hTMVHkrtXRV4E_drhRrfBObYCmYQ7WUDEGX4FCUwm11gZ9vbnv6DCO2fNmOdAreGPoQ723Wvd1Yi3IV7WpwlQRa3IdrQp00nT0FpNOE5J32HWqIA2jLmo5ze7ZxaEfvSHFA3Mh/s1328/markinggauge3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1328" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4Mr-PxY8pzPAnEE1E17ukqJYaT7CLXeySLuxjuiP4JajFtSgx6hTMVHkrtXRV4E_drhRrfBObYCmYQ7WUDEGX4FCUwm11gZ9vbnv6DCO2fNmOdAreGPoQ723Wvd1Yi3IV7WpwlQRa3IdrQp00nT0FpNOE5J32HWqIA2jLmo5ze7ZxaEfvSHFA3Mh/s320/markinggauge3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>How could you guess what a marking gauge is for unless you know? Why does it have a sliding block with a locking screw? What are the spikes for? Why two on one side and one on the other, and why are they moveable? A mystery! I’ve got my own now. I last used it to mark how much to plane off the bottom of a door when we got a new carpet.<br /><br />After spending the following year in Metalwork, we were allowed to choose which to continue. I returned to the relative peace and safety of woodwork, the lesser of the two evils. We had to decide upon a project, so I went for the ubiquitous book rack in its simplest form: a flat base with two vertical ends and a couple of pieces of dowel for feet. I selected a beautiful plank of mahogany which my parents had to buy, and began to cut out what were supposed to be stopped (half-blind) dovetail joints – visible underneath but not at the ends. It was far too ambitious. At the end of the year the book rack laid unfinished on a shelf in Tacky Illingworth’s stock room, wrapped in a soft cloth. His school report flattered me: “Progress is slow but does work of good quality”. Perhaps I had not yet made the mess it eventually became. <br /><br />That could have been the end of the story because there were no crafts in subsequent years when ‘O’ levels took priority, but an unexpected change of policy allowed games-averse weaklings to escape to art or crafts instead. Metalwork was no longer on offer. It had been replaced by pottery, which was tempting, but for some bizarre masochistic reason I went for woodwork again. Maybe I refused to be defeated. Tacky Illingworth proudly retrieved my unfinished book rack from his stock room, still in its protective cloth from eighteen months earlier. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKSAXqUEA_slRfosldbt7X-pVCai65uoemmn7KOJqvkJrKKAySiQoQ1znLfuNL5C33TODNpeLh1sN6oGtKYGedrlFq3z5uC4wAj_2KmX9H9A6wOmj6DPsmf6AkW2AyxzJK8qEsJplKUfKoAd4TDAF7SGCqs2rqpArSiOfxICWpJguzSTK3rO_B7bU/s2008/WoodworkBookrackLined.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="2008" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKSAXqUEA_slRfosldbt7X-pVCai65uoemmn7KOJqvkJrKKAySiQoQ1znLfuNL5C33TODNpeLh1sN6oGtKYGedrlFq3z5uC4wAj_2KmX9H9A6wOmj6DPsmf6AkW2AyxzJK8qEsJplKUfKoAd4TDAF7SGCqs2rqpArSiOfxICWpJguzSTK3rO_B7bU/w579-h200/WoodworkBookrackLined.jpg" width="579" /></a></div><br />I even finished the thing. I wrote the date on the bottom: April 1966. It’s a real mess of course. At one end I broke through the wall of the ‘pin’ part of the dovetail and had to stick it back in, and the joints were so loose that even glue could not hold them together. Tacky reluctantly allowed me to fix it with screws. It has been on my desk for over fifty years. <br /> <br />I wondered could I find it hiding in old photographs, and yes, here it is in various Leeds and Hull corners of the nineteen-seventies. It still holds one of the same books.<br /> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg2SUkLGiKbzZT8AJV4MRVd5jY0fHtpvlE2THBtU8r67in0oLWWAJcdAgB7eVm5xnyH4_GElExX5MprjKndnB2Yl7xAzn1DBIDajO26pMYw3I5jnDzCtyFhVh5de8YmnJVtgc74A6rhJ5vwIU31TMd7RILmtsuEZsMp2B26OLD2jcCMGTjxBO3LAD/s1913/Bookrack1970s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="1913" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg2SUkLGiKbzZT8AJV4MRVd5jY0fHtpvlE2THBtU8r67in0oLWWAJcdAgB7eVm5xnyH4_GElExX5MprjKndnB2Yl7xAzn1DBIDajO26pMYw3I5jnDzCtyFhVh5de8YmnJVtgc74A6rhJ5vwIU31TMd7RILmtsuEZsMp2B26OLD2jcCMGTjxBO3LAD/w533-h121/Bookrack1970s.jpg" width="533" /></a></div><br />As I said, if I were to make it again today, in the same way with hand tools not machines, it might not be perfect but I like to think it would be better. That would match my other subjects. At the very least I would hope not to break the ends. It probably comes down to patience, and perhaps a bit of care and confidence as well. As someone once said, education is wasted on the young. <br /><p></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-89891600454908523132024-02-26T16:51:00.004+00:002024-03-07T22:47:17.500+00:00Proof of the Pi<p>The proof of the pudding, they say, is in the eating, but what about the proof of the pi?</p><p>The ancient Egyptians, the Babylonians, Archimedes and <a href="https://rhymeswithplague.blogspot.com/2023/12/backward-turn-backward-o-time-in-thy.html" target="_blank">blogger Bob Brague</a> will tell you that we need pi (π) for circle geometry, and that it is roughly 3.14159. Blogger Yorkshire Pudding will also tell you that we need pie, lots of it, but he would be referring to the kind he makes from minced meat topped with mashed potato and baked. Yorkshire Pudding is right. There is no need for mathematical constants and strange symbols. We only need to know that the distance around the circle of a shepherds pie, as near as dammit, is three and one-seventh (22/7) times the distance across. You can use this to ensure you are baking enough for everyone. </p>
<p>I took for granted what they said about pi at school, without any real understanding. If understanding is the ability to think of the same thing in different ways, and to be able to switch between them, this is my attempt to do that. </p>
<p>So, this is another mathematical post, like the one in January about the Pythagoras theorem. I wondered whether the same technique could be used to illustrate similar concepts; such as pi. </p>
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<p>Here is a circle of 14 units across, zoomed in on the top right-hand quarter to make it easier to see and count. The quarter-circle is 7 units high, and it takes 11 units to go around its edge. So to go all the way round the full circle would take 44 units, which is three and one-seventh times the distance across the whole circle (14 x 22/7 = 44). </p><p>Does it also work for area? Can it show that the area of a circle is three and one seventh times the area of a square fitted from the centre to the edge (<i>American: Area = <span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">πr<sup>2</sup></span>)</i>? </p>
<p>Here is the circle again, with a square drawn from the centre to the edge, zoomed in on one quarter. </p>
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<p>If the square is divided into a 7 by 7 grid of 49 smaller squares, then most of the smaller squares are inside the circle, but some are outside. Of those outside, some are complete squares while others are part-squares. Counting them, I reckon that a total equivalent of around 10½ smaller squared are outside the circle, leaving 38½ inside. I have tried to show how I counted 10½ by putting numbers on the quarter-circle. Those with the same numbers make up one square. </p><p>Multiplying this by 4, it would need 154 (38½ x 4) of the smaller squares to completely fill the full circle. This is equal to three and one-seventh times the 49 in the square on the radius (49 x 22/7 = 154). </p>
<p>To prove this visually, I used three larger squares to cover three-quarters of the circle. Then I moved the parts that were outside the circle (shown in grey) into the fourth quarter. So far, in all, this has used 3 larger squares, a total of 147 smaller squares. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37SrKYc4ZpW1qe6Y8IDk1TvfkgwKpsibIx3CZ_rc4PQ-4lcinAbO9_nMSbG97KCmlp7Wpz2uVT4qXEL_WAWDTyRpry_SuNqhGk2UlJgPdRPuRFMuhJad4cfIA-4LgGcoAL-sVf6WtyMCHS94pIx4Mv4YjQPXDnpRdhuERrZSUKy-jGuax9lNE0AroGQ4/s2858/pi3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2230" data-original-width="2858" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37SrKYc4ZpW1qe6Y8IDk1TvfkgwKpsibIx3CZ_rc4PQ-4lcinAbO9_nMSbG97KCmlp7Wpz2uVT4qXEL_WAWDTyRpry_SuNqhGk2UlJgPdRPuRFMuhJad4cfIA-4LgGcoAL-sVf6WtyMCHS94pIx4Mv4YjQPXDnpRdhuERrZSUKy-jGuax9lNE0AroGQ4/w320-h250/pi3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>But it does not quite cover all the fourth quarter of the circle. We need an extra 7 smaller squares (shown in yellow), in other words, one-seventh of a larger square. </p><p>So, the area of a circle is equal to three and one-seventh times that of a square drawn from the centre to the edge. (Area = <span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">πr<sup>2</sup></span>)</p>
<p>Arithmetically, it takes 38½ smaller squares to fill the fourth quarter, but there are only 3 x 10½, or 31½, available to move. We are 7 short. </p>
<p>I get it. At least I think I do. </p>
Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-74420091307278145362024-02-22T10:38:00.002+00:002024-03-17T17:45:51.217+00:00Hand Signals and Semaphor Indicators
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<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Amongst the audiotapes I mentioned towards the end of last year, is one recorded by my aunt and cousins in the early nineteen-sixties. My uncle had taken a job in Germany, but they had yet to join him. They mention near the beginning that I had brought my recording machine so they could wish him a happy birthday.
My own thirteen-year-old voice is <a href="https://soundcloud.com/user-394026293/birthdayclip?si=d27e736e2b4b47a7becdf6c254210c4a&utm" target="_blank">heard briefly at the end of the tape</a>, but the less said about that, the better.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">What forgotten memories it brings back! </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">After the usual birthday song, they talk about what they have been doing. My youngest cousin says:
“Here is a song we learnt at school”, and begins to sing:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
Sides together right,<br />
Sides together left,<br />
Sides together right left,<br />
Sides together both.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We did that one in my year too. It was a dance in which you moved your arms about like a boy scout semaphore signaller. It then moves on to your toes: “Sides together point, sides together point ...”. Dear Miss Cowling: how you loved to join in. Remind me how to point both toes at the same time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then my aunt mentions she is about to take her driving test. Our town was a great place for it. It is completely flat with no hills. To test your hill start, you either did your three-point turn on a street with a particularly high camber, or went through a T-junction where the road rises a few inches due to the spoil dug out from the docks. There were also no traffic lights, no roundabouts, and only one zebra crossing. It limited what you could fail on. A few years later, I passed first time, four months after my seventeenth birthday. The test centre there closed years ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Even so, my aunt was anxious about the test. She took it in a Fiat 600 shipped back from a previous overseas stint in Aden. The Fiat was fine there, but a bit tinny and unsuited to the Yorkshire weather. There was always something wrong with it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Things did not begin well. She told the story many times. To say she was a nervous driver, lacking in confidence, would be understatement. The examiner made no attempt to put her at ease, staring blank-faced ahead throughout, giving strict instructions in a stern voice. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In those days, you had to be able to use hand signals. Remember those? Sides together right for a right turn, a kind of circling movement for left, and a wave like a sea gull to slow down. There were also special signals for white-gloved policemen on point duty. It was not easy through the tiny windows of the Fiat, especially if it was throwing it down with rain. The longer it went on, the surer my aunt became that she had failed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a relief to finish the hand signals and be allowed to use the electronic indicators. However, the Fiat did not have the modern self-cancelling flashing lights we have now. They were the old semaphore type. A little orange-tipped arm, about six inches long, flipped out from the side of the wing. You had to remember to put it back in again after you had turned.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So when one of the semaphore indicators flipped out but refused to flip back in again, my aunt lost all remaining hope of success. She pulled up, got out, and tried to push it back in by hand, but it was firmly stuck. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well, that’s it now,” she sighed hopelessly. “I’ve failed. Drive me back to the test centre and I can go home.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The examiner was stolidly unsympathetic. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Get back in woman,” he barked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She meekly did as told and completed the rest of the test using hand signals.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When they got back, my aunt answered the obligatory questions about road signs, braking distances, and the Highway Code, certain it was futile. The examiner completed his paperwork in stony silence.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I am pleased to inform you that you have passed,” he announced. He had to repeat it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Thank you. Oh thank you,” she stuttered in disbelief. “I promise I won’t let you down.” </span></p><p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuffjVT7L3G1Ov-o6MRG10oTMen_iLeoQtarimwh54-ayB6tdPvhX5qP3BL1lwtZV9v3PMsCkuB3a5ti5uHpDLIMJowJzlyvfIfped-hhriYs9mrIE69_Tt6Wag7NL2cKP1eF6DVWWo77fcaccA3yO6NQeBDgDZrh3vhOOp3RYDe-WGY-0NLPO5Kug60g/s813/1957Fiat600.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="813" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuffjVT7L3G1Ov-o6MRG10oTMen_iLeoQtarimwh54-ayB6tdPvhX5qP3BL1lwtZV9v3PMsCkuB3a5ti5uHpDLIMJowJzlyvfIfped-hhriYs9mrIE69_Tt6Wag7NL2cKP1eF6DVWWo77fcaccA3yO6NQeBDgDZrh3vhOOp3RYDe-WGY-0NLPO5Kug60g/s320/1957Fiat600.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1957 Fiat 600<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-79584166726961856092024-02-15T16:11:00.009+00:002024-03-18T15:30:19.805+00:00Breasts <p>What a title to grab attention! I wonder what the hit rate will be. However, those here for salacious reasons (you know who you are) may be disappointed. This is not what you are looking for. It is about embarrassing side-effects of the Tepotinib medicine I take. </p><p>And they truly can be embarrassing. It messes with your proteins and hormones to strange effect. In an earlier post I mentioned scrotal oedema (14th November). It has you rolling round like a bow-legged sailor. Fortunately, this has now subsided and I can go back to sea; well, walk around the village and do the gardening, at least. <br /><br />But there is a still more embarrassing side-effect, which I would not be mentioning at all had it not been sorted: gynaecomastia. It translates from the Greek as “female breast”: man boobs. <br /><br />I am not talking about a bit too much flab and fat in the chest department (you also know who you are; we think we do too), but something more uncomfortable. It took a month or two to pluck up the courage to tell the consultant I was a little sore around the nipples. A month later it was becoming painful. A hug from my wife had me crying out, and bumping against a door frame made me writhe in agony. I don’t know how you women manage. Breast feeding must be a nightmare. There were hard circular lumps under the skin and they were growing bigger. I began to worry it might show. <br /><br />The consultant said it was not something he had come across with Tepotinib, but he did an additional blood test. My testosterone levels were right down. Both men and women produce testosterone and oestrogen in different proportions. My testosterone was around the female level. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31LNLt8l6t8ja3E3uGRWFx1DtLFVfepnzVfd69wmfs2mY-iBmQ7cuyGT3XJNaGS4voEx7C_C-YR2XCtPHyEGt6fSetQHBldFFWyA5rR6a6elHTaYEZ0miX_dhDkK_l3YPzX4JEqz7QaLfiIBJdOzKXz1RyiufcIs8uSRBmik8TbMBgko7BmcUeI6Cjb0/s356/testogel_pump.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="182" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31LNLt8l6t8ja3E3uGRWFx1DtLFVfepnzVfd69wmfs2mY-iBmQ7cuyGT3XJNaGS4voEx7C_C-YR2XCtPHyEGt6fSetQHBldFFWyA5rR6a6elHTaYEZ0miX_dhDkK_l3YPzX4JEqz7QaLfiIBJdOzKXz1RyiufcIs8uSRBmik8TbMBgko7BmcUeI6Cjb0/w163-h320/testogel_pump.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>Four months and four jabs in the bum later, I am relieved to report
that it has gone completely. The jabs could have been at shorter
intervals, but I went for a more careful approach. I didn’t want to start
acting like Rambo.<p>No further jabs needed. I now have a gel you rub on - no, not there - you rub it on your shoulders. <br /></p><p>“Testogel”, would you believe? Two pumps per day. Phwoar! </p><p>You have to wash your hands thoroughly afterwards, and on first use prime the pump and dispose of what comes out. Quite a bit goes down the sink. I suppose somewhere there is a fish with a beard and a deep voice.</p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-53524447511127319912024-02-08T21:45:00.005+00:002024-03-17T17:46:59.467+00:00Snowing Like Buggery<p style="text-align: left;">Heavy snow was forecast today, with a weather warning for our part of the Pennines, but it was nothing compared to how things used to be. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbI88JMhnTRbWtfzy76FBKV1RPhBe8YnJfELwBKQi5gcWucvRlHbcNu2YOJ2nP5v3OuC_p1HG1GYjGIxtcldIXup2wVeEaxNoi7WYWbzlQmR-goiaMQss8CJodC-Tc5xv_w580oBr_zielU12w0Wu7q4gS60j2myxW0VeI0pPOx-Oglz3Qmv8EV4FWvJU/s1522/2013a.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1522" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbI88JMhnTRbWtfzy76FBKV1RPhBe8YnJfELwBKQi5gcWucvRlHbcNu2YOJ2nP5v3OuC_p1HG1GYjGIxtcldIXup2wVeEaxNoi7WYWbzlQmR-goiaMQss8CJodC-Tc5xv_w580oBr_zielU12w0Wu7q4gS60j2myxW0VeI0pPOx-Oglz3Qmv8EV4FWvJU/w400-h285/2013a.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The guinea pigs snowbound in their hutch at the end of the garden, 2013<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Wednesday, 25th January, 1995. It started to snow at half past four in the afternoon, much earlier than forecast, and much more heavily. I was at work at the university, feet on desk, on the phone to someone in Newcastle. Big heavy flakes, like dinner plates some would say, reflected the office light back in through the window. I should have got out straight away. When I did, it was chaos in the car park. Any later and I would have had to spend the night in the sports hall. </p><p>All over Yorkshire, people were trapped overnight at work, on trains, in churches and town halls, and in cars on the M62. Six people died trying to walk home. The audience at the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds were forced to stay the night. They had been to see ‘The Winter Guest’, a play about a community cut-off during a blizzard. Realism at its utmost. <br /><br />My wife, J, was six months pregnant, her last week at work before maternity leave. She worked seventeen miles away. How was she coping? No mobile phones in those days. <br /><br />It took me two hours to do three miles. The traffic inched forward with longer and longer standstills. The road then steepened and the next few hundred yards took another hour. I turned round and went back to a pub car park, had a whisky and some crisps, and started to walk home. <br /><br />I crunched my way through the countryside under crystal-clear stars, along the middle of a now silent road. There were a few other walkers, all cheery and excitable, and a lot of abandoned cars. Where was J? Was she back already? There had been no answer when I phoned from the pub. <br /><br />The house was in darkness. No messages. I waited up for a time. It seemed best to get some sleep, so I went to bed. <br /><br />I was awoken by her scathing voice. Her car was outside in the middle of the street, deep tracks through pristine snow. It’s an interesting experience, shovelling two feet of snow off your drive at three in the morning. <br /><br />It had taken her nine hours to get home. Apart from stopping for petrol and a bar of chocolate, she had simply kept going. She knew she couldn’t get out and walk. On getting stuck, she just went backwards and forwards wiggling the wheels until free. She was rather pleased with herself, the only car still on the road. <br /><br />The snow melted quickly and we were able to rescue my car the following afternoon. </p><p>Early the following week, it happened again. In no way was the university management going to be caught napping again. <br /><br />This time I was helping to invigilate an exam for a hundred and fifty students. We were in a windowless, sports hall half a mile from the main campus. I had accompanied a student to the toilet (fortunately, they were still capable of removing and replacing their own pants in those days) when someone came to tell us we had an urgent phone call. Gary, one of the other invigilators, went to take it. <br /><br />“Evidently it’s snowing like buggery* outside,” he whispered to us. “The examinations office say the university is about to be closed and we should all piss off home quick” (don’t ever think that university professors are urbane and well-spoken all the time). <br /><br />I wasn’t too happy. It meant we would need to set another exam, and the students would have to prepare for it and retake at a later date. We whispered between ourselves and decided to tell the students how things stood. Gary made an eloquent announcement offering them the opportunity to leave early. None did. <br /><br />Afterwards, we were supposed to be collected along with the examination scripts by university transport, but none came. We had to struggle back on foot. The university was locked up and abandoned. Even the security staff had gone home. We could not get into our offices. We walked to the car park and put the scripts in my car. I began the drive home. <br /><br />If anything, it was worse than the first time. The traffic was even slower and more halting, and I could see I was going to get stuck again. I had the bright idea of diverting by one of the back roads. Wrong decision!<br /><br />Half way home there is a steep, down and up dip. I slid to the bottom and that was it. Car stuck in the middle of nowhere, boot full of students’ examination scripts. It was going to be hard enough to walk the rest of the way without having to carry the scripts as well. So, I abandoned them. I wasn’t going to spend all night in the car. <br /><br />There it stayed for two days. What would have become of me had the car been broken into and scripts full of data flow diagrams and entity life histories scattered across the countryside? I suppose it would not have been the first time that examination papers have been lost. It must have happened at some time, somewhere. Or has it? </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEh03CrYtgY8q2bABcIRXKzvxEQQVzC4mHLhY3bZO8sQO7drwURfyb4J99_BVZvB_M06qrdChC2yN9FD-rvzySPq36TQnuYvrg-1trC-RQF0BsNcb6QF9BUl2md45su8FMLhn3u_MgHJtHwWV91q66ItSgio9yNjHr124G6QfubE8qMILar9-h32wmHk4/s1229/2013b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1229" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEh03CrYtgY8q2bABcIRXKzvxEQQVzC4mHLhY3bZO8sQO7drwURfyb4J99_BVZvB_M06qrdChC2yN9FD-rvzySPq36TQnuYvrg-1trC-RQF0BsNcb6QF9BUl2md45su8FMLhn3u_MgHJtHwWV91q66ItSgio9yNjHr124G6QfubE8qMILar9-h32wmHk4/w400-h300/2013b.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road near our house, 2013<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-size: small;">* a colourful expression I had not heard since childhood, meaning "a lot".</span><br /></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-7448421586050330852024-02-05T21:53:00.002+00:002024-02-06T10:30:57.075+00:00Hand Warmer<p>This solid-fuel pocket hand warmer has been at the back of a drawer, unused for forty years. I thought it was something from the past, but surprisingly you can still buy them. I bought mine around 1973. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisC3jfnM2vVr_DNTHRB2j_IPhnfk16dEU_hJ-wJs_JtqXlT9yxoI5wAY3Rj93WOcTAaC8pLzIpYiICDSDYWGG-Xti_TUoS9yVYwZyEp0DBrNHRmfF6tJShFbKq5D9GIXTGxFq4zGG1R747_k474qvVVnbMWxiZDymdkv_Pe_2N31bFufbU8pH8D0pmDwk/s2152/handwarmer1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="2152" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisC3jfnM2vVr_DNTHRB2j_IPhnfk16dEU_hJ-wJs_JtqXlT9yxoI5wAY3Rj93WOcTAaC8pLzIpYiICDSDYWGG-Xti_TUoS9yVYwZyEp0DBrNHRmfF6tJShFbKq5D9GIXTGxFq4zGG1R747_k474qvVVnbMWxiZDymdkv_Pe_2N31bFufbU8pH8D0pmDwk/w400-h149/handwarmer1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It consists of a small insulated metal case that fits in the palm of your hand and burns solid carbon fuel rods. They were mainly for climbers but I used it on wild camping trips in the Scottish Highlands when it was cold enough to freeze water inside the tent. It warns not to use it in bed, but I did. It was great for warming up your toes at the end of your sleeping bag. I could have died of carbon monoxide poisoning. <p></p><p>I fired it up for one last time. <br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJlRlyPyDUgFEqMM98becM5E_qlFHbwenGALj2Pyn7LEN3lnk86zzWcziNBVAm5GVWP9DnqWW2LXqSFSIAvY_JG8BLYSLgZZs7JYC-Olx6SLqjmlSj7y3JiA0jXhg87KVgjR1lAuAwDEgGJJsRgIlOX5onizo-qODCKAdglSYRWEubZMKpQ_mnoJz680/s2162/handwarmer3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="2162" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJlRlyPyDUgFEqMM98becM5E_qlFHbwenGALj2Pyn7LEN3lnk86zzWcziNBVAm5GVWP9DnqWW2LXqSFSIAvY_JG8BLYSLgZZs7JYC-Olx6SLqjmlSj7y3JiA0jXhg87KVgjR1lAuAwDEgGJJsRgIlOX5onizo-qODCKAdglSYRWEubZMKpQ_mnoJz680/w400-h149/handwarmer3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiopRL6E1rhUsT_PVrEqcQ12BS8BOyzI6GIm8qbRwbBlcR61ag8rW8jf-K1CTxKoF1D__RQQpw-PmWEemsbndecIVzpqu4rQUfR9gTXw3gnB0KMsj3jWlEEQ6D01B6cxZWFkjkATUItzBa9yzZ6RQRjl3CXs_-j937trepYINXlLnmBf10Y6f-TNoakzQ/s2158/handwarmer5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="2158" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiopRL6E1rhUsT_PVrEqcQ12BS8BOyzI6GIm8qbRwbBlcR61ag8rW8jf-K1CTxKoF1D__RQQpw-PmWEemsbndecIVzpqu4rQUfR9gTXw3gnB0KMsj3jWlEEQ6D01B6cxZWFkjkATUItzBa9yzZ6RQRjl3CXs_-j937trepYINXlLnmBf10Y6f-TNoakzQ/w400-h150/handwarmer5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>
These days you can buy
chemical hand warmers small enough to fit in a glove or sock. They look
like tea bags. Apparently, they are not that warm and don't last very
long. Mine gets quite warm and lasts all night. The only trouble is it
makes you smell like you have been standing on a railway bridge above
the funnel of a steam engine. <br /><br />It's too nice to throw away. I'll put it back in the drawer for someone else to deal with. The kids won't use it. They are scared of matches. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7prBiUYkCdvCNBVAbA32iNzjHKLWKsDw5oi3wRu-mKgswJFFCbfxMJZTOWhegJROpDNZkNjCwnNSWZM8NUeNEJN6_u6-2shOGHRYcrXNF8cFVs9oiCyjUiau8MMYYja3veUHmm5MIhjiz7S0EQialwVQnJHF2E0DgQ4n0pIgZonjkSa1uhRAmiSovuyY/s1283/36Easter1975.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1283" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7prBiUYkCdvCNBVAbA32iNzjHKLWKsDw5oi3wRu-mKgswJFFCbfxMJZTOWhegJROpDNZkNjCwnNSWZM8NUeNEJN6_u6-2shOGHRYcrXNF8cFVs9oiCyjUiau8MMYYja3veUHmm5MIhjiz7S0EQialwVQnJHF2E0DgQ4n0pIgZonjkSa1uhRAmiSovuyY/w400-h266/36Easter1975.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upper Glen Nevis, 1975<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-31708095805147283782024-02-01T16:14:00.002+00:002024-02-02T12:21:53.938+00:00Brendan and the Shared House<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">New Month Old Post: first posted 3rd February, 2019. (Not that old, but few current followers will have seen it).</span><br /></div><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KiRdjDschrkxNL2Igu73U1uXnMGPHfVP6BjCcYX8ISPv9h-yOAcUlkXk4ptD2k8ZkIYV2v1stUWZMNXplpBnqstwDcvhn5NKm8AZWvIStHJGe76aSpq36swU_V6lSK0qR4mvHUuDmWI/s1600/GhanaStamps.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span id="goog_2139452222"></span><span id="goog_2139452223"></span><img alt="Ghana 1970s aerogram with additional stamp" border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="910" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KiRdjDschrkxNL2Igu73U1uXnMGPHfVP6BjCcYX8ISPv9h-yOAcUlkXk4ptD2k8ZkIYV2v1stUWZMNXplpBnqstwDcvhn5NKm8AZWvIStHJGe76aSpq36swU_V6lSK0qR4mvHUuDmWI/s640/GhanaStamps.jpg" title="Ghana 1970s aerogram with additional stamp" width="576" /></a></div>
<br />
I always assumed we would see each other again one day. We would go to the pub and get pissed and laugh about the people and the good times in the shared houses in Leeds. But it was not to be. <br />
<br />
We would remember Ron, the guy who never stopped talking, notorious for ‘ronopolising’ the conversation with his mind-numbing ‘ronologues’ which always began “Did I tell you about the time I …”, and if you had ever been somewhere, done something or seen something, he had always been somewhere, done something or seen something better. He used to leave his towel draped over the hot water cylinder in the bathroom and it stank. He never washed it. You would think a hospital bacteriology technician would have been worried about bugs. <br />
<br />
And Pete, who gassed the place out with the peculiar aromatic smell of <i>Holland House</i> pipe tobacco. He smoked even when it was his turn to cook, speckling the plates with ash. He once accidentally tipped the thing over my food and instead of being sorry just laughed and got on with his own unconcerned. Anyone would think he owned the place. Actually, he did. He was always asking “Can I trouble you gentlemen for some rent please?” <br />
<br />
Then there was Nick, who could swear like only someone from the back streets of Manchester could, and Larry who made himself dainty little jellies and custards every Monday and lined them up uncovered on the kitchen table for several days (we had no fridge). And Roger, the Ph.D. student with his clever cryptic comebacks, and Paul with the outrageous ginger beard and silly Lancashire accent. And Gavin who was so well organised you had to make an appointment three weeks in advance just to ask him something. And Dave, the Geordie, who did an animated rendition of <i>The Lampton Worm</i>, and was on holiday when the electoral register form came, so we put his middle name down as Aloysius. <br />
<br />
And who could forget ‘Pervy Pete’, the television rent collector, who came each month to empty the coin box, greeted us “hello mensies”, and lingered uninvited to take an unseemly interest in which bedrooms we slept? That television always ran out of money right in the middle of <i>Monty Python</i> or just before a punchline in <i>Jokers Wild</i>. <br />
<br />
The others came and went, but Brendan and I stayed longest. We were from ordinary Yorkshire backgrounds, shared the same sense of humour and had under-achieved our ‘A’ Levels. Brendan was the liveliest among us, and the best looking. In his long Afghan coat, with his smooth young face and long centrally-parted hair, the kids in the street called him “that lad who looks like David Cassidy.” He made us laugh with his silly puns and deliberate misunderstandings. He could play guitar better than me and instantly put chords to almost any song at all. He could throw a lighted cigarette in the air and catch it the right way round in his mouth. He had an impossibly beautiful girl friend who was training to be a doctor. <br />
<br />
We were both desperate to escape our mundane jobs, me from an accountants’ office and Brendan from a veterinary laboratory, and did so around the same time in 1977, me to university and Brendan on Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO). He dreamed of some idyllic tropical paradise where nubile young girls danced to the drum-beat naked in the twilight, and was dismayed to be sent to sub-Saharan Africa, to an isolated rural village in Northern Ghana called Pong-Tamale, around 400 miles from the coast. It was not even much of a change of job: he went to run a laboratory in a veterinary college. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-3DSKQlzPE" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="846" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyq3sXLSUNUCRqbGiuGkON3yrZzP0MM0ORIV9Q_6CJyp-1drJbTwZAgsfzByd5qu6SIAopL3_zjLefVe7hB97fl75z0jBPyAV8-ook-JtaZZDQRcxqxDxLiOY9IJuH67VmT5zt9gsZn4/s320/PongTamaleVideo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-3DSKQlzPE" target="_blank">Pong-Tamale in 2010 (click to play)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In those days, people still wrote letters, and I looked forward to his aerograms dropping through the letterbox with their exotic stamps and tales of distant Africa. Things were not easy. It was oppressively hot. He suffered tropical ailments and diseases. They were short of supplies and equipment. He asked to be sent books as there was little to read and no television, not that they always had electricity to run one. <br />
<br />
Yet, after an initial term of eighteen months, he decided to stay. He found a salaried post for three years with the Overseas Development Ministry in the city of Kumasi, about two hundred and fifty miles to the south. Then, after a year back in England, he found a post at Mtwara in Tanzania, and then another at Morogoro. It sounded like a television wildlife documentary: horses, Land Rovers, lions, zebras, and trekking in the Ngorongoro highlands. <br />
<br />
I saw him a couple of times over these years during his brief visits home. He was now married with children, and I was busy with my life too. Letters became less frequent. He suggested I visit them in East Africa but it was never the right time. <br />
<br />
Then we lost touch. We both moved within a short space of time and I no longer had his address. Due to a downturn in the property market, we rented out my wife’s house where we had been living, and it was ten years before we finally sold it. In emptying it we came across various papers stuffed at the back of a cupboard by tenants, including a ten year old unopened letter from Brendan. <br />
<br />
Replying after ten years seemed pointless. Perhaps I should have tried to find him, but didn’t. Did I fear the collision of past and present? We had surely both moved on. <br />
<br />
But, it was already too late, as I distressingly discovered yet another decade later. Out of pure curiosity, I typed his distinctive name into a genealogy web site and was shaken to find a record of his death in 2001. It took more time to find what had happened. They had returned permanently to England in the nineteen-nineties, and Brendan had died suddenly of a massive heart attack at the age of 49. He had been living less than ten miles away. All that time ago, and I had no idea. <br />
<br />
We’ll never have that drink now.<br />Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-79697012763964386182024-01-25T21:18:00.014+00:002024-01-27T10:20:38.661+00:00Hartlepool, 1963
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihj1Xdg5WvgJ21d_RrkWAvLykV2U17zfn6_2A0zATsxljKkjnhYkHscQq6OayUSIQQSXYnsP11yI1pIaVD8kX3cRXs4liXGUdrdUlfqlegNQpU-F4PiFuLI-9Lh0diMMqlAEHaiOSAXui1seR1aXjrFIFds0vbM9xa8g8gvPypZ77IIqGUiSR3ruZvc4/s1888/h14.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="1888" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihj1Xdg5WvgJ21d_RrkWAvLykV2U17zfn6_2A0zATsxljKkjnhYkHscQq6OayUSIQQSXYnsP11yI1pIaVD8kX3cRXs4liXGUdrdUlfqlegNQpU-F4PiFuLI-9Lh0diMMqlAEHaiOSAXui1seR1aXjrFIFds0vbM9xa8g8gvPypZ77IIqGUiSR3ruZvc4/w540-h186/h14.jpg" width="540" /></a>
There are some surprising treasures in the depths of the BBC iPlayer. <br /><br />In 1962/63, Jack Ashley, then a television producer but later a well-known Labour M.P. and campaigner for disability rights, made a 45-minute film, ‘Waiting for Work’, about unemployment in Hartlepool in the North of England (made before he became totally deaf).<br /><br />The film could have been from my own childhood: the people, the homes and their contents, the shops, the pubs, the shipyard. Where I am from did not suffer mass unemployment as early as Hartlepool, but here were the same kind of lives I grew up with. Although my father would have been considered white-collar rather than blue, and later ran his own business, this is definitely the kind if background I came from. A real glimpse of a once familiar past. <br /><br />
The film is here (<a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p053r2q1/waiting-for-work" target="_blank">https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p053r2q1/waiting-for-work</a>), but as most will not want to sit through 45 minutes, and the iPlayer is not available outside the U.K., here are some screen-shots, probably far too many. (<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Update: links to YouTube copy added at end</span>)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB52dNCgMG5-7XYNOT0MOKjga-MbExaMX8eqvw6KzRzW0odiFQ8-MlV6TBylNHdvQzI2zA-9IsBtgfl9mK1BnzL_Sx0UfVjEWaiDqONXN4mle6ibuxU70bcNGJnDHSohwJwoVRbboIVUpEKFMLEQAFtSFILJ4R6xKAGoMhAcCPSrDXxJIsiozbXuUOVF0/s1889/h01%20work.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="1889" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB52dNCgMG5-7XYNOT0MOKjga-MbExaMX8eqvw6KzRzW0odiFQ8-MlV6TBylNHdvQzI2zA-9IsBtgfl9mK1BnzL_Sx0UfVjEWaiDqONXN4mle6ibuxU70bcNGJnDHSohwJwoVRbboIVUpEKFMLEQAFtSFILJ4R6xKAGoMhAcCPSrDXxJIsiozbXuUOVF0/w541-h193/h01%20work.jpg" width="541" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was still work to be had<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLuj0QyFsAgy9VsUYiCgWHJj-EivGR94JCZ0k8kfkf_d6Br4iaO7i_zXFSpcG8XW1JC53524R_9UgEvvTKqmM7NOSuw5-8xo-tfzXF64b6DR1EDsKVUW-4WD4ItlLteeiRnEdFg2oUEemzixn1KgOrnedzhPVkexQZIpdAk_JgAbQvGdtBhOvmTtDIQo/s1884/h02%20work.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="1884" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLuj0QyFsAgy9VsUYiCgWHJj-EivGR94JCZ0k8kfkf_d6Br4iaO7i_zXFSpcG8XW1JC53524R_9UgEvvTKqmM7NOSuw5-8xo-tfzXF64b6DR1EDsKVUW-4WD4ItlLteeiRnEdFg2oUEemzixn1KgOrnedzhPVkexQZIpdAk_JgAbQvGdtBhOvmTtDIQo/w543-h196/h02%20work.jpg" width="543" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">but the shipyards are silent<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJrgG-RykNRTqbOTrzNWEmb7RIpGTXBfNDVTpB1Qr-4dkcnzs8qHEmKB9r-wj1pxoaiUPsddaHDwzfZQkcPkPlj_fC4RPIXwVawB69iJD_tpRBXHT8pC1a5c1Kq2txu-bJ2LKN_PGmwcbxKcgCS7WCNitTxobrBDQkYHJJwDAkR_eDcQgTBocHPP-HsQ/s1852/h03%20work.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1852" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJrgG-RykNRTqbOTrzNWEmb7RIpGTXBfNDVTpB1Qr-4dkcnzs8qHEmKB9r-wj1pxoaiUPsddaHDwzfZQkcPkPlj_fC4RPIXwVawB69iJD_tpRBXHT8pC1a5c1Kq2txu-bJ2LKN_PGmwcbxKcgCS7WCNitTxobrBDQkYHJJwDAkR_eDcQgTBocHPP-HsQ/w543-h201/h03%20work.jpg" width="543" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and many are on the dole. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44iOfD8CKHWU0FhCfF3n9fMaNXIo8PTMti5FW4koITya8NQdIOupRh_W0h9vaZubY0zFGVXdOrJ2XIJ84PNI7E7_wIbiueHN0EmTNbnWjUISqg57gTF-FzGNc2rWNI_VkrHosa_5UODULJDlYLv3lcyFGmSkV7EpK2d5pMZ-TPqHWZ3uUPvmnaFg8fio/s1853/h04%20children.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="1853" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44iOfD8CKHWU0FhCfF3n9fMaNXIo8PTMti5FW4koITya8NQdIOupRh_W0h9vaZubY0zFGVXdOrJ2XIJ84PNI7E7_wIbiueHN0EmTNbnWjUISqg57gTF-FzGNc2rWNI_VkrHosa_5UODULJDlYLv3lcyFGmSkV7EpK2d5pMZ-TPqHWZ3uUPvmnaFg8fio/w544-h189/h04%20children.jpg" width="544" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out-of-work men are embarrassed to have to look after the children<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnarEbjbRt-eSpfLexCbYbWKAP0XM2SVWJU6WHXr0ZXpBXAcGPDZd4WID_I5hl403H03Ats52kr873j3rF2C2AXh-yCXCqkoZQZ-lt276C62P5SUtfUAz5ajTgSSR54YXVpP-cKoJeJNRcoPr5273dOnvdu29cuBeLmDLqAlvejlubB27C7m2USKGAxk/s1844/h05%20children.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="1844" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnarEbjbRt-eSpfLexCbYbWKAP0XM2SVWJU6WHXr0ZXpBXAcGPDZd4WID_I5hl403H03Ats52kr873j3rF2C2AXh-yCXCqkoZQZ-lt276C62P5SUtfUAz5ajTgSSR54YXVpP-cKoJeJNRcoPr5273dOnvdu29cuBeLmDLqAlvejlubB27C7m2USKGAxk/w546-h190/h05%20children.jpg" width="546" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and do the housework while their wives are at work. The children don’t like it. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2Q-xgGidTU6Mvm8TfsMCr3BWtW1XBOVQWV86twnwszyqP9MV4Cu8IqjLye7irLRgKjoxIzbWOrSEwOw5zMiMCdGSBuDIxg9WhPyCnppeaOcLGesywbjPdgRuh3kLFMTpV0lhtx7arhnFiBGoi_AxTHhDjOLFjsSLxH3T6-fzOfFJe9rwL1cfja7BO8E/s1893/h06%20homes.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="1893" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2Q-xgGidTU6Mvm8TfsMCr3BWtW1XBOVQWV86twnwszyqP9MV4Cu8IqjLye7irLRgKjoxIzbWOrSEwOw5zMiMCdGSBuDIxg9WhPyCnppeaOcLGesywbjPdgRuh3kLFMTpV0lhtx7arhnFiBGoi_AxTHhDjOLFjsSLxH3T6-fzOfFJe9rwL1cfja7BO8E/w539-h194/h06%20homes.jpg" width="539" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jack Ashley interviewed families about how unemployment affected them.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPJvHfoUpgSuDhoY9C0FXPL2jzSjErWqYesCJ8-AW9WTG4WCZ83FK2VhxxHm1jPU1V7J8oFtkIiPIkF8BKSnQspm0HrzK2lz0g2jsqABONA_ES2Bblc9gnKtCBWqnb8G6FtHYm6k5HvoeJIywR-x9fKxgkK_4gv377bHDNa4MuHdc4JFQNCfVX4ynZ5k/s1866/h07%20pubs.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1866" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPJvHfoUpgSuDhoY9C0FXPL2jzSjErWqYesCJ8-AW9WTG4WCZ83FK2VhxxHm1jPU1V7J8oFtkIiPIkF8BKSnQspm0HrzK2lz0g2jsqABONA_ES2Bblc9gnKtCBWqnb8G6FtHYm6k5HvoeJIywR-x9fKxgkK_4gv377bHDNa4MuHdc4JFQNCfVX4ynZ5k/w542-h195/h07%20pubs.jpg" width="542" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pubs were still busy, <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3mQhltCIy9WQaX7XlE64Yog1IKOrr0LoUD6Nzlgm0ghaPHqSZKsDtPM0Vwl0wgqo1RPmRNVca0ia7Jd1UO-WMTtIcHlmIoPLNLZd5DH7roTmWsWeiBh86lER3waDOon-OOATHYS6twxMwbagl7WDM20EXHGCWh1Rhg_g7CKcCvlFGrsv0G5Q9jlZkaE/s1908/h08%20shops.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1908" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3mQhltCIy9WQaX7XlE64Yog1IKOrr0LoUD6Nzlgm0ghaPHqSZKsDtPM0Vwl0wgqo1RPmRNVca0ia7Jd1UO-WMTtIcHlmIoPLNLZd5DH7roTmWsWeiBh86lER3waDOon-OOATHYS6twxMwbagl7WDM20EXHGCWh1Rhg_g7CKcCvlFGrsv0G5Q9jlZkaE/w542-h190/h08%20shops.jpg" width="542" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">as was the High Street,<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H11UYb1el-b1zHTLGHEWG_s-Xlz6iL1MJKEigRyJNFDW8NFOGT5UPISWaFNO1i1y-iyAO1Hh2pohg4og1YF0cfDExjlI3rCjqOGFsOFPTHiaD1lwG0WryxNbsffQA9uMkT_PYETXn51YHhPsRrograf5HJ_ry30-zsHvQH9sZo3S3TvA5Ihf2rZP9kI/s1856/h09%20shops.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="1856" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H11UYb1el-b1zHTLGHEWG_s-Xlz6iL1MJKEigRyJNFDW8NFOGT5UPISWaFNO1i1y-iyAO1Hh2pohg4og1YF0cfDExjlI3rCjqOGFsOFPTHiaD1lwG0WryxNbsffQA9uMkT_PYETXn51YHhPsRrograf5HJ_ry30-zsHvQH9sZo3S3TvA5Ihf2rZP9kI/w543-h198/h09%20shops.jpg" width="543" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">but many families were struggling. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGvQ3f0WKKYSnKP6p_y-V3zGH-5SDw8AOjYn3pQqmkF5ewhUpBWBrNwRXw3xdld11qkg19AYBj7HFR3B605Z42a8KLaXm2_XdpB2erXWQ5Bp0jTVtqNy2f8LOH6TtXqjPqJSuf_vzlUmnt9Ex1c9X363W02jcgxvofYi329rXYAANfwjQCAoQOgYOWp8/s1910/h10%20shops.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1910" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGvQ3f0WKKYSnKP6p_y-V3zGH-5SDw8AOjYn3pQqmkF5ewhUpBWBrNwRXw3xdld11qkg19AYBj7HFR3B605Z42a8KLaXm2_XdpB2erXWQ5Bp0jTVtqNy2f8LOH6TtXqjPqJSuf_vzlUmnt9Ex1c9X363W02jcgxvofYi329rXYAANfwjQCAoQOgYOWp8/w541-h192/h10%20shops.jpg" width="541" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shopkeepers talked of decreased trade,<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46xo9Cb2Ot-bomHEcYPXGCcv2OJp2cbzyG2_KEPt5pYsjcvHiew8H-9JN6KxJufGiAg6lmNlCtDlGzLb9yyg1tdpocN8b-LOq7TkS_CWlOnkq1ghNCRa-3CPfZyjdxcgQJvUpEB5FAfhG87g4akI_TqpB3E8KOEMGPDUKLj1P8EhMKnaa2rhgS6QOfbc/s1901/h11%20shops.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1901" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46xo9Cb2Ot-bomHEcYPXGCcv2OJp2cbzyG2_KEPt5pYsjcvHiew8H-9JN6KxJufGiAg6lmNlCtDlGzLb9yyg1tdpocN8b-LOq7TkS_CWlOnkq1ghNCRa-3CPfZyjdxcgQJvUpEB5FAfhG87g4akI_TqpB3E8KOEMGPDUKLj1P8EhMKnaa2rhgS6QOfbc/w539-h187/h11%20shops.jpg" width="539" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">even the newsagents and hairdressers. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfd0vGgFyjRUXSVCRPHelGPF7Vqv0QjaxTrC1bJzmqfaHBcrAvXohKgI7iLTbFs6UndGcBDwZxWYmwN0pV41CkhboKTYcbwP2IhS2sParplBI9xsR5svHDHIFyeeghJhJmpx1TkXugdxV3iPf3LZ4EO5HtI5vFE9ZcX3UsP1uor1iF2yYPpBnpTm_aQdA/s1758/h12.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1758" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfd0vGgFyjRUXSVCRPHelGPF7Vqv0QjaxTrC1bJzmqfaHBcrAvXohKgI7iLTbFs6UndGcBDwZxWYmwN0pV41CkhboKTYcbwP2IhS2sParplBI9xsR5svHDHIFyeeghJhJmpx1TkXugdxV3iPf3LZ4EO5HtI5vFE9ZcX3UsP1uor1iF2yYPpBnpTm_aQdA/w540-h208/h12.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luxury goods were hard to sell<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-lEcYMafwh4urKCjEcON3GXVhykH0I7CDKNGe0xl06ONHPD8sKc2ZT7qX0mwzSGy8ONk7GJ-57Ql9jK2uaDLLttCp2ql_hOzxPZVHoxjUCXgA89A5_HOajHO8RTwSIueBQtBBkEf7fGIqeLFYMiHhMYkcSrIB0Xezo3Mv54UVbz3eJcPsbfSdUCPcDA/s1898/h13.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="1898" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-lEcYMafwh4urKCjEcON3GXVhykH0I7CDKNGe0xl06ONHPD8sKc2ZT7qX0mwzSGy8ONk7GJ-57Ql9jK2uaDLLttCp2ql_hOzxPZVHoxjUCXgA89A5_HOajHO8RTwSIueBQtBBkEf7fGIqeLFYMiHhMYkcSrIB0Xezo3Mv54UVbz3eJcPsbfSdUCPcDA/w540-h192/h13.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and the second-hand shops had more sellers than buyers.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<p></p><p>A few of those interviewed had been able to find work in the south of England, but those that owned houses in Hartlepool were unable to sell, and many did not want to leave the community of their parents, relatives and friends. <br /></p><p>Like most of northern Britain, this was still a mare-orientated monoculture. Few women appear in the film and there are no persons of colour. It would inform today’s woke young things why some older people have the views and language they do, especially the part where unemployed young men (most then left school at 15) talk about how their lives are limited by lack of money. They cannot afford to go to the pictures (cinema) or buy records:<br /></p>
<p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">“You have to cut down on all your things ... you can’t be expected to enjoy yourself when you’re on the dole ... it’s very rare I go out with a girl now ... when you take them out you ... have to pay for everything ... you can’t get far with fifteen shillings ... you can’t expect to take them out ”</p>
<p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">“Do the girls ever offer to pay for you?”</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">“They offer, but it’s more or less accepting charity.”</p><p>The whole way of life would now be dismissed as unenlightened, and inferior to cultures that have replaced it. </p>
<p>Some of us were lucky, the beneficiaries of grammar school education, first-rate universities without fees, and student grants so generous that some even managed to save money. Most were not so lucky. I wonder what became of the people in the film. </p><p> </p><p><span style="background-color: #fcff01;"><b>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Update: for those who cannot see iPlayer, the film may be visible (with sub-titles) on YouTube in three segments:</span></b>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">
Part 1: <a href="https://youtu.be/PxAKfnbFWe0" target="_blank"> https://youtu.be/PxAKfnbFWe0</a> <br />
Part 2: <a href="https://youtu.be/sY9Fm4Y9k1c" target="_blank"> https://youtu.be/sY9Fm4Y9k1c</a> <br />
Part 3: <a href="https://youtu.be/XZzTsThUIlU" target="_blank"> https://youtu.be/XZzTsThUIlU</a>
</span> </span><br /><br /></p>
Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-22755415945415925702024-01-23T11:51:00.003+00:002024-03-08T12:03:02.003+00:00Pythagoras
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtwtz4BRAqnMyND6UOBBvoO7zwYSsEnzqKDKiuJrXVRfWCdlIYubaNoe5epN6Qg2HVwJviBSjBCn14j3NJ4cP0_TUywRt-VCLQBMqqK1mliNKFP5sKPIACcMxjzh7IJnN-gNRxDUcT38YTgzX93AMoXes2FVhs5AD83BM7SU6rJJvotm1kaAq1N6CtB0/s343/b8.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="343" height="79" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtwtz4BRAqnMyND6UOBBvoO7zwYSsEnzqKDKiuJrXVRfWCdlIYubaNoe5epN6Qg2HVwJviBSjBCn14j3NJ4cP0_TUywRt-VCLQBMqqK1mliNKFP5sKPIACcMxjzh7IJnN-gNRxDUcT38YTgzX93AMoXes2FVhs5AD83BM7SU6rJJvotm1kaAq1N6CtB0/w107-h79/b8.jpg" width="107" /></a></div><p>It was well-known to the ancient Egyptians, that a triangle with sides of 3, 4 and 5 units makes a right-angle. The Babylonians also knew this four thousand years ago, as they did in India. They used it to measure out precise squares and verticals. I would not be surprised if the ancient Tom Stephenson used it too. <br /><br />Rotate such a triangle four times by ninety degrees, and you are back to where you began. Put four of them together as shown below on the left and it makes a perfect square. The one on the right is the same with the middle bit filled in. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7A9QSq6-pYlVRZoIueuQr2KNz2N8Ha3IOoLfqBaKBKZdtujo4FnNTyJwxenG0ZeA4uMxN3HWSLAT4qqoeYikbN9SknVcjuIThQWeJU5LZEB8NJell8G3lyAcy2wfPRC8sSEBnxWWyUgEgU_D4DlRVBvcGZYuzkj6Y9UVKMzNkXMarmoro4zWSZ1SmzY/s1358/b10d.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="598" data-original-width="1358" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7A9QSq6-pYlVRZoIueuQr2KNz2N8Ha3IOoLfqBaKBKZdtujo4FnNTyJwxenG0ZeA4uMxN3HWSLAT4qqoeYikbN9SknVcjuIThQWeJU5LZEB8NJell8G3lyAcy2wfPRC8sSEBnxWWyUgEgU_D4DlRVBvcGZYuzkj6Y9UVKMzNkXMarmoro4zWSZ1SmzY/w400-h176/b10d.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p>This works for any right-angled triangle, not just those of size 3-4-5. </p><p>The sides of the square are equal in length to the long sides of the triangles. <br /></p><p>I am now going to move the top two triangles, top right to bottom left, and top left to bottom right. Hopefully, the arrows and numbers help make this clear. It results in an L-shape. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjiWa4K-PZVqhkCmY4qkKuGlhA8NbjfkTXW9Axr5R9sKkqkUIXDI-_RR6trYgekxiA2MLseUp06NyNA9FKgWaL9uWNPG3uXSz0YUHC6zfKwXylSjklexY2huxb_7DDEA3mI-2DLYy8YY7Oaf_YtyUT-pOLSa5YHAAADxsuRK6d6D-8MlaUN_M5d82mfw/s1302/b11a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="1302" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjiWa4K-PZVqhkCmY4qkKuGlhA8NbjfkTXW9Axr5R9sKkqkUIXDI-_RR6trYgekxiA2MLseUp06NyNA9FKgWaL9uWNPG3uXSz0YUHC6zfKwXylSjklexY2huxb_7DDEA3mI-2DLYy8YY7Oaf_YtyUT-pOLSa5YHAAADxsuRK6d6D-8MlaUN_M5d82mfw/w400-h184/b11a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The L-shape uses the same pieces as the large square we started with, so the overall area remains exactly the same. <br /></p><p>The L-shape can be split into two squares, a large one and a small one, as below. The sides of the smaller square are of the same length as the shortest side of the original triangle (see right-hand side). The sides of the larger square are of the same length as the third side (see left-hand side). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivs1LY7tESBq9xi1-z6loGftjoFmQL6AqflwiHaDzRP0sdroVDtdxxS5zB3nbcDuJDQjiud8Ce9tSi1RYvRpfGg-WqjCjlANmHhRN4ziOejDN16KPRHlobYG6fGEAzbxA29SINP9vA-0IvOXCnfS3h8y426eNcGjpGFOTJ6VttVCnXiaTomsoJ7whT6Ck/s1461/b16b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="1461" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivs1LY7tESBq9xi1-z6loGftjoFmQL6AqflwiHaDzRP0sdroVDtdxxS5zB3nbcDuJDQjiud8Ce9tSi1RYvRpfGg-WqjCjlANmHhRN4ziOejDN16KPRHlobYG6fGEAzbxA29SINP9vA-0IvOXCnfS3h8y426eNcGjpGFOTJ6VttVCnXiaTomsoJ7whT6Ck/w400-h115/b16b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The two squares still use the same pieces as the large square we started with, so the total area
remains exactly the same as it was before we moved things around. <p></p><p></p><p>In other words, the area of the square formed around the longest side of the triangle is the same as the combined areas of the squares formed around the other two sides. </p>
<p>Or as Pythagoras put it in 550 B.C.: “The square on the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides.” </p><p></p>
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<p>Isn’t that just exquisite. They never showed me that at school.<br /></p>
<p>Pythagoras may have discovered this by moving triangles around in the same way, one of the first to express the structure of nature as numbers, and advance understanding from the world of fact into the world of proof. He offered a hundred oxen to the muses in thanks for the inspiration (Jacob Bronowsti: The Ascent of Man). <br /></p><p>And once you know this is true for any right-angled triangle, you can work out how much timber and how many tiles you need for your pitched roof, and are on the way to the kind of trigonometry that allows you to manipulate three-dimensional images on your computer screen. <br /></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-30786081450791146122024-01-17T12:54:00.019+00:002024-03-18T15:29:59.946+00:00Wilson, Keppel and Betty<p>I call them Wilson, Keppel and Betty. They live inside my brain. I think they are three, but there may be more than one Betty. They are not the Wilson, Keppel and Betty some may remember, if anyone does, although, just the same, they sprinkle sand and scrape it around with their feet. <br /><br />Betty, however many there are, is not too bad. She is not there all the time. She tries to make you forget things. Like when you know the name of the author of ‘Goodbye to Berlin’, but some cocky little sod from Edinburgh or Oxford shouts out Christopher Isherwood on ‘University Challenge’ while you are still thinking W. H. Auden, which you know is near but not quite right.<br /><br />I can just about cope with Keppel. He makes your mouth slack and flobby, and blurs your words, but only when you are low on blood sugar. Others say they have not noticed, but that is how it feels to me.<br /><br />No, Wilson is the worst. He used to put swirling patterns in my eyes. Dr. Hatfield tried to zap him away, but he came back. Mr. Thomson said he would cut him out, but he would not be able to cut all of him out, he would have to leave bits behind.<br />
<br />So Wilson is still there. He now blanks out a space just to the right of my point of focus, and if you can’t see the next along a line of then you can only read one word at a rather than fluently. I should learn mirror-reading, right to left.
He also moves words along, and up from the line below, and puts them where you are reading now, <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>slows </b></span>which <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>letters</b></span> slows things down even more.<span style="color: #666666;"><b> </b></span>And, sometimes, he makes you look at letters for ages before you see what they are, and makes you write an M for a B, or a D for a P, or an S for C.
He is a total mactarp. I have to get the computer to read things out, or Mrs. D.<br /><br />They have stopped their sand dance for now. So long as I keep taking the Tepmetko Tepotinib they will be quiet. They don’t like it. It makes them ill. It makes me ill too, but not as ill as it makes them. Dr. Brown says that one day they will decide they have had enough and do away with me. It might be this year, but we thought that this time last year, so who knows? Perhaps they realise that if they do away with me, they do away with themselves as well. Mactarps! <br /></p>
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Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-76649469683978387842024-01-11T15:52:00.002+00:002024-01-17T12:36:50.064+00:00Information Systems<p>Let’s have another boring computing post. </p>
<p><a href="http://www.taskerdunham.blogspot.com/2023/11/full-circle.html" target="_blank">Writing in November</a> about how careful we once had to be in saving and backing up our computer files, I remembered something else that was difficult: just getting information in or out of a computer. It happens now as if by magic: writing and reading stuff on smart phones, social media, Blogger, ... it is all so easy. We don’t have to think about what goes on behind the scenes. Most of us have no interest. </p><p>But, until the nineteen-nineties, computers were for nerds. As one of those nerds, I feel fortunate to have seen how things developed. I could still write programs to accept typed-in text, or to send a screen to a printer, but thankfully I no longer have to. <br />
</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWcwWz065al64vRQeiDNzQY4qaBAmq2CKKKUQags9C5odQYVFRSfh6AplMw2lV4aY7KuWW2C-QpYpL1u59DXrnt9iLXGUXIU9ZnTJB9Re99uRqDB5GH3lAlRghS-SxkmKFENHF9wuEI3WxAKzEzrm0eCsj7xHaee_425ocukRVbip-mjPlSW78C5fR6M/s1552/CSLDesk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1552" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWcwWz065al64vRQeiDNzQY4qaBAmq2CKKKUQags9C5odQYVFRSfh6AplMw2lV4aY7KuWW2C-QpYpL1u59DXrnt9iLXGUXIU9ZnTJB9Re99uRqDB5GH3lAlRghS-SxkmKFENHF9wuEI3WxAKzEzrm0eCsj7xHaee_425ocukRVbip-mjPlSW78C5fR6M/w400-h256/CSLDesk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My desk at work in 1990<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p>Back in 1970, computers were near-fantasies. Few had seen one except on television or in futuristic films: ‘Tomorrow’s World’ and ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ come to mind. At work in accountancy, we had one client who used ledger cards with magnetic stripes, and there were golf-ball typewriters with primitive memory, but they were thought of as business machines rather than computers. <br />
<br />My friend, Neville, was the first I knew to latch on to the potential. He undertook a project as part of his business studies course, and that led to a job in the computer division of a Hull supermarket. This is the kind of thing he worked on: a system to help supermarket managers replenish stocks. They drew lines on forms that could be read by machine. It used forests of paper. The used forms (blank on the back) kept Neville and friends in rough notepaper for years; me throughout my university studies. They were great for lecture notes. <br /></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTyDNgJJudaOtP5ALDhvKr2G2c4bZ52UgVFxD4BMgATZW8J5s3PzfoP4iQTbmMMs8FNirP_SYfGCDZ4CWvUQ_W8xKImL1jUKus84F0rAhduHe51i3glnwla16WBXrndIyOoa0_HVOkluWu1U0Y-kMxW8fFhV6eNvYLQ_CKz1HYMmGY3WREGhOpasz/s861/SupermarketSystem.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="861" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTyDNgJJudaOtP5ALDhvKr2G2c4bZ52UgVFxD4BMgATZW8J5s3PzfoP4iQTbmMMs8FNirP_SYfGCDZ4CWvUQ_W8xKImL1jUKus84F0rAhduHe51i3glnwla16WBXrndIyOoa0_HVOkluWu1U0Y-kMxW8fFhV6eNvYLQ_CKz1HYMmGY3WREGhOpasz/w400-h283/SupermarketSystem.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1970s Supermarket Stock System<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
<br />Around this time, I took a job with a Leeds clothing manufacturer where account entries were made through yet more football-coupon forms. The forms went to a data centre to be coded on to punched cards and fed into “the computer”, which we were never allowed near. The data was printed on huge concertinaed sheets bound into weighty folders. Later, we all had to go on a course to be taught how to write numbers properly, in readiness for Optical Character Recognition which cut out the card punching part of the process. The weighty folders remained long after I’d left. <br />
<p></p>
<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VBC5ygxzRhiuCVBHjrFuqstemezrtEbfzWLMR_2eAN2aLhQR8VsX5ISGbt_AWr0KXrOw6pnExeEgOhx_wspqeBu-WWnAnA8gNRIwa95qdJpYTXW4PH-BALzlHzfcpmhXonjpnsvVay0UxZjm7u73W-ftNqpjZ5nrvwcY_HFmaMPdA56qaGntyfefgK4/s1658/NominalForms.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1658" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VBC5ygxzRhiuCVBHjrFuqstemezrtEbfzWLMR_2eAN2aLhQR8VsX5ISGbt_AWr0KXrOw6pnExeEgOhx_wspqeBu-WWnAnA8gNRIwa95qdJpYTXW4PH-BALzlHzfcpmhXonjpnsvVay0UxZjm7u73W-ftNqpjZ5nrvwcY_HFmaMPdA56qaGntyfefgK4/w546-h368/NominalForms.jpg" width="546" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1970s Nominal Ledger System<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Later, on a computing course, I learnt programming on
teletypewriter terminals connected to a mainframe computer. They printed
all your input and output on wide rolls of paper, and reprinted it all repeatedly. <br /></p><p>
</p><p>These step-by-step exchanges continued after screens came in. Everything was
typed in as text and printed on to a scrolling screen. It even happened with games. I remember playing a version of ‘Star Trek’ in which you moved the ship by typing a location you wanted to fly
to, such as G27, and it dislayed and re-displayed your new position and
those of all the objects around after every move. The ease of Windows, icons, mice, pointers, and colour graphics were still a long time away, and touch-sensitive screens even further. Voice and gesture
input were not even dreamed of. <br /></p><p>Not until around
1985 did we see the kind of systems we might recognise today, with
on-screen forms and menus. The first I worked with was written in DIBOL
and looked like this: </p><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMwtpLfxRdNkP54GjNSy7Hl_DZQ7vGwWPp4DazRBwl3ZGlkoadKbfM2S2km1FAcOXlwqkSBrgMi2zBEbXUHqfcfWmHegv4tKvTgX9i2Hy4lqWBNBkYfkAPY_27U4B1IggybAKnt4DGRezgiAPNpSBXulolcVseoODKiuAA_WkIsy2erMu6jEmGgZ3kL8/s977/dibol%20system.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="977" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMwtpLfxRdNkP54GjNSy7Hl_DZQ7vGwWPp4DazRBwl3ZGlkoadKbfM2S2km1FAcOXlwqkSBrgMi2zBEbXUHqfcfWmHegv4tKvTgX9i2Hy4lqWBNBkYfkAPY_27U4B1IggybAKnt4DGRezgiAPNpSBXulolcVseoODKiuAA_WkIsy2erMu6jEmGgZ3kL8/w400-h245/dibol%20system.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDdr4M_YmtnH6sn_5mYy7ZWOwJkR4z31ouisous9o_fl2qJuvGQN3KxBgF7OqEUO7PKFYVbdVz12X3z0PF34be5_SkklsxjDLLjvdDMwBwbN8iWQnA0HtHHjDuMTrSsVBex6wjCWbQNRRUf0P9a38PJeDoN2jBYsqvJ1IqofKllrW02s3Kzcl3dXc3pI/s1269/CallControl2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="1269" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDdr4M_YmtnH6sn_5mYy7ZWOwJkR4z31ouisous9o_fl2qJuvGQN3KxBgF7OqEUO7PKFYVbdVz12X3z0PF34be5_SkklsxjDLLjvdDMwBwbN8iWQnA0HtHHjDuMTrSsVBex6wjCWbQNRRUf0P9a38PJeDoN2jBYsqvJ1IqofKllrW02s3Kzcl3dXc3pI/w400-h268/CallControl2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p>You could get quite excited about it. But, although it looked a bit like a modern windows system, it wasn’t. Every part of that screen is made up of text-like characters. It had to be planned out very carefully. Fortunately, not by me. <br /><br />This system can be seen on the right-hand screen in the photograph of my desk at the top of this post. It was on a ‘dumb’ terminal connected to the DEC computer system. The screen on the left is an IBM business PC of that time, similarly unsophisticated. It was really something to be allowed two screens! <br /><br />Just a few more of the things I kept. Like the old disks and tapes on the earlier post, they were used as teaching examples. They won’t be needed again. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-73681089035972924212024-01-08T17:12:00.000+00:002024-01-08T17:12:32.787+00:00Powerlessness <p>"I thought of all the times some government department or corporation has blithely informed me (as the sub-postmasters were told) that 'nobody else has complained'. <br /><br />I thought of the growing powerlessness of the individual in Britain in the modern age, as government, police and business have hidden themselves behind electronic walls which keep out all the cries of pain and misery, but still let the money through. We have gone so wrong, and we can only get back to civilisation if we restore the presumption of innocence as the keystone of all our law. <br /><br />For that principle forces us to refuse to run with any crowd, to question any certainty, to doubt all official statements, to side instinctively with the weak against the strong and to recognise that we are most unlikely to know the full story."</p><p></p><p><i>Peter Hitchens, The Mail on Sunday.</i><br /></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-89294850394319039012024-01-05T00:03:00.014+00:002024-01-07T21:59:53.574+00:00GiantsThe Times Newspaper used to print the names of every student in the
country awarded a First Class honours degree. They couldn’t do it now.
There would be too many. A quick estimate tells me at least fifty times the
number. As well as there being four or five times as many students, the number of
Firsts has exploded. Around one in three now get them. In my day it was
more like one in fifty. The percentage of Upper Seconds has increased too.
Students are clearly becoming more intelligent, and universities are doing a much better job.<br /><br />Or is it that
universities now have to compete with each other? They have to run
costly marketing operations to bring in students. “Come to Cleckheaton
University. We give higher grades.” <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMcMyAYLPjd0LkV2kOi62BkcfvClVahG3DV5ZdlwUoKGbcUlhCHSjJqsn2gUXCDVN0KsBSyzrMCH_H0qwMjHOzSMHyx17N0Hr65532jX1mj_1NWzuUtjLXtSQ-5jjJ3estQ9NHXicmBxyHn5zLPSXxnUwN7LAt0_By4-uEp6HsqPbuxU0TmpVQWoroKA/s465/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="465" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMcMyAYLPjd0LkV2kOi62BkcfvClVahG3DV5ZdlwUoKGbcUlhCHSjJqsn2gUXCDVN0KsBSyzrMCH_H0qwMjHOzSMHyx17N0Hr65532jX1mj_1NWzuUtjLXtSQ-5jjJ3estQ9NHXicmBxyHn5zLPSXxnUwN7LAt0_By4-uEp6HsqPbuxU0TmpVQWoroKA/s320/Untitled.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The marketing departments
concoct increasingly strange schemes. The most unlikely I came across
was a tie-up between the university where I worked and the local Rugby
League club. For those unfamiliar with Rugby League, it is a
professional team sport played in Yorkshire and Lancashire, and other
parts of the world. I suppose the idea was that the club received
sponsorship from the university and extra support through discounted
student tickets, while the university benefited from match-day
advertising and publicity. </p><p>One day I was told I would be taking two new students in my personal tutorial group. I was not pleased because I already had around fifteen. Having a personal tutor is a good idea. It provides a named person to whom students can turn for individual guidance and support. It works best through individual meetings several times a term. Students get to know and trust their tutors and air their concerns, both academic and personal. But it is labour-intensive, and when there are large numbers of students and fewer tutors then short cuts are taken. Our managers decided we would do it through weekly, hour-long, group meeting. They came up with a framework covering study skills and similar issues. The students saw it as just another lecture, and a pointless one at that, because they knew it all already. They sat there reluctant to discuss anything. Well, would you? “I have mental health issues because I’ve fallen out with my parents and I can’t start that essay.” The ones that say nothing at all are the ones you really need to reach. I struggled to make it work. <br /><br />The two new students were from the rugby club; professional rugby players. They were giants. One was particularly striking in appearance. He had long blond hair, was 6 feet 5 inches tall (1.98m) and weighed over 18 stones (116kg). I felt intimidated just standing next to him (not knowing then that he is actually a gentle soul). He would later play for England and remains on television today as a commentator and pundit. One of his uncles had been a famous professional wrestler. Please don’t name them, or the club or the university in comments. Use initials if you have to. <br /><br />They were to take the Sports Psychology degree part-time with a view to gaining qualifications useful after their playing days were over. Perhaps it was good in principle, but it was awful in practice. I think they were led to believe it would be easy. <br /><br />For a start, the club retained first-call on their time. They had to go to training sessions and all the other activities with sponsors, schools and other community groups. Their attendance at university was low, and they came to only two tutoring group meeting. They were late both time, and the room fell into star struck silence as they walked in. Girls swooned, as did some of the boys. <br /><br />Lecturers began to tell me about their absence from teaching, especially in the experimental design module based on the SPSS statistics software. As their personal tutor, I asked them to see me, but they never came. They abandoned their studies. <br /><br />I met the tall guy again more recently. I was walking along a field path near home and he passed in the opposite direction. He lives around two miles away in what some call the millionaires’ village. I said his name as we passed. <br /><br />“Hi! How you doing?” he said in a friendly voice, used to being recognised. <br /><br />I mentioned where we had met before. He couldn’t remember me, but did remember the university episode, and that it had not turned out well. <br /><br />I said that was because it was never given a proper chance. Presentation without substance. He agreed. Pawns in a bigger game. It was all about how it looked. We both seemed pleased with that. What a pity it could not have been said twenty years ago. The powers that be would not have liked it. University staff have lost their jobs for making accusations of grade inflation and declining standards. <br /></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-38185598680898968362024-01-01T00:09:00.037+00:002024-01-01T00:09:00.133+00:00The Ghost of Airmyn Crossings<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">A SEASONAL TALE</span></b>
<span style="font-size: small;">
<br />New Month Old Post: first posted 9th December, 2014. A fictional story set in a real time and place. I had recently been reading Thomas Hardy</span>’<span style="font-size: small;">s short stories. </span>
</p>
<p>We grow up, we move away, we make our lives in distant places, yet, something draws us back. We tell nostalgic tales of times past, wonder at any mention of our town on television and look for the home team football result. Even after all formal and familial ties are gone, we make special detours to pass our old homes and schools. </p><p>
But not Matt Wetherell. He keeps well away. When work takes him to Hull from his home across the Pennines, he turns off and enters the city over the Humber Bridge. Anything to avoid Goole. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0MhZ5N2lwh2x2N_9aFGw1DP6EEaiFGujXgD3SF96yrFUsZ3R_owbtTHiCl19pzExZvAwT2MP3aviEIDCxdbzQAiG6IERqr7SQYMLCchQ04xVknoYHV7BhAhUGMTqL_MGQ8hABDTCs8Hf8j4hqN3KGOLmqCXDIhxdiadIq3SmRrvfHm3EhZRUkxQvoNo/s2052/PercyArms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="2052" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0MhZ5N2lwh2x2N_9aFGw1DP6EEaiFGujXgD3SF96yrFUsZ3R_owbtTHiCl19pzExZvAwT2MP3aviEIDCxdbzQAiG6IERqr7SQYMLCchQ04xVknoYHV7BhAhUGMTqL_MGQ8hABDTCs8Hf8j4hqN3KGOLmqCXDIhxdiadIq3SmRrvfHm3EhZRUkxQvoNo/w400-h274/PercyArms.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Fifty years ago when still in the sixth form, Matt and his friends became regulars at the Percy Arms. In those days, sixth formers in a public house would have been in serious trouble, even when legally old enough to drink. It was an abuse of privilege, squandering their opportunities while those less fortunate were cleaning railway engines or keeping the peace in Cyprus. Matt and his friends kept discreetly out of sight in the taproom and the handful of teachers who frequented the same establishment carefully stayed in the lounge so as not to notice them. <br /><br />The comforts of the taproom were basic: plain walls, wooden floorboards, bench seats and bare tables, but there was always a warm fire burning. It was perfectly adequate for the main activities there: drinking, smoking, playing cards and dominoes, and telling yarns. Matt and company tested each others’ memories of the Latin fish names on the faded chart on the wall. They became familiar with the other regulars: the farmer, the garage owner and the cinema manager who always arrived late with his wife after the last show, never removed his trilby and always had a rude story to tell.<br /><br />To reach the Percy Arms, Matt and his friends walked the mile or so across the fields using the track known as Airmyn Crossings. It was lonely and remote in those days before the roaring motorway was built, and a housing estate sprawled across it. It was a pleasant stroll on a warm evening, more of a challenge in wind and rain, and undeniably menacing after dark, especially where the trees and bushes joined overhead. The darkness added adventure to the walk home which was always late. Pubs were not supposed to serve drinks after half-past ten, but the landlord bent this rule a little, especially if the cinema manager was delayed. The local police knew when to be diplomatic. Sometimes, it could be nearly midnight before Matt and his friends started home along the pitch black track with several pints of John Smith’s inside them, their apprehension kept at bay by vulgar songs and loud bravado. Sometimes a couple of the group would steal ahead to hide in the bushes ready to jump out and frighten the others with piercing cries. It was rowdy, but innocuous enough compared to what some teenagers get up to nowadays. <br /><br />Matt never finished his sixth form studies. Before his friends went off to university he had left school for a job in a local office, his ambition diverted by a girl friend, the accomplished and beautiful daughter of an affluent local solicitor. They made plans and imagined their future together, but much to her father’s relief, she left for university too. Despite ardent promises to remain true, she gradually drifted away. When Matt last heard of her, she was organising famine relief in Africa. <br /><br />Thus, one Christmas Eve, Matt found himself alone. He decided for old times’ sake to walk the path to Airmyn. Nothing had changed. The taproom was just as it had been. The floorboards still knocked to his footsteps, the seats remained hard, the tables, bare, the fading fish were still on the wall. There were few signs it was Christmas, but the coal fire had a more cheerful glow than usual and everyone was in a happy frame of mind. Matt played dominoes with the farmer. The garage owner enquired as to his well-being. The cinema manager arrived late with his hat, wife and rude story. <br /><br />When Matt eventually started back along the deserted track, a little unsteadily due to the beer inside him, it was late and an ominous fog had descended. It was thick, the kind you get when moisture from the rivers and low-lying fields conceives a dense, cold vapour that penetrates your lungs and shrouds the sight and sound of your footsteps. Matt’s shadow hung eerily in the mist around him; shapes and silhouettes moved in and out of the bushes; dark forms ahead and behind gave the impression of something approaching and then dissolving away. The only thing Matt heard was the sound of his own breathing. It intensified his unease.<br /><br />Suddenly, just where the path bends beneath overhanging trees, Matt sensed something tumbling from above, as if someone was falling on him. Inches from his own face was another face, a terrifying face with hollowed-out eyes and grimacing, uneven teeth. Matt raised his arm to push it away. His hand slipped into the mouth; it felt wet and cold; his fingers scraped across rough teeth. He shuddered and screamed, and staggered sideways into the adjacent field, the surface of which lay some two or three feet below the level of the path. <br /><br />Looking up from the ground, Matt realised he was alone. No one else was on the path. Yet, he was certain it had been real. His fingers were wet where they had entered the mouth, and sore where they had rubbed across the teeth. Beside him, on the ground, was something round. It took a few moments to realise it was a human skull. It had the same uneven teeth as the face that had materialised in front of him. Matt cursed. Stone cold sober, he scrambled back up to the path and ran fast to the safety of the street lights on the main road.<br /><br />Rationalising afterwards, Matt decided the skull had indeed been real. He had a graze on his hand to prove it. In his drunken state, he must have fallen from the path, dislodging the skull from the loose earth at the side of the field. The rest was illusion. It had only seemed to drop from above as the ground came up towards him. He had probably covered it up again as he scrambled back up to the track. He never related the incident to anyone, and there was never any report of human remains found on Airmyn Crossings.<br /><br />The following week, Matt’s employer offered him a promotion in Lancashire. It was several years before he visited the Percy Arms again. When he did, reluctantly, but necessarily because of a family function, much had changed. Outwardly, it looked the same, but inside it had become a single large, refurbished lounge. There was no sign that the taproom had ever existed. He drove there by car, but passing along Airmyn Road, he just had time to register that the route of the old Airmyn Crossings had been diverted to accommodate the new motorway. <br /><br />All of this was over fifty years ago. The farmer, the garage owner, the cinema manager and his wife must be long gone. <br /><br />Recently, Matt heard a tale that seemed to have some bearing on the events of that Christmas Eve of long ago. A distant cousin, Louisa, whom he knew only vaguely, visited him in the course of tracing her family history. Matt was unable to add much to her findings, but she told him a tale that had been passed down to her grandmother from her grandmother’s grandmother. <br /><br />The name, Matt, or Matthew, had run through the Wetherell family for generations. An earlier Matthew had been born in a village many miles away to the North. That Matthew had worked on the lands of the Northumberland estates belonging to the Percy family. One summer he had transgressed unwritten social expectations by becoming too familiar with the daughter of the incumbent of the local Parish. To prevent the friendship developing into anything more serious, it had been arranged that Matthew would be moved away to other lands owned by the same family in distant Airmyn. Matthew’s brother Mark had to move with him for no reason other than that he was Matthew’s brother. In due course, the news arrived that the vicar’s daughter of whom Matthew had been so fond, had married a tea trader and moved to the colonies. Matthew, distressed, took to wandering like a tramp in the woods and fields. He disappeared one Christmas and nothing was heard of him again.<br /><br />More happily, Matthew’s brother, Mark, remained in Airmyn. He married and had a large family. He was the ancestor of both the present day Matt and his distant cousin, Louisa. If you care to look in the Airmyn Parish registers for the early years of the nineteenth century, you will find mention of a Mark Wetherell, servant in husbandry, son of John and Mary Wetherell of Melsonby, which is in North Yorkshire, near Richmond.<br /><br />The exact location of Matt’s disturbing experience that dark Christmas Eve, must now be buried beneath the Eastbound carriageway of the M62 motorway. Strange things happen there. Engines misfire, sudden gusts of wind cause vehicles to swerve, drivers slow down for no apparent reason. You should concentrate and take extra care there, especially on Christmas Eve. Matt Wetherell avoids it like it was haunted. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDgk9IKWOA3yj4DCTdkfKrwg57nallgigjks-yHP0rDBw1OoAM98BOwZPRuxtowjuoSz-L8QCi5FIM_7BIkmI8mPiRONwxWb8JtpOin6HI4D91A6MzoVMq-cKU_KZddoI27JmgJROYso/s1600/WetherellPhillipsMar1807.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="1600" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDgk9IKWOA3yj4DCTdkfKrwg57nallgigjks-yHP0rDBw1OoAM98BOwZPRuxtowjuoSz-L8QCi5FIM_7BIkmI8mPiRONwxWb8JtpOin6HI4D91A6MzoVMq-cKU_KZddoI27JmgJROYso/s640/WetherellPhillipsMar1807.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-14366187482786782492023-12-20T17:09:00.007+00:002024-03-17T17:48:48.352+00:00 A New JobA year out of university, Brilliant Daughter was struggling in the gig economy, teaching kids and adults who had seen The Great Pottery Throw Down and fancied a go themselves, with an outfit that pays barely more than the minimum wage. Despite having the full skill set, from running workshops to throwing clay on the wheel and glazing and firing, she received no more than the Paint-a-Pot supervisors. It left little time and energy for her own stuff. She began to look for a salaried job.<br /><br />A vacancy came up for an art, textiles and ceramics technician in a posh, girls’ school behind high walls in leafy green gardens. As well as art, ceramics and textiles departments, the school has music and dance studios, a gym, computing and science labs: everything any girl (or her mum) could dream of. Lots of smart, happy, smiley, high-achieving girls on the web site. They have a sixth form that sends loads to top universities, and I don’t need to add that the OFSTED rating is Outstanding.<br /><br />A lot of thought and effort went into her application and she got an interview. She had all the skills they needed, particularly in ceramics and textiles.<br /><br />The interview went well. She can talk the lid off a tea pot and the pattern off the tea towel too. Then there were some practical tasks to do.<br /><br />One involved threading and using a sewing machine. Some of the other candidates didn’t have a clue. She even ended up helping one. Then they had to wedge some clay (i.e. knead it to uniform consistency without air bubbles), weigh out quantities for hand-building and wheel throwing, and centre some on a wheel. Well, that’s what she does all the time. Finally, they were asked to identify hazards in a room where there were open drawers and a glass of water next to electrical equipment. Walks and parks for any member of our obsessive-compulsive family.<br /><br />Apparenty, there are now AI web sites that automatically create CVs and cover letters for you. You wonder whether some of the candidates had any idea what they had applied for.<br /><br />Afterwards, they phoned her. “What? Me? Really?” she said in disbelief. <br /><br />She has her own desk, control of a materials budget (the kids are provided with all they need), and training in things like driving the school minibus. The teaching and other support staff are friendly and intelligent. The kids are fun. A civilised, professional place to work. <br /><br />And, with the time and energy to make her own things in the evening, weekends and holidays, she has been busy with clay, wheel and kiln in her studio. Nearly everything she made sold in the Christmas markets. <br />Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-57408986421350000232023-12-12T12:18:00.001+00:002023-12-12T12:18:47.314+00:00Julius Caesar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR1GdZ7dtP9dCtrCq4R4bh-PU3ZXDUv1dT05m-4x7CrKWAePEQq3t1B2PDoWM2EtTSNKvN7Sk9L7DE70mXMImdqW6wEQY3AeScLieiHx0aYTXOm0Tj9KCMnmd1pZpIEGDXZZMd5x0EyZzxuii-zSQEbg9FcZFodxo68Q61FoqMrM2bQxB06o9phFwqdw/s1583/Caesar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="1583" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR1GdZ7dtP9dCtrCq4R4bh-PU3ZXDUv1dT05m-4x7CrKWAePEQq3t1B2PDoWM2EtTSNKvN7Sk9L7DE70mXMImdqW6wEQY3AeScLieiHx0aYTXOm0Tj9KCMnmd1pZpIEGDXZZMd5x0EyZzxuii-zSQEbg9FcZFodxo68Q61FoqMrM2bQxB06o9phFwqdw/w613-h251/Caesar.jpg" width="613" /></a></div><br />I seem to be one of the diminishing few who still prefer to watch television in the traditional manner: as and when it is broadcast, usually in weekly episodes. For the past three Mondays we have been watching the Julius Caesar series on the BBC. Even Mrs. D., who is something of a phone addict, has been riveted by it. <br /><br />It tells the story of how, through ruthless political manipulations and military conquests, and by appealing to the popular vote, Julius Caesar overthrew five hundred years of democracy, seizing power to become dictator of the whole Roman Empire. What a tyrant! Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. After him, democracy ended. Rome was governed by emperors and gradually fell into decline.<br /><br />Caesar and those around him, such as Cato and Pompey, are played by actors. We see their actions, which are often terrible, and they spend a lot of time looking worried or thoughtful, but they speak no lines. Their contributions are described by around a dozen experts - academics, serious politicians and constitutional lawyers - who each focus on one person. The effect is gripping and powerful. I especially liked Rory Stewart’s explanations of Cato, Caesar’s adversary, who kills himself rather than compromise. I have seen historical dramas, and documentaries narrated by individuals, but nothing like this. Maybe I don’t watch enough television. <br /><br />Without anything too explicit, it is impossible not to make comparisons with present times. Choose any conflict or political situation in any country you want. It is best said at the end. Democracy has to be defended constantly and vigorously. If democracy is weak, strong people come forward, and a new dictator will emerge. <br /><p></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-91518915508915301112023-12-08T17:10:00.003+00:002024-03-17T17:49:38.275+00:00I Haven’t Time To Be A Millionaire<p>What do young people do when they begin to take more than just a passing interest in each other? One answer it that they walk in the countryside. Our children did so with there special friends, and I have written about how I was smitten one warm evening in peaceful Leicestershire ridge and furrow. </p><p>My parents were no different. This pair of photographs is from 1945. That is Rawcliffe Church in the distance. </p><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVd-Ch4R-9AkS0JuyfZzfsFmurAxYuyl0aO-tetHGKGe4khf-NFzzGg1DAQWMYOsZRffc5U8NkXilLFg8LH_AhqqwHn8oSpEvNqhm8FmJvo0x3LVwkPfiamnsvQY7dPAJi9UCtQz3CbajmTFv2l_eWBowWSWKmvCQoKuWGhrEfHxiRIdHrv-PcgdRDlU/s1453/1945ForBlogBOTH.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="1453" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVd-Ch4R-9AkS0JuyfZzfsFmurAxYuyl0aO-tetHGKGe4khf-NFzzGg1DAQWMYOsZRffc5U8NkXilLFg8LH_AhqqwHn8oSpEvNqhm8FmJvo0x3LVwkPfiamnsvQY7dPAJi9UCtQz3CbajmTFv2l_eWBowWSWKmvCQoKuWGhrEfHxiRIdHrv-PcgdRDlU/w400-h272/1945ForBlogBOTH.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p>I was selecting images to illustrate the old family audiotapes I have mentioned several times, with a view to putting them on YouTube to minimise risk of loss. Here, yet again, is my dad singing “I Haven’t Time To Be A Millionaire”, this time as a video with images. It may not be particularly sophisticated, but it seems to work well.<br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyZkn8jTxpIPBHgM86nlxhk4XFyT3qOVpMyWqj6xiDDmt7Rkn4Jzk2DqbjH0qQcU9H7kyUWE7vZgRTq0cFNsg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<p>I bet he imagined he was Bing Crosby singing with Gloria Jean in “If I Had My Way”. Let’s say he makes a recognisable attempt. I cannot imagine my mum managing Gloria Jean’s coloratura soprano, though. I looked up the original. What a delight! Astonishingly, Gloria Jean was just 14 at the time, playing the part of an orphaned child. She’s nearly as good as Bing. <br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kqzBUaonyZw" width="320" youtube-src-id="kqzBUaonyZw"></iframe></div> <span style="font-size: small;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqzBUaonyZw</span>
<p>Dad sang a lot of Bing Crosby songs to us; there are more on the full audiotape, such as (from the same film): “If I had my way forever there’d be, a garden of roses for you and for me”, and (from “Rhythm on the River”): “Do I want to be with you, as the years come and go? Only forever, if you care to know”. </p><p>“Stop being soppy,” I hear my mum say, which of course encouraged him. </p><p>Isn’t it great to be able to share our parents’ musical obsessions, even years too late. I wish I could watch the films with them now. </p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-15013006357728957772023-12-04T16:40:00.006+00:002023-12-22T11:45:00.889+00:00Andrew Lloyd Webber<p>A treat on BBC Television last night: ‘Andrew Lloyd Webber at the BBC’, a collection of performances over the years. It had some commentary, including from Lloyd Webber himself, but nothing shouty or intrusive, no one ‘emoting’ like an open mouthed idiot, just quiet, intelligent and sensible. The BBC at its best. It was first shown in March earlier this year but I missed it then. It is still on iPlayer. <br /><br />I have long been a Lloyd Webber fan. I first became aware of him in the Joseph days of the nineteen-sixties, but it was Jesus Christ Superstar that won me over, particularly the film - the one with Ted Neely and Yvonne Elliman. I saw it three or four times. My friend Brendan, from the shared house, went to see it about ten times. He knew all the words and harmonies, and could imitate the actors’ bass/baritone/tenor voices: “We need a more permanent solution to our problem. ...What then to do about Jesus of Nazareth? Miracle wonderman, hero of fools ...” If you know the original you can imagine the hilarious effect. <br /><br />Then I bought the first recording of Evita and was absolutely entranced by it, especially the scene where Peron meets Eva for the first time: “...Colonel Peron / Eva Duarte, I’ve heard so much about you. ... but I’m only an actress / a soldier ... But when you act, the things you do affect us all. But when you act, you take us away from the squalor of the real world. ...I’d be good for you, I’d be surprisingly good for you.”<br /><br />For me, the highlight of the programme was Lesley Garrett and Michael Ball singing The Phantom of the Opera in 2001. I love Lesley Garrett. She is of my era and from Thorne in Yorkshire, my part of the country. She went to Thorne Grammar School. Goole, Thorne and the villages in between and around used to be as one. They even had the same telephone dialling code. Then some government factotum with apparently no understanding of the social geography of the area thought it would be more convenient to split them off into different administrative regions. </p><p>When Lesley Garrett speaks, much of her native Thorne accent still bubbles through. When she sings, she is spellbinding.<br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yAYeqyrFWWU" width="320" youtube-src-id="yAYeqyrFWWU"></iframe></div><p><span style="font-size: small;">Lesley Garrett and Michael Ball: The Phantom of the Opera - <a href="https://youtu.be/yAYeqyrFWWU">https://youtu.be/yAYeqyrFWWU</a><br />I don’t know why the sub-titles to this video </span><span style="font-size: small;">misleadingly </span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">implies </span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">that they are married. </span><br /></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-41472944377667529732023-12-01T12:05:00.013+00:002024-03-08T17:23:16.747+00:00The Mighty Micro<p><span style="font-size: small;">New Month Old Post: first posted 4th January, 2017. </span></p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLCZ5AaesIcqQhULqjQsnUU9zDvkAlA6TkG7beFfD7rK2uD_HtbcCzTEg59FONUhQRT3oQXt_wHVNEv2D5mKyB9SK_7oTn9tLHsHBLSe7pGGgqWtD_tvOF4bmjIpPgt-lFHxwBqkFmrw/s1600/MightyMicroCover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Christopher Evans: The Mighty Micro" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLCZ5AaesIcqQhULqjQsnUU9zDvkAlA6TkG7beFfD7rK2uD_HtbcCzTEg59FONUhQRT3oQXt_wHVNEv2D5mKyB9SK_7oTn9tLHsHBLSe7pGGgqWtD_tvOF4bmjIpPgt-lFHxwBqkFmrw/s400/MightyMicroCover.jpg" title="Christopher Evans: The Mighty Micro" width="252" /></a></div><p>
In 1978, Dr. Christopher Evans, a psychologist, computer scientist and expert on the future of computers, confidently made four predictions for the year 2000: (i) the printed word would become virtually obsolete; (ii) computer-based education would begin to supplant schools and teachers; (iii) money, in terms of physical bits of metal and paper, would almost have vanished; (iv) substantial and dramatic advances would have taken place in the field of artificial intelligence.<br /> <br />His only uncertainty was about the pace of change. It might take a decade or so longer, or occur more quickly, but the changes about to take place would be so stupendous as to transform the world beyond recognition. There would be more changes than in the whole of the two previous centuries. We were about to experience rapid, massive, irreversible and remorselessly unstoppable shifts in the way we lived. <br /><br />Evans expanded his predictions in his book and television series The Mighty Micro. As well as the four main predictions, he thought we would soon see self-driving collision-proof cars, robotic lawn mowers, doors that open only to the voices of their owners, the widespread commercial use of databases and electronic text, a ‘wristwatch’ which monitors your heart and blood pressure, an entire library stored in the space of just one book, a flourishing computer-games industry and eventually ultra-intelligent machines with powers far greater than our own. Every one of these things seemed incredible at the time. <br /><br />The social and political predictions were even more mind boggling. Evans foresaw a twenty-hour working week for all, retirement at fifty, interactive politics through regular electronic referendums, a decline in the influence of the professions, the emptying of cities and decreased travel as we worked more from home, and the fall of communism as underprivileged societies become astutely aware of their relative deprivation. <br /><br />I remember how fantastic and exhilarating this view of the future seemed at the time, but it gave me a serious problem. Having escaped my previous career in accountancy, I was half-way through a psychology degree trying to work out what to do next. If Evans was to be believed, and I believed a lot of it, then most of the then-present ways of earning a living were in jeopardy. <br /><br />What was I to do? The answer seemed obvious: something that involved computers. So like Evans, I looked for ways to combine psychology with computing, and after gaining further qualifications that is what I did. <br />
</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivPv4Ac4ZyDHujL2JZDcNeorlpcaSsILjHyUJ87O29aOAIdVBYLFZnB0WjW0j746jQjLClABj17n5KYOsxb_YehZ8hk7ChgqiStfSoQzh_WVTKxaAaGY_ctob736LRRa9MHint7-A0hM/s1600/ChristopherEvans.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Christopher Evans: The Mighty Micro" border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivPv4Ac4ZyDHujL2JZDcNeorlpcaSsILjHyUJ87O29aOAIdVBYLFZnB0WjW0j746jQjLClABj17n5KYOsxb_YehZ8hk7ChgqiStfSoQzh_WVTKxaAaGY_ctob736LRRa9MHint7-A0hM/s320/ChristopherEvans.jpg" title="Christopher Evans: The Mighty Micro" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Christopher Evans talks about educational software</td></tr>
</tbody></table><p>
It is fascinating to revisit Evans’ predictions. How many were correct,
what would have surprised him, and why? Many commentators conclude he
got more things wrong than right, but I am not so sure. The printed word
no longer predominates; computers now pervade education, albeit with
teachers in schools as guides rather than in the didactic and solitary way Evans imagined; and
nearly all significant financial transactions are carried out
electronically. And the less-bizarre predictions are already here.<br /><br />Undoubtedly,
he over-estimated the pace of change, especially the emergence of
advanced artificial intelligence. Futurologists are still predicting it.
Stephen Hawking warned of the terrifying possibilities of machines
whose intelligence exceeds ours by more than ours exceeds that of
snails. On the other hand, it may still be as far away as ever. It
remains unclear what qualities such super-intelligence might have, or
whether intelligence might have an upper limit. Perhaps our inability to
imagine these things defines our stupidity. Where Evans was wrong, if it can be regarded as wrong, is that he was no seer. He could not escape the prevailing mindset of the nineteen-seventies, and foresee the innovative new uses of computers. <br /><br />He did not foresee the internet. Multimedia crops up only in the form of a brief mention of “colour graphics”. Graphical user interfaces were still little more than a research project. He thought that electronic communications would take place through “the family television set” rather than personal hand-held devices. <br /><br />And if you could not foresee these things, there is no way you could imagine how they would be used. Evans, with a seemingly naive view of human nature, imagined we would all be using computers to improve ourselves and make our lives easier; that our leisure time would be devoted to cultural, artistic, philosophical, scientific and creative endeavour of various kinds. I wonder what he would have made of internet pornography, fake news, selfies and cat videos. <br /><br />Evans’ over-beneficent view of human nature coloured his vision of the social and political changes he thought would take place. Take the twenty-hour working week and retirement at fifty. The efficiencies brought about by computers could already have reduced our work significantly, but this has never been offered. It would upset too many powerful interests. Governments answer to the establishment more than the ‘man in the street’. As a result, for those who have jobs, the trend today is the opposite. And for those who don’t, wouldn’t it be fairer to share the jobs out?<br /><br />Imagine if twenty hours per week up to the age of fifty was all we had to do. What would happen? For a start there would be those who decided to take on additional work in order to fund superior accommodation, private education, health care, better holidays, a more luxurious lifestyle and a more comfortable old age. Anyone content with just one job would begin to lose out. To keep up, we would all continue to work more than necessary, and the extra wealth would evaporate through increased spending, inflation and rising house prices, and disappear into the pockets of the elite minority, much of it overseas. Does that sound familiar? The only way to avoid the inevitable self-satisfied winners and miserable losers would be to ration the amount of work one could undertake, or the amount of wealth one was allowed to have. The necessary laws and financial penalties would be unpopular and difficult. <br /><br />And how would we use our over-abundant spare time? One could easily imagine an intensification of social ills: epidemics of obesity, alcoholism, drug dependence, mental health issues and the breakdown of law and order. </p><p>‘Parkinson’s law’ prevails: work expands to fill the time available. Anyone with experience of large organisations will know how work once considered inessential or unaffordable, now occupies an entire additional workforce who administer quality, accountability and ‘political correctness’. Rather than reducing the overall workload, computers have increased it by making possible what was once impossible. <br /><br />Stephen Hawking concluded his forewarnings about super-intelligent computers as follows:<br /><i></i></p><blockquote><i>“Everyone can enjoy a life of luxurious leisure if the machine-produced wealth is shared, or most people can end up miserably poor if the machine owners successfully lobby against wealth redistribution. So far the trend seems to be towards the second option, with technology driving ever-increasing inequality.”</i></blockquote>Sadly, Christopher Evans died shortly after his book’s publication, three weeks before his television series was broadcast. It is often said that if you make predictions about the future the only certainty is that you will be wrong. Evans would have known this, but I suspect he would have been fairly satisfied by the extent to which he got it right. <p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;"><br />My original post in 2017 was quite a lot longer and included links to the archived television programmes, so I have <a href="http://www.taskerdunham.blogspot.com/2017/01/the-mighty-micro.html">left it here</a>. The programmes are fascinating to watch if this kind of thing interests you - the future as seen in 1978. </span><br />
</p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-80973021958587214212023-11-26T16:04:00.001+00:002023-11-26T16:04:29.607+00:00Musical Snobbery<p>Our folk band played a programme of 16th and 17th Century music in the marble-floored hall of one of our nearby great country houses. Actually, it grieves me I wasn’t in it; the side-effects of the pills I have to take make it too difficult at the moment, but there is no point in moaning. Mrs. D. played. </p><p>We mentioned it to a woman from one of those Old-English music groups that are so up themselves in pious authenticity you wonder what pleasure they get out of actually playing the music, if any. She looked interested. <br /><br />We explained that it was not all 16th and 17th Century music, that there were some modern novelty items like Barnacle Bill. <br /><br />Also, that we would not be wearing authentic costumes, only what we had been able to cobble together and make ourselves to create an impression of the time.</p><p>And while we do play composers like Playford and Susato, we do not have original instruments, just our usual ones. We even have banjos, piano accordian and an electric bass. <br /><br />“Oh!” she said in a long drawn-out “Ohhh!”, wrinkling her nose as if something didn’t smell right. <br /><br />She didn’t buy a ticket. </p><p></p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4023204082711630211.post-20621701019756267492023-11-21T10:55:00.000+00:002023-11-21T10:55:49.110+00:00Full Circle?<p>The way we save our computer files seems to have come full-circle, as if we are back to forty or fifty years ago. <br /></p><p>Clearing out more of my life’s debris reminded me of this. I had accumulated a collection of disks and tapes that are now little more than museum pieces. You once had to be so methodical in looking after your documents and images. But, before that, it was all done for you. An so it is now. <br /><br />At first, with mainframe computers, systems managers made sure everything was safely backed-up. I learnt to program in a room full of teletypewriter terminals - the noise was deafening - that were connected to a computer centre somewhere else on the university campus. Once you had typed in your program and asked for it to be save, you could be reasonably sure it would be there ready the next time you logged in. <br /></p><p>However, if you wanted to move programs or documents elsewhere, or if you had one of those new-fangled micro-computers (i.e. a PC), you had to transfer it on to magnetic takes or disks. The first PCs had no internal disks, nothing was saved automatically by an ‘app’, and there was no OneDrive or Google. The internet did not get going until around 1995. <br /><br />I learnt the hard way using Tandy TRS80 computers. Everything had to be saved on C60 audio-cassettes, which were notoriously slow and unreliable. I lost hours of work more than once. It was a godsend when floppy disks came along. <br /><br />Here are some of the storage media I used, now destined for the tip. <br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WyjEHKHLrshc4W3HPkOMQo_a8MHKEg65ybXCq6jC3JsS0QapjZPMIw2chOVkFKGjg6fkfPTnMeIDtz4vgTCQopQsYFy0j0Ym7Wsav0R833mv35nFUkwXpOTW2dlHv9hhKLSw3SRXbC5h0AJ5_xr6_Bw-Hrw3m6RQmpOHzUZUdJAnsWaqLgzc96gI1ak/s1221/7inchfloppydisks.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="1221" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WyjEHKHLrshc4W3HPkOMQo_a8MHKEg65ybXCq6jC3JsS0QapjZPMIw2chOVkFKGjg6fkfPTnMeIDtz4vgTCQopQsYFy0j0Ym7Wsav0R833mv35nFUkwXpOTW2dlHv9hhKLSw3SRXbC5h0AJ5_xr6_Bw-Hrw3m6RQmpOHzUZUdJAnsWaqLgzc96gI1ak/w200-h126/7inchfloppydisks.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<p>8-inch floppy disks containing my Masters project, which was written in Pascal on an LSI-11 machine. UMIST insisted they had to be protected by special folders. </p>
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<p>The 8-inch disks look enormous next to the later 5¼ -inch and 3½-inch ‘hard’ floppy disks you may remember. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2Sz1_HrTxMsLGeAE88upQh2EMWp-Ag6-3Ch9yJTJc3iqWay0zumUPG4WQDQnVOAOu0UUWeF__GgxViFqU2BdVSzd-zjbx9I1grbpwTx4WV8GboN1Qs3fV6PaJEKSFJJewKGY1jG0rRPBf1g4hv28DIQXMpAUE8CFwIv92ReM-D56H_1WUyEQ5R6AZew/s853/tapecartridge.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="569" data-original-width="853" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2Sz1_HrTxMsLGeAE88upQh2EMWp-Ag6-3Ch9yJTJc3iqWay0zumUPG4WQDQnVOAOu0UUWeF__GgxViFqU2BdVSzd-zjbx9I1grbpwTx4WV8GboN1Qs3fV6PaJEKSFJJewKGY1jG0rRPBf1g4hv28DIQXMpAUE8CFwIv92ReM-D56H_1WUyEQ5R6AZew/w200-h133/tapecartridge.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<p>This is a 6-inch cartridge take from a nineteen-eighties PDP11 Unix system, containing some of the work I did as a university research assistant.</p>
<p></p><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9ejhYEXKAecMlOpmdgPIYTWXlXrUbWaa6aN0kOHhCFZdwanEKMv1l8UlZUl-GMc-OZsBLTJAM-hDoVezm5WPavCnHw6gm8YO5BwM6kXG44xpxr8C25BSm4L1JvKIWBTbw2YweZS1nhvj9xFNLauWY9__0zolt3SfCIms6ViC7wzE816EcTj6RL9uXs8/s667/s-l1600.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="667" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9ejhYEXKAecMlOpmdgPIYTWXlXrUbWaa6aN0kOHhCFZdwanEKMv1l8UlZUl-GMc-OZsBLTJAM-hDoVezm5WPavCnHw6gm8YO5BwM6kXG44xpxr8C25BSm4L1JvKIWBTbw2YweZS1nhvj9xFNLauWY9__0zolt3SfCIms6ViC7wzE816EcTj6RL9uXs8/w200-h143/s-l1600.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />Later, I used zip-disks which were a bit like thick floppy disks, but had greater capacity. Only a few home computers had them. <p></p><p> </p>
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<p>
Then, we all moved on to CD ROMS and DVD, and USB memory sticks and SD
cards. I used a pair of memory sticks to transfer files from work-to-home and home-to-work. My first memory stick had a magnificent 256MB of space (that’s
Megabytes not Gigabytes). </p><p>How things have changed! Nowadays, some home computers have internet access only, and no disk drive or USB ports. Some have minimal internal storage. That is also the case if we work only on phones. It feels as if we are being pushed towards keeping everything on the ‘cloud’, like returning to the mainframe days. <br /><br />Microsoft is removing the Windows video editor from our PCs (through Windows Updates) because they want us to use the online ‘ClipChamp’ editor. Google circulated an email saying they are deleting accounts inactive for more than two years. That could well include blogs. Andrew in Australia lost years of blog posts because of something unspecified he supposedly said. Next, they’ll be trying to charge us to store our stuff. <br /><br />I don’t trust the b------s at all. I now have enormous amounts of material: family history research, my parents digitised photograph albums, our own photographs and colour slides, our own digital photographs, digitised videos from cine films, our own digital videos, ... and archived blog posts. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><p>In all, it fills over 100 Gigabytes. I’ve backed it all up in duplicate on a pair of hard drives. I’m glad I learnt the discipline. </p>Tasker Dunhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17634612033217902946noreply@blogger.com34