The Polar Express

Ah, the Season of Goodwill is with us once again; a season of crass commercialism and of glorious generosity, of bitter cold and of hot mince pies, and as the intonings of Bleak Midwinter sound in the background, I pose the question that I have asked many times and I will ask again: why is the animated movie,
Polar Express (Robert Zemeckis, 2004) not up with other seasonal greats such as Elf (Jon Favreau, 2003) and
White Christmas (Michael Curtiz, 1954)? On watching it for the hundredth time, it seems, its combo of ingredients strikes me vividly; a strong story, emotionally gripping characters and extraordinary animation and even, a pointed literary reference, none of which have grown tired through repeated viewings. On the contrary, I look forward to watching it again (and again), to hopping on board and riding that gloriously steampunky train filled with children in various states of eagerness and cynicism, to travel to the North Pole on Christmas Eve. I love all of the characters, from the non-believing hero-boy to sad Billy from the “wrong” side of town, the spooky Conductor and the ghostly tramp who hangs out on top of the carriages and even, the pair of nutters who actually control the train. I look forward to riding with them again (and again) through wolf-inhabited forests and across frozen lakes, careening down precarious gorges and alongside mountain slopes and eventually, riding triumphantly into the glowing bauble that is Elven town, a place where the elf inhabitants devote their lives to making toys and equipping Santa for the annual Big Night. Every detail is gorgeous; the hundreds of little elves in their traditional red and green, the colourful wrappings on the thousands of gifts in the toy warehouse and of course, the resplendent Santa with his sleigh and team of reindeer. The musical interventions are few in number, gentle in style and non-intrusive, all designed to push the story forward rather than dominate the action. Overall, it is a heart-warming work, filled with acts of loyalty and friendship, with covert comments on greed and cynicism. Like I said, why is the Polar Express not more popular among children – of all ages?
A peaceful and prosperous Christmas to all readers....

Not just a pretty flower.......wonderful pelargonium

I don’t often wax lyrical about “healthcare” products, but a recent experience has left me so unhinged, I just had to put fingers to keyboard. The facts are these. About three weeks ago, I contracted a spiteful bug that laid me low, rendering me Camille-like, tossing and turning with fever on bed and couch. Two days later, the fever had gone but so had my voice, and a host of aches and pains had rushed in to fill the void, plus eruptions of coughing violent enough to put an active Vesuvius to shame. With just over a week to go before delivering a lecture, I was in panic.
Friend, I tried everything, hot drinks, saltwater gargles, Vitamin C and zinc supplements, not to mention munching on as many grapes, apples and antioxidant produce as my compromised lower quarters could bear plus sleeping enough to rival Rip Van Winkle. In addition, I worked my way through a mountain of tissues and a small warehouse-full of painkillers, throat pastilles and cough mixture. With two days to go, my voice was still a croak and I was still busting into fits of Vesuvian coughing. In desperation, I wandered to the nearest Holland and Barrett, and providence – it could only have been providence – led my quivering fingers to KALOBA pelargonium cough and cold relief. To make a long story short, within twelve hours of beginning the supplement, the coughing subsided, my voice recovered enough to give my talk and just over a week later, I am cough, cold and sniffle free. Not being a trained clinician, I cannot judge the extent to which the vitamins and antioxidants contributed to the cold cure. But I do not believe it a coincidence that my full recovery began when I began taking the KALOBA. Incidentally, pelargonium is a member of the pink and pretty geranium family, and is used in perfume-making and flavouring a range of foods, as well as medicine. Again, I’m no clinician but if you are trying to get rid of a lingering cough – why not try it? (100 ml retails at £7.99 in Holland and Barrett.)

When meals on the bus are out of bounds…..

Friends, when I heard about the latest gimcrack notion spinning about in order to improve our lives, I fell to laughing – and then, when I realised the implications for me, I began to weep. Because, if “they” do put the notion in motion, then we really will be living in a nightmare dystopia. In case you haven’t heard, a certain academic has put forward the theory that banning the consumption of food on public transport will curb childhood obesity – yes, I did write that. Friends, I ask: in what universe does food consumed on trains and buses – as opposed to say, in people’s homes, and in cafes and restaurants, and in canteens and dining halls - gain in calorific value? And bear in mind the implications for our wider culture; instances of passengers convening in railway dining carriages have served as time-honoured triggers to best-selling novels and blockbuster movies.
Then, I reread the spec and realised that the notion only applied to food consumed on urban transport – ah, intercity travellers, rest assured. But friends, I ask, in what universe does food consumed in an urban environment gain in calorific value as opposed to say, food eaten amid green fields, forests and on rocky mountains? But what do I know – maybe the theory has been tried and tested and proved fruitful? In which case, what does this academic say to the hordes of adult workers who thread their way across town centre and suburb daily, from one low-paid gig to another? Where are we, without access to a well-stocked canteen or 5-star dining facility, supposed to nibble our much-needed sandwiches and sesame-seed crackers? In case said academic is unaware, work without calorie supply is impossible. (If in doubt, please consult the first law of thermodynamics!!!) Sure, we could consume our comestibles out of doors, but it all begs the question: where will “they” ban eating next – underneath trees, on park benches, in public squares….?
https://www.theguardian.com/food/shortcuts/2019/oct/10/eating-on-public-transport-human-right

Va....va......vanish!

I don’t often sing the praises of a cleaning product. However, I’d like to draw readership attention to the virtues of Vanish Gold Carpet Care – yes, the one in the pink and gold plastic bag with those advertisements that have been assaulting our eyeballs to oblivion, this past summer. For years, I had struggled to keep my living/bedroom/hall carpet clean using water and detergent – and with not undesirable results. However, the heat of the past summer dictated a more passive approach to cleaning. The Vanish process is actually quite simple; vacuum all loose dirt from the carpet. Shake the Vanish dispensing bag and remove the underside tabs to reveal the perforations. Walk across the carpet, sprinkling the powder as evenly as possible. Take a brush and work the powder into the pile. At this point, pet and human hair will rise to the surface, but it is no bother to toss this gunk into a small bag as work progresses – and discard later. This “working in” takes the largest chunk of time, but it is still surprisingly quick, 20 minutes in my instance. Following this, it is a good idea to allow Vanish lie fallow for a little while, as long as it takes to read a magazine story or two and down a cup of coffee, perhaps? Vacuum the treated areas carefully – and open a window or door to enable the high-octane scent to vanish (sic). It takes another hour or so for the carpet to “dry” completely, and for the five Vanish benefits to manifest fully: to rid the carpet of dirt, odours and pet hairs, and to soften the carpet fibres and to return them to their original freshness. On all counts, Vanish scores well – although the “pet” hairs in question were actually mine. And the carpet does indeed feel softer and look fresher. In short, my carpet is almost restored to its original, pure-wool glistening purity – be aware that mine is a pale, neutral shade – and that a few of the more ingrained patches of soil will require additional treatments. However….

Grander Designs.....

Property doyen Kevin McCloud has ever spoken out against “identik” architecture and boy, don’t we agree with him. I, too, abhor the sold cheap (ha!) and piled high in the sky, anything is better than nothing approach to housing. But whereas Kevin has spent twenty years demonstrating to TV viewers on how to build a “dream” home, my vision is somewhat more down to earth. Rather than eclectic palaces appealing to ebullient individuals, my grand designs involve sustainable housing en masse. Just to recap on the many building and architectural articles that I have written previously, a well-designed building serves the needs of the people that live and work in it.
The building is made from high-quality materials, and has due regard for its environment and the ecosystem.
It is designed to fit into its landscape or townscape in an elegant and unobtrusive way.
The price is within financial reach of these same people, whether for renting or buying.
The building does not drain resources from other, vital aspects of private or civic life.
The building does not serve merely the interests of shareholders and investors, and its environment does not seek to exclude certain groups on the grounds of age, race, spending powers and other, arbitrary delineations.
A good example of a well-designed building could be a low-rise development, that is, no higher than the tree-line, consisting of one, two and three-bed apartments, with the ground-floor flats reserved for older and disabled people. This low-rise configuration maximises the roof-space available to install solar panels, a feature that provides low-cost, sustainable energy to the occupants. The blocks are made to the same pattern, yet rendered slightly differently for visual interest and identification – think of modernistic furniture units. Grass-grown areas around the separate blocks enable children to play, observed by parents and guardians. Walkways entwine the grassy areas, ramped rather than stepped so that pedestrians can wheel buggies and wheelchairs, with ease. The same walkways allow ease of access to public transport hubs and private cars parked securely in garage banks. If required, an occupant can pay a slightly higher rent for green space that can be cultivated to individual taste – the only “exclusion” inherent in the design. There is nothing “eclectic” involved in building like this but neither is it cold, snooty, arrogant or obtrusive.
Further Information
https://www.amazon.com/Where-Do-You-Live-Dwellings-ebook/dp/B005SST1JU
https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2019/aug/22/investors-kevin-mccloud-property-schemes-huge-losses

Horticultural delights....

The school holidays have another two weeks to roll, and anyone living in proximity of the M25 could do no better than motor to Bullmoor Lane, (Enfield, North London) where you will find the entrance to Capel Manor Gardens. For the princely sum of £6 pp, (family tickets and concessions available), outdoors’ aficionados will have a ball, blazing a trail about the myriad horticultural delights created by the students of Capel Manor College.

Over 60 separate gardens, the brochure says. Well, I lost count of the vistas of wonder that we worked our way past; a Japanese garden, an Australian garden, a garden filled with spooky trompe l’oeil, numerous rose gardens, lavender gardens and well, just gardens. Jaded with blossoms, we explored the miniature zoo (animals to watch for include meerkats, marmosets and humans), the woodland walk, the fairy forest, the temple lake, the holly maze and much, much more. Around every corner, a surprise that will leave you laughing aloud hits the eyes; broken statues sunken in the earth, enticing building facades that prove to be shams and cute little ponies – is there any other kind? - that turn out to be real. Our mistake was arriving too late in the day to see everything – don’t you do that. Amenities include a cafe, and picnic areas and loos at intervals. Essential for enthusiasts of gardens, of life, and of the weird and wonderful – do not miss! https://www.capelmanorgardens.co.uk

Will mass jet-packing ever take off?

Years ago, I dreamed of a future where the then not invented jet pack would be the main form of commuter transport, at least. Every morning, we were all going to don the j-pack together with the business suit, before grabbing the briefcase with the sandwiches inside. No more traffic jams, bus-waiting anxiety or train station tantrums. We were simply going to power on our j-packs and, like human bumblebees, hover over rooftops and gardens and roadways deserted of people, aside from a few die-hard pedestrians and motorists. “Good morning” we would all say to one another politely, before landing our feet in front of the office, school or university, wherever we were headed.

Jumping jezebels and jiving jitterbugs – no wonder JK Rowling triumphed! Hogwarts itself wasn’t so packed with fantasies; at least Harry, Hermione and the others learned how to fly on broomsticks. In my musings, I had never imagined the hazards in store for humans making free in unregulated air-space. Gracious, we can’t even get it right when we are on the ground. A mere glance out of my window reveals telegraph poles and tree branches, electric wires and chimney pots, birds and even, a distant church spire, all in addition to the certainty of colliding with other humans. Other hazards include the possibility of the j-pack malfunctioning and the subject crashing to earth at his peril and that of others. With all those j-packers making free over private gardens, prison yards and other verboten spaces, trespass law as we know it would have to be redefined. Aside from such minor matters, who would choose daily stratospheric exposure to inclement weather and bird droppings before landing in on a business meeting in preference to a relaxing journey in a vehicle interior, accompanied by hot coffee and the morning paper? The problem with mass jet-packing is that it is just too democratic, humans reduced to functional units defined by a hard hat and a flying suit. The underlying truth is that every human function is intertwined with a narrative of social status. The reason that a j-packing London mayor caught the news was because it was an exclusive experience. It will require another human evolution for j-packing to take off, en masse. We will have to learn how to never collide with each other or anything else, and to never fly over anyone else’s private space. And then pigs really will fly to the moon! https://www.cityam.com/boris-s-vision-jetpack-future-already-here/

One small step.....

"It's disgusting", said the woman, as she quivered with rage on being asked her opinion of the anticipated moon landing. "Have they nothing better to do?"
"Well, no," I said aloud, to the woman's television image, fifty years after she had spoken. "In 1969, they HAD nothing better to do." Like, what else had they to do in the decade defined by space travel? And it makes me proud that I was born in that there decade, that I was a child of the space race. This week, I have grown addicted to those eerie images of the past, the gas-guzzling cars and the psychedelic clothing, the steam-punky technology of the control centres, the filled ashtrays nestling over monochrome screens locked into grey metal casing. More striking still are the fashions, the male suits and shirts looking cool and contemporary alongside the dated bouffant hairstyles and cats' eye sunglasses of the women. Such an event could only have happened in summer, the Apollo 11 rocket towering against the metaphorical blue skies' backdrop, intent faces trained on Cape Kennedy absorbing the extraordinary events with the same aplomb as they licked their ice-creams. And I punched the air and screamed aloud on seeing the lunar module test flight without its covering of tin foil. Believe me, today's drones are its direct offspring....more to follow.

Essence of Summer

The shopping mall is filled with bustle,
Peeling skin and bright-red faces
Van McCoy is playing The Hustle
Sun-browned limbs in public places – suddenly, it’s summer.

Refracted vistas; walls that waver
Bright-blue sky and plane delayed
Lip sunscreen with fruity flavour
We only find respite in shade–that’s just summer.

Braided hair and straw sunbonnet
Rose-pink dawn and evening stars
A broken flip-flop, jewels upon it
Melting tarmac, dusty cars– bring on summer.

Long, bright days and ice-cream sundae
Salty snacks and cool, sweet drinks
Short, dark night and boredom, Monday
Flaming oranges, shocking pinks –good ol’ summer.

Bright-green salads, dressings oily,
Polka dots on painted nails
Strawberries, cream and paper doily
Stripy beach bag, wind-blown sails – celebrating summer.

Swimming parties by the river,
Gentle breezes, yellowed grasses
Icy water makes us shiver
Clinking cubes in cocktail glasses: we love summer.

Sweaty nights and shirts are sticky
Lightening forks and violent thunder
Broken sleep with dreams so icky
Downpours sudden and – no wonder; it’s summer.

All too soon, maybe tomorrow
The bright sun fades, the darkness conquer
Season’s joy will turn to sorrow
And that is when we will long for – summer.

The poetic 65 bus....

Still on the subject of Seeing Things: A Memoir by Oliver Postgate, it touched me to learn that daily, he hopped on board a no. 65 bus as part of his journey from Finchley to his earliest art lessons at Kingston College. The route has changed somewhat since the late 1930’s, but the bus is still in existence, cutting a transport lifeline through west London. Oh, the poetry of that voyage; originating in Kingston, the 65 bus travels through the streets of Ham, down Sandy Lane and past Petersham Meadow before descending into the art deco delight that is Richmond. Outside of the train station, the bus seems to pause in prep for breathing in the perfumed air that absolutely must waft over the walled enclosure of Kew Gardens. Refreshed, the 65 bus heads through Kew village, past the green and across the bridge, then travels west alongside the sparkling waters of the Thames. Turning north, the bus manoeuvres relentlessly through Brent, skirting Gunnersbury Park and Walpole Park, past classical portico and Gothic spire, until the green and pleasant pastures of Ealing come into sight. I don’t know why, but this event always puts me in the mood for afternoon tea, even if the journey is in the morning. As passengers alight at the terminus, it is tempting to reach out and stroke the body of the bus, parked as it is on the Broadway, like a faithful horse harnessed and ready to canter southward again.

Gather ye round and read my Nog-Blog...

“In the lands of the North, where the black rocks stand guard against the cold sea, in the dark night that is very long the men of the Northlands sit by their great log fires and they tell a tale...”
As I read those words, reproduced in Seeing Things: A Memoir, Oliver Postgate’s sparkling autobiography, the past came rushing back. It was the 1960’s once again, and my siblings and I were seated around a winter fire following a day at school, watching the wonderful Noggin the Nog on television. I quote Postgate: “nobody who has watched those films...will ever hear those words without remembering the slow icy chords with which Vernon Elliot (bassoon) and his daughter Bridget (clarinet) heralded and accompanied that opening speech.” Well, even if they have, I haven’t.
The genius of that Noggin the Nog opener was that it pulled the viewer/listener right into the narrative. You could actually feel the heat from those great log fires that the Northmen sat around – or maybe it was coming from the coals hissing in our domestic grate? And those bassoon and clarinet chords were indeed like icy motes troubling our backs and necks as we watched and listened – or maybe it was actual cold air creeping through our home window fittings – a not unusual occurrence in those days before ubiquitous double glazing? But it matters not.
Noggin was storytelling at its best and as I continued reading Postgate’s narrative, I cried and laughed aloud as he recounted - and I recalled - characters and episodes from the long-running Saga. Nogbad the Bad, for instance, and the Ice Dragon, and a steampunky longship with mechanical wings, built by Olaf the Lofty – I had forgotten him! In his earlier years, Postgate himself had been the inventor of a host of failed devices, and I have no doubt that he derived a measure of glee from channelling his experiences into the cartoon features, created with the equally talented Peter Firmin. Whatever, this Nog-blog is nearly done, and I have had a lot of fun recounting other creations of the Postgate/Firmin duo, Ivor, Clangers, Pingwings, all, characters that will live in the memory of grown-up kids, like you and me...