A Great Oasis of Nothingness

Many years ago, when I was but a teen, our family moved off its usual summer vacation groove and booked instead, a cottage in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere. Friend, nothing surrounded us, no street lights or bus service, no shops, cafes, public buildings. When darkness descended, we looked out into a vast arena of nothingness – and it was glorious. One night, a thrilling thunderstorm lit up the sky and rain lashed against the roof of the little dwelling. Inside, all was warmth and cosiness, with flickering firelight reflected on our cups and glasses. And when daylight came, the sun shone again and our guardians motored us to the nearest beach. And that was the point of the vacation. Years have passed and, though I still remember that time with fondness, I have never yearned to live like that. It was what it was, an interval, a vacation, a leaving of the ordinary, the everyday, behind, an oasis where nothing happens providing space to think, to dream, to process life. Paradoxically, it is a place where many of us expand into everything, a reminder that this world was made out of nothing.

Stuffing the mushroom

Friend, if I could get hold of whatever subject, aeons back in history, who grabbed a bunch of fungus, stuffed them in his mouth and ate them, I would show you a freak indeed. The wonder is that the habit caught on and that today, the cookbook shelves are groaning with volumes extolling the virtues of these prediluvian horrors. Over the years, otherwise good friends have tried to “convert” me into liking these anaerobic aberrations of nature, and all without success. I just cannot abide it, that bitter, corky-textured hunk of pulp with its musty after-taste, all the while knowing of its origins in the direst of environments - no air, no sunlight, plenty of dirt – like a parasite that thrives in the foulest area of the animal anatomy. After all, we don’t extol the virtue of the tapeworm, now do we? And it’s not like there is nothing else to eat on this planet; what ho to a healthful apple, orange or peach, bred in aerated soil and exposure to sunlight. Enjoy your feast of fungus, if you will, but remember, if God made the world, then the devil made….

For Kids of all Ages

In view of public outrage, I had hoped this event would resolve itself. But, like a lighted pumpkin head at Halloween, it remains looming from the darkness of a derelict House of Parliament. An appropriate metaphor since, on this island, all imagination of our leadership, all compassion, understanding and hope for the future seem to have been consigned to a darker, colder space, more deadly and terminal than any actual cellar or basement ever could be. Friend, since when is a Mickey Mouse cartoon (or Winnie the Pooh character, or Elsa from Frozen) not (I quote Robert Jenrick) “age-appropriate for teens”. Did not the late, great Walt Disney create his cartoons and theme parks “for children of all ages”? As a person long past the teen years, I treasure my collection of Disney DVDs, and I see Mickey, Donald, Pluto, etc., as old friends, my companions through life. Here, I quote Bruno Bettelheim from his book, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (London: Penguin Books, 1991) : “The fairy tale clearly does not belong to the outer world, although it may begin realistically enough and have everyday features woven into it. The unrealistic nature of these tales (which narrow-minded rationalists object to) is an important device, because it makes obvious that the fairy tale’s concern is not useful information about the external world, but inner processes taking place in the individual.” If we substitute “fairy tale” with “cartoon”, we can see how the words of the author might apply to the current situation. The painted-over murals may have played a role in lifting the traumatised young or older person out of his immediate environment and into an imagined world where he or she can mentally process whatever event reduced them to status of asylum-seeker, thus preventing “trauma” becoming “damage”. For example, a person encountering Elsa might deduce that keeping on in the face of a challenge is a good thing. But I digress. If only a Banksy-type talent could paint a bare-bottomed Homer Simpson episode on a wall opposite the Jenrick household….now, that might be age-appropriate!

Feathered Peril, Chimney Flues and Bird Blues

Being of the old school, I have long been au fait with that Alfred Hitchcock classic, (based on a story by Daphne du Maurier), The Birds. When I first saw it, oh, so many years ago, I never, ever imagined that my life would in any be touched by feathered peril. Yet, fortune was to see me sojourn in a house whose old chimney flues served as Airbnb to the local avian population. And more than once, I found one of the feathered ones in my quarters – Tippi Hedren, move over, please. A few years and another apartment later, I faced another feathered peril. The place is a fine example of modernism, no chimney flues or blues here. Instead, the world turned green twice daily, sunrise and sunset, with flocks of parakeets paying court to (and stripping the leaves off) the local trees. By the way, has anyone noticed how much those tropical horrors resemble Alfred Hitchcock’s lovebirds? The parakeets eventually tired of the district and the visits halted. But another peril abounds – pigeons. Yes, the annual nesting season is under way and more than one of these blighters has tried to smash (yes, smash) its way into my apartment. The latest attack was executed by one of the species resting awhile on top of a nearby curtain wall and then launching himself, missile style, against my second-floor window. Really, their cheek has to be witnessed to be believed. Ever since, I return home every day with an apprehension that one of said blighters may, just may have succeeded in breaking the window and nested comfortably in the living room, the carpet liberally decorated in guano. Has this actually happened to anyone? Reader, over to you.

Shuropody, shure thing!

I have said much in this column about the necessity of comfortable and attractive footwear for the normally-functioning woman, which is why finding a brand that upholds this flag fills me with delight. But until now, I had associated any shoe with an even vague medical aura about it with crutches and calipers and out-held collecting tins. What joy then, to stumble across Jaycee from the Shuropody Foot Clinic, sneaker shoes that are stylish, comfortable and supportive in every sense. Fashioned from a mix of suede leather and nylon net, Jaycee is laced up front, with a cute and useful zip on the outer side. The shoe sports a useful “comfort cushion” insole of memory foam that provides additional arch support. A fashionable grey band about the upper base adds definition to the sneaker, hinting at the red and grey textured sole underneath. A Jaycee shoe style is available also, in silver, navy and blossom-pink leather. The style retails for £45-£48.

Modern Myths: the Great Dairy Delusion

Modern life is filled with myths, for instance, hard work always pays off and polluted rivers have hidden benefits. But of all the swindles enacted on the public, the most outrageous of all must be the 1.5 centuries-long worship of milk. Anyone who grew up in or around the British Isles throughout the 1940’s, 50’s, 60’s and into the 1970’s, will know what I mean, will remember those annual love-ins with the dairy industry, to try to pour ever more of the white stuff down our throats. Schools, in particular, were regaled with classroom posters depicting rosy-cheeked youths knocking back glasses of the pale and creamy liquid. And every year, each child was handed a leaflet with at least one chart showing the nutritional make-up of milk, so much protein, fat, etc. Milk is a by-product of the meat production industry, with almost 15 billion litres of it produced annually in Great Britain. Milk is a superb culinary ingredient. Without it, we would have no butter, cheese, yoghurt, chocolate or ice-cream. It is essential for the baking of numerous cakes and loaves, and the preparation of a raft of sauces and many more dishes. Without it, the traditional cup of British tea is unthinkable. A protein found within it, casein, was essential to the production of buttons. Nutritionally, it was a mainstay for parents of children who were too old and/or numerous for feeding in the “natural” way and had not graduated on to adult foods. But before we get carried away, the majority of parents do not produce that number of offspring, anymore. The great milk success story is a little like that of the Internet, which resulted from the development of mass communication systems that fell in tandem with the public appetite for boundless information. The romanticisation of milk was brought about by the convergence of various social forces and technological developments and serves as a paradigm of our times. In the 1860’s, Louis Pasteur developed the process of pasteurization, which made cow’s milk disease-free and safe for its mass distribution. Previously, it was safe – if at all – only when drunk soon after milking. Pasteurization took place a century after the migration of the population from the green countryside to the newly-fledged towns of the Industrial Revolution. For that intervening century, the mass of people lived in unsafe and insanitary conditions, and had access to little fresh food. Fast-forward to the early twentieth century and witness their descendants, the less well-off urbanites needing a daily nutritional fix. What better than a glass or two of this by-product of the beef industry, the Great White Hope delivered straight from the green countryside by mass transportation to the dark heart of grimy urban areas? With free compulsory education well in place and an army of schoolteachers more than willing, it seemed, to augment commercial advertising, the milk marketeers held a sitting, captive purchasing sector. And of course, the marketeers advertised relentlessly on that spanking new medium, television. Latterly the offspring of Victorians, parents and teachers bought the message along with the milk: the drink was good for you and a child’s behaviour was graded according to his or her daily consumption, and endorsed and even enforced the wholesale downing of the white stuff. The colour itself denoted purity, goodness and the child not drinking his or her “pinta day” was not only naughty and undeserving of childhood treats, he or she was liable to grow up, if at all, with stunted bones and rotting teeth, together with the wreckage of an immune system. After all, milk was natural, untainted by chemical-laden factory processes. It was produced in that hallowed depth, the cow’s udder. That the cows were not similarly in awe of the human, milk-manufacturing process, escaped notice. As did the sufferings of the lactose-intolerant alongside the glaringly obvious fact that other and better ways to gain a daily fix of proteins, minerals and vitamins, were well in place, that the wholesale downing of milk says more about our culture than any dietary merits it might have . While I have never been an advocate of Margaret Thatcher’s politics, I now admit that she may have known more about nutrition than the average citizen when she infamously withdrew free milk from schoolchildren in 1971, a ruse for which she was dubbed “the milk snatcher”. These days, I spot casein bars on the shelves alongside other, protein-heavy products. Will someone gently remind these protein quaffers that the human animal is not required to grow horns and hooves?

Delve into the Vintage Vault

As a perennial fan of vintage movies, I have grown to love Sunday nights when, from 9 pm onward, the Legend channel presents the Vintage Vault, broadcasting from a trove of the daffiest, most wonderful old scary movies. From lost tribes living underground, invasions by giant, alien crystals, man-eating blobs and all-singing, all-dancing, rivers of slime, to new takes on old friends like Dracula, Frankenstein, mummies and were-wolves, the only limit is the budgets of the movie studios of yesteryear. I dip in to marvel and then shed a tear for those old, innocent days, when wonder and suspense could be created without so much as a CGI. Really, do look in.