to work again

I feel I must now at least attempt to get back into employment, my days seem to have become aimless though by no means unpleasant. It's guilt I'm sensing, no doubt, though the sciatica did me no favours: much of what I could do purposefully I can't until the problem goes. I wonder if this feeling of guilt is just a natural phase in giving up employment or something more sinister. You see, if I've discovered one thing in these past few months it's this; work gives you purpose but employment can dehumanise you. It's something I'd wish I understood at twenty. I dread going back to the mill...

biota consumerism

I keep saying to all who'll listen, compost worms turn up eventually. Still people get their credit cards out and head to PayPal for a mailing of worms. Sometimes I feel I should offer mine on Freecycle but....maybe my worms are happy where they are.

Hot on the heels of eBay tiger worms, today I discover you can purchase all kinds of beneficial critters, for instance - ladybird lavae! (that's ladybugs in the US). The importance of these is they'll eat aphids by the truckload. Aphids, left to themselves, eat through your tender green stuff. It's kind of manipulating the ecosystem but probably better than indiscriminate genocide involving chemical warfare. Oh, it's good to be green!

But listen. I wish I'd had my camera because we have several of these lavae about the place - they just turned up, uninvited. Okay, they're on the fruit when they should be on the beans but at least they're in the 'hood. So, if your rich by all means buy them, but if your hard-up, just be more patient.

I had intended to post more frequently on the allotment progress. I don't know where the time goes. A quick update: so far this season we've enjoyed eating our own asparagus, rhubarb, early potatoes (rocket), baby spinach, lettuce (mixed), sorrel, cabbage (primo), baby beets, basil, strawberries, gooseberries, raspberries, and redcurrants. Soon come - the broad bean and blackcurrant!

Noah!

I like this site, Operation Noah, which I found today. No, I'm not into religious conversion. There's plenty of wisdom to be had but in matters of God I remain agnostic. I just like the comparisons between Noah's crisis and ours.

In The Vanishing Face of Gaia, James Lovelock refers to the future British Isles as a possible ''lifeboat'' for survivors and refugees of climate change. An ark is better: more purposeful and the outcome more hopeful.

And I liked Ann Pettifor's Thoughts for the Week (I was trying to remember the Ann who regularly did awful Thoughts for the Day on BBC Radio 4. Ann(e) Atkins - that's the fella! No. No comparison really).

And I want to find how to do one of these origami Arks. The art of Japanese paper folding has always been fascinating.

And I like the slogan; Faith-motivated, Science-informed, Hope-driven.

And they appear to be big on bicycles.

sciatica II

The answer to last Tuesday's quiz was; (b) Osteopath.

From a patient's perspective, I'm still unsure what the difference is. Last time I had a body part requiring expert tweaking I was sent to Physiotherapy. As I recall, they didn't do very dissimilar things to my leg. Chiropractors, I think, are almost wholly an American invention; there they are permitted to adopt the title of ''Dr.'' which can be misleading especially as they're associated with human physiology and therapy. It can be open to abuse; probably why I was thinking quackery.

The osteopath was very good; in fact, it was better than going to the doctors. I had to pay ''at point of use'', mind, a thing that we British don't have to do in the NHS. Of course, we still pay but not ''at point of use''. As a result, without going into the politics, it's hard to know if you're getting ''value for money'' with the NHS, whereas you do know, almost immediately, with ''at point of use''. And I think I got it.

With the GP, no matter how nice they are, you get the sense of time-urgency. Sure, they have so many patients stacked up in waiting, they need you in and out in around nine minutes flat. I don't know what that costs you per hour but ''value for money'' you sense about 50 pence a pop. The Osteopath gave me a full 45 minutes. In that time we discussed my recent medical history, a brief explanation of sciatica, a physical and diagnosis, the therapy itself, including deep massage, a practical instruction in stretching exercises, a look into a totally unrelated complaint (as I had time left on the clock), a discussion on the recession, job opportunities, allotment gardening, being an osteopath, keeping active, and where I could park my bike safely if I ever needed his services again. If he'd offered to make us a nice cup of tea while we sat down to listen to a long-playing record, I couldn't have felt less rushed.

Don't get me wrong; I think the NHS is very important to a civilised society. But you can't help wondering if it's really working all that well.

nerve centre

My continued falling out of love with the WWW is recently exacerbated by a bout of sciatica. I find sitting upright the least comfortable activity at the moment. This appears to be a green ailment as cycling seems to offer relief whereas driving is agony, compounded by the sense of feeling hopelessly trapped and helplessly confined. And as far as walking goes, the poison is in the dose.

Looking it up on the WWW, as you do, I find I need the services of a physiotherapist/osteopath/chiropractor for a bit of leg pulling. What the difference is I don't know but I fear one of them might be a quack. However, my main concern is if they have somewhere safe to chain the bike.

The causes of sciatica are varied, the most likely being sitting awkwardly in the same position for too long - the old WWW again, probably. It's a relief that I'm not in regular employment right now or I'd have to take time off as most of modern office life in the knowledge sectors requires the worker to sit all but motionless in front of a keyboard and screen. I recall earlier times as a trainee/apprentice engineer working pretty much exclusively on a drawing board and being able to vary the height and inclination which enabled me to spend some time sitting and some time standing, at will. Not to mention the stretching and twisting which occurred unconsciously as I moved around the large board, and between board and desk to pick up and replace instruments. Okay, I was younger then but I never suffered a work-related illness in all those days.

What have we done to ourselves in the interest of progress and efficiency? The whole thing's a cock-up from beginning to end. Not to mention the fact that when the computer system fails, either by system crash or power failure, productive work stops immediately and we all look to each other like lost little children in a shopping mall.

Computer dependence will spell the death of civilization. Ouch! - now really I must go stretch my sciatica...

putting away childish things

I've been reading James Lovelock's latest, The Vanishing Face of Gaia: A Final Warning (from the library, of course, part of my ongoing curb the consumerist in me project). Boy, the future looks grim. If I understand it correctly, ''saving the planet'' is futile and we should instead adapt and survive. I'm all in favour of that, far more than saving stuff. This is a book I will recommend to everyone.

Part of the message is the future scarcity of land for food production. Is it a coincidence that there is now an increase in home food production? Apparently, in some urban parts, allotments and smallholdings are in such demand, there's now a ten year waiting list for plots. As the climate heats up and the population increases, food will become increasingly expensive due to demand and the reduction in food imports. Home produce will probably become even more significant to feed the predicted 100 million people in the UK.

This morning we walked the dog along the lane which leads up to Ciren. Park, the Earl Bathurst's estate. It takes you past several polo fields sometimes used, I believe, by our royal princes. There's several of these fields and they cover quite a big acreage of perfect, flat turf. I'm afraid all this will have to go under the spade, I joked, before realising it might not be far from the truth. I wondered if they still had polo fields during the war and the ''Dig For Victory'' effort. A different age, though. Every dog has its day.

love & work (& music)

It's been a while since I wrote anything. I've been occupied building a wardrobe for daughter using only reclaimed materials; a bed, two redundant wardrobes and a set of redundant shelving units. It was a complete success: I found a renewed interest in woodworking and home-building that has long been missing. I may get on with the rest of the house with a view to selling: we need to get out of this place, it's not right for future endeavours. Already a plan is shaping up. We need to face the future with greater self-reliance and more diversification than before, to work more for ourselves than for other people.

During the last recession when I was out of employment, I found an old stereo system of mine and set it up in the garage; a turn-table, an amp and a pair of tall speakers. Digging out my abandoned vinyl collection, I rediscovered old forgotten favourites such as Taste, (feat. Rory Gallagher), Southside Johnny, and Slim Harpo.

Times and tastes change, yet I did a similar thing only this time with an old laptop, a wi-fi plug-in, and some amplified speakers. I'm rediscovering Late Junction and World On Three - perfect listening for woodworking with hand-tools. Mind you, I had to clear the garage for safety reasons first - hopping around the garage detritus holding sharp objects was getting a bit dangerous, and boring - and found Craig Charles' Funk & Soul Show ideal accompaniment for that. Happy days!

a case for time travel (part four)

Once, in Italy - it was either a town in Tuscany or Veneto, I can't remember details - I stood on the fringe of a street market while the family shopped for shoes. All of a sudden I was aware of the savoury fragrance of roast chicken coming from a vendor's van and I was immediately transported mind and soul to a childhood, London suburban, early Sunday afternoon. Make no mistake, this was not a mere memory; this was the real thing. Only my eyes were transmitting incorrect messages to my brain; all else was functioning properly, sometime around, possibly, 1969.

It only lasted, ooh, a couple of seconds in clock time but, as we know, time is relative - it might have been the whole afternoon. As we lose the memory of dreams soon after waking, so it is with travelling in time.

I get this a lot now, ever since the routine of employment has been suspended. It's milder than the Italian experience but, nevertheless, easily noticeable. Usually I'm walking down the road, say to the allotment, and I'm no longer walking that way but along a different street to another destination quite clearly from my past. The sensations are intense, and real, but sadly too quickly over - I think it's the realisation of dual reality that the process can't cope with. That's the theory I'm working on. Again these aren't memories: I have no recollection of events just sensations of a very familiar environment. Any way, think on; perception, time and place, it's all relative, see. What's not possible?

a case for time travel (part three)

Technologists should avoid making predictions about life. Sure, they can speculate on what will be possible technologically, but not about what our future selves will value. We all remember predictions of everyone owning jet-packs and flying cars. And more leisure time - I remember that one well - due to a plethora of labour-saving gadgetry. Besides, this civilization is, probably, coming to its natural end.

Tim Berners-Lee - fine fellow: invented the world-wide-web (not to be confused with the internet) and gave it away, free - is here predicting pixels will become so cheap we'll have entire rooms walled with the things. Information will then be so widespread and available, some bod might discover a way to stop climate change, or even cure male pattern baldness, perhaps. Maybe. Anything's possible, even a technological prediction.

My personal WWW has been shrinking over the last year. I no longer find it exciting or, dare I say it, worthwhile. My bookmark page is as big as it was purely because I can't be bothered to par it down to the six or seven sites I want to visit. There was a time I used to surf with incredible ease; now more often I sigh and get on with something more real.

art & work

Time tends to move fastest about now; it's almost mid-June, soon the longest day, soon after that the end of classes. This round of the Moleskine Exchange is almost complete too and the next round will continue without me. It's been good fun but the space will be welcome - providing I don't squander it.

Our class tutor was talking about booking some exhibition space in town for her students. An exciting idea! Not that I'll be one of those students who hope to sell their work. This is, partly, the old chestnut about valuing one's efforts but also because I hardly ever see my bits as finished. Not even ''works in progress''. The enjoyment for me is the process of creating in the ''here and now'', beyond that it doesn't matter. It's taken me too long to get to this stage, I'm not sure I want to do anything different. If the exhibition idea becomes reality, I may have to knuckle down and complete a couple of pieces. That's why they call it art work.

uphill, downhill

Bicycles and art seem to be going hand in glove at the moment, me having to cycle to this morning's art class owing to a lapsed MOT certificate. At the last moment I managed to fashion a backpack from two luggage straps, a heavy-duty supermarket bag, and a short length of rope given to me to practice sailing knots a long time ago, so I could take along my own drawing board. A rather Heath-Robinson construction but no one I passed gave it a second glance, so there.

The college is on another corner of town, if you imagine the town to be roughly an equilateral triangle, the middle of which is taken up by Cirencester Park. You can ride a horse through Ciren. Park and if you're one of the ''privileged'' classes, you may even drive your car through it but, for some unexplained reason, not a bicycle. So, the ride means going down into town and back up to the college. Going down, I was aware of being tail-gated by man on a racer who sped past at the earliest opportunity. Further along, going uphill, I managed to catch up despite my load, despite his nose on the handlebars and bum in the air, and overtook with relative ease. I never saw hide nor hair of him after that.

So, the question is; is it better to have a bike that gets you downhill faster or one that gets you uphill easier? I'll leave that philosophical conundrum with you.

antibarbarianism

Hot on the heels of Paxo's advice, I took to my bicycle to see Kate Lynch's touring Sheep exhibition at the New Brewery Arts. Okay, before you say it, that's the nearest thing we have to a gallery. Contemporary, you won't find anything Victorian though you might see something made with pre-Victorian technology such is the way of arty rural folk - rather like the subjects of Lynch's paintings and drawings. I like it like that; each in its proper place.

It was a fabulously warm morning, the air passed by with wonderful smells. The lemony scent of freshly sawn pine from a loft conversion, the heady perfume of a rose garden, and the incredibly nostalgic coconut-ice waft of a flowering gorse hedge. I chained the bike to a fire escape, there are no provisions for bicycles at the new gallery. A criminal oversight.

I really liked Lynch's charcoals. The oils were charming, they brought to mind Beryl Cook in the style of late Claude Monet, but that's the first time I've seen charcoals used with that style of figurative work. Big giants of people and beasts, wool and brawn. My favourite piece had no red dot but, alas, they were all (eek!) out of my price range.

There was a soundscape accompanying the exhibit but I couldn't hear it above the din of class 2K from Much Maisey-in-the-Leaze, (C of E) - I think it might have been switched off anyway. A shame: I love a bit of contrived ambiance. Still, good to watch the kiddliwinks scattered around the floor, rendering their paper with fluffy charcoal sheeps. Picasso's famous words came to mind.