caldrail

Nothing to worry about. Just sign up as a christian. The End-Timers reckon all worshippers are going to teleport to heaven any day now. That should save you a few bills. Can't take it with you, you know

DING! If I'm not mistaken, that was the doorbell. There I was, snoozing happily under my nice warm duvet, and someone has to go and spoil it by ringing the doorbell. It might be important, you never know, though a part of was wondering whether someone had broken my car again. I've reached the point where I don't care too much. Okay, let's find out what's going on. It dawned on me that doing so meant getting out of bed. This had better be good. Switch the hallway light on so the visitor knows I'm about to emerge from the grim darkness that is my home. Put some trousers on. Right, I'm prepared, let's see what they want. As it turned out a bouncy council employee with a remarkable resemblance to Bill Oddie wanted to let me know that they were cleaning up the area. Washing the walls, getting rid of grafitti, repainting the wooden fence along the Old College site, and so forth. Sorry for the inconvenience mate. It was nice of him to tell me that, but why did he bother? They don't usually... Aha. Here it comes, a sort of preganant silence as he thought how to phrase it properly. This has got to be about my car. "Is that your car back there?" He asked. The white one? Yes it is. "You... Wouldn't be thinking of seling it would you?" Ho ho ho. The man has no idea of the grief he's going to get if he does purchase my shabby automotive companion. Apparently his wife wants a nice little sports car and the man called on the off chance I might be willing to part with it. He and one of the mechanics had been chatting about it, and I thought I heard the door closing earlier. Well I managed to convince him he was buying a white elephant, and a costly one at that. That's the trouble with nice little sports cars. They really are substitute girlfriends in every respect except they don't bulge for several months then drop brand new chassis out the boot. Mine is old, disabled, unloved and uncared for, getting a little rusty around the edges, and no longer as sexy as she was. But you can't help feeling an attachment for the old girl. No Longer As It Was I was walking back from a visit to the Job Centre this morning and as usual, the Wyvern Theatre loomed up on the nearby skyline. It isn't what you'd call a striking building, being constructed of the same muddy brown brick as the commercial outlets on the left, and the multi-story car park on the right. You might call it a bit dowdy. Councillors must have thought so too. Recently they gave the building a makeover. A wrap-around turquoise panel mounting rows of neon lights for instance. I thought how utterly cheap and nasty it looks now. The blue panel is stained like an old tee-shirt, and those vertical lights are just horrendous. The Americans are often criticised for their neon glitz in urban centres, but if the Wyvern Theatre is anything to go by, Las Vegas is positively well turned out.

Today I thought I would stretch my legs south of the motorway, something I haven't done in ages, and having realised how short of breath I was getting striding up the hill where I live, I could do with the exercise. It's been a dull, claggy morning, just on the point of starting to rain but not quite getting there. It's also that uncomfortable temperature. Too cold for lightweight clothes, to sweaty for something warm. I hate that. Luckily my sweatshirt was the perfect compromise. To my horror I discovered that a concrete bridge over the motorway, intended as a farm crossing although little used now that the area north has been redeveloped, has been declared a weak bridge. Oh joy. Does that mean I'm going to fall thirty feet to a horrible death? Not sure. It's been a while since I weighed myself but I think I might be less than twenty six tons mean gross weight just yet, so I'll risk it. Nothing like working up a sweat, eh? I wish I could show dozens of photographs marking my progress around the Wiltshire countryside. Trouble is, I tend to take photo's that aren't that interesting to begin with, and on a day like this, there's little to see anyway. Pop Goes The Shotgun I followed a bridleway I've never been down before. For those who don't know, a bridleway is a sort of track or minor road open for public access, but not considered part of the road network, so mostly used by horses, 4x4's, or nutters with rucksacks like me. As it happened, it went past a local shooting school. We don't have too many of those any more. Shooting as a sport went into decline in recent decades after a series of random shooting sprees. It survives here though, and I heard some customers blasting clay discs out of the air. No, that's not quite right - I heard some some customers blasting hopelessly at thin air while the clay discs spun into a hedge safe and sound. Keeps them happy for a few hours I guess. The sound was odd though. After years of hearing Hollywood gunfights, where was that expected cannon-like blast? All I could hear was sort feeble firework bang and an odd popping sound. Is that all you get? Sympathy of the Week On my way back into town I must of looked like a right shabby individual. Tired, sweaty, grubby military surplus, hair all damp and straggly. That said, there was no excuise for that young man sat in the passenger seat of a passing van to scream very loudly as they passed by. If you're reading this, young man, yes, you certainly made me jump right out of my skin. Ha ha ha. But, erm... Why did you make such a high pitched scream? Have your testicles not dropped yet? Awww man, real sorry to hear that. Never mind, I'll keep that a secret.

Oh brilliant. I feel like a customer of Douglas Adams Resteraunt At The End of The Universe who's been given a wrong booking. Looks like 2012 could be a damp squib. Not to worry, my solo album should be finished by then so at least you'll all still be here to buy it

Lefties were taught to fight right handed like evryone else and had better get used to it, because the legions weren't going to make allowances for common soldiers to disrupt tight formations with such demands as left handed sword play. As for ambidexterity, that's hugely exaggerated as a human skill and one that blossomed in the public imagination via RPG's and computer games. The vast majority of human beings favour one hand or the other by nature although as the posts above suggest, it's perfectly feasible to train someone to use their off-hand, though I do note the misery of left handed schoolchildren in past ages who didn't find writing altogether easy.

Back when I was an aspiring musician, our band manager had a thing about porsches. He just couldn't see past the badge. To him, the Porsche represented everything about motoring that was ever likely to be desirable. Suggest an alternative? He would poo-poo the idea and suggest you do no more than buy a Porsche. He even had some strange idea that owning one was a guarantee of success. I drove his Porsche once. After our Red Jasper days were done, he tried to get me to work for him. As if I was likely to make that mistake again! But I took his beloved car around the leafy lanes of Wiltshire one night and to be honest, I wasn't that impressed. The gear change was clunky, the car felt heavy, and although it did gather speed remorselessly, it never felt fast, nor for that matter did I get out thinking it was brilliant. It just wasn't.

How many times have you heard it said? Go somewhere - you never know who you might meet? Yesterday was my modest journey to the sports hall, and as chance would have it, my route home took me through a shopping centre nearby. I don't usually expend my cash there - I used to, when I had a car with less ventilation and bits missing, but that was a few years ago. I spotted a woman at some distance. Not sure why. Maybe her red coat caught my eye. Or perhaps her blonde hair. Whatever attracted my attention, I immediately thought of someone I used to know. I wonder... Could that be her? My legs are somewhat longer and as she entered the building I wasn't far behind. I was right. This was CA, a lady I used to work with. It must be nearly eight years since I saw her last. Poor woman. I used to give her all the horrible small orders and kept the profitable big and easy ones for myself. To this day I don't know if she ever cottoned on, but true to her nature, she never complained and got more praise than I did. Hey, just life in the big warehouse. We had quite a chat. After I'd been sacked by that company, things had changed. A move to seasonal hours, a cut in wages by a third, and finally redundancy of all the old hands. It had gotten so bad she was glad to get out. I remember writing a parody called "Walking With Warehouses", making fun of the company by comparing it to the BBC dinosaur program. Sadly that piece has gone and I don't have a copy of it, but that's the way of things. As if to confirm the temporary nature of our changing universe, CA asked me if I'd heard about GB. A forklift instructor, health and safety guy, and all round internet junkie. It seems the Grim Reaper got him. A stomach cancer. Very sudden. Here today, gone tomorrow. You find me in a very reflective mood right now. Through Adversity To The Scrapheap It seems the Royal Air Force is fighting another last ditch battle for survival. Not against the Germans this time, but it's own masters. The problem of course is that huge debt the previous government ran up. Now the coalition want to make savings, and the axe is due to fall on the air force. It is true that modern combat aircraft are hugely expensive. It is also true that we purchase aircraft capable of taking on cold war Russia. The Government say that's a ridiculous policy, the Air Force say they can't guarantee security without the assets to achieve it. Who's right? That's more difficult. On the one hand the immediate problem is mounting debts on a colossal scale and a very different political scene than the late twentieth century. The long term problem is that politics can change rapidly, and bring with it security risks that weren't apparent before. If that happens, then we won't be prepared. Unlike World War Two, when it was possible to build a twin engined bomber in 24 hours, a modern sophisticated aeroplane is going to take a long time to arrive off the peg. In other words, the government is gambling that peace will remain in our time. Maybe they're right, but you can't help wondering where we've heard that before.

The turbo isn't electronic at all. It's a little round thing whizzing around inside an exhaust pipe. Okay, yes, sometimes they do fail, and car electronics these days are designed to be completely impossible to operate when you're old enough to drive. But coming second to a 911? There is no excuse for that, ever

Television isn't entirely new. It was after all around before I was born, but the technology has improved over the years and in a way I've grown up with it. I remember the day we got our first ever colour television. We take that for granted now, but back then it was a revelation in entertainment. Things were never simple though. Poor reception was a fact of life and usually cured by sending someone out to fiddle with the aerial. These days we have cable television and digital broadcasts, so you'd think poor reception was a thing of the past. Apparently not. Just of late my evening viewing struggles with interference from something else. I can't tell you how annoying that is. You would think that I'd just shrug it off like I might of done years ago. Nope. Because these days you can't send someone out to fiddle with an aerial and restore normal service. Fixing the Alleyway The alleyway along the side of the houses where I live has been given a bit of attention. The bushes on side trimmed back, fresh gravel laid (again), and the rubbish removed. Even that annoying pothole at the end of the gravel track which has grown in size steadily over the years has been filled in with asphalt. It's now possible to drive a car into the yard without requiring world rally championship experience. That would of course require a car. Mine is currently forming a mini-ecosphere all of its own, and anyone getting in is risking being eaten alive by rabid spiders. Who needs car alarms? Fixing the Mouse Today I thought I would stretch my legs and wander out to the sports centre library. A change of scene, new faces, a change is as good as a rest. Nope. Mr Fidget is there as well, sat beside me using another computer, struggling to make his mouse operate at all. Can I not escape this man? He makes all sorts of grunts and sniffles, he can't keep still for more than five seconds at a time, and now he's smacking the mouse to get a response from a piece of computer hardware that feels the same way I do.

Autumn is definitely here. The mornings are colder, obscured by mist and fog, and even when the sun breaks through like it has today, there's an oddly feeble quality to it. Oh, and I've noticed a few leaves lying around. Nothing gets past me. Are We There Yet? It's already getting into mid-October and the Old College is still standing. Now they did promise us that demolition would be taking place - I even got the official notification through my letterbox in case I was going to get upset about it. After all the hullaballoo and posh presentations, is anything going to happen? New shopping centres don't spring into being in a flash of smoke. The original plan for a tall 17-storey tower was dropped due to critisim of it's domination of the local landscape, and the latest plan for a more modest development has been criticised for not dominating the landscape whatsoever. Apparently, according to the archives of our local paper, the site will be demolished. No, really, they mean it. But not until the end of the year, with work starting on our new shopping mall beginning early next year. That is, of course, unless it gets criticised. Bellow Of Frustration Okay, I know I don't take any interest in modern pop music (can you blame me?), but even I stumbled across a band called Bellowhead just lately. They seem to making quite a stir. The idea is to take old english folk tunes and update them in a modern context. I've no doubt some will claim that's an original idea, but I'm afraid it isn't. Red Jasper/i] were doing that twenty years ago, and at least we had the verve to inject our olde worlde influence into a rock music context. I remember one review called us 'Jethro Tull on speed', and another that mentioned we were balancing the relatively polite english folk with rock music, as opposed to the the more lively irish heritage which was more popular then, and we were congratulated for our efforts. Actually, the rise of ethnic influence in popular music of the eighties ignored Red Jasper almost completely. So did most of the audiences. No, I'm sorry, it's no use complaining, you had every opportunity to turn us into rock mega-gods and you didn't. Now you'll have to make do with Bellowhead. Monday Mornings "I hate Monday mornings" Said the young lady who sat down at the next computer to me. As ice breakers go, that wasn't bad, much better than the guy opposite whose clumsy attempts to break everything backfired, but starting conversations in a library was always going to end in tears. The bank was no different. The lady behind the counter asked if I'd had an account review lately. Erm.. No... Please, not another review. How many times does my bank need to be told that I don't want to pay X amount of cash to them every month for the privilege of storing my money, and after the financial piracy in British pension schemes revealed on a watchdog program last night, I'm in no mood to let them grab my cash. It didn't matter, As always happens on Monday mornings, their system was down. That's been happening for thirty years. You'd think someone would notice. But the teller is going to send me a letter asking me to come in for an interview. Definitely.

Turbo button? Is that for real? How pathetic is that? Gimme power! Now! I want instamnt throttle response, not a five minute search of the dashboard before discovering I'm off the boost and the button does nothing.

By some fluke of economy I was left with ten pounds the other night. A crumpled tenner in my hand is a gateway to pleasure on a scale unimaginable to ordinary dole seekers like me. So immediately I rushed out into the street with a maniacal grin on my face, braving evening traffic and revellers in a mad dash for the kebab shop across the road. I made it! Safe and sound on the other side of the road, I entered the bright interior of turkish takeaway cuisine. I think I had some vague intention of buying a kebab for consumption at home. Eating kebabs in the street is an art one can only acquire by practice, and even then, you litter the pavement in scraps of vegetables. But no, as I surveyed the illuminated menu with entires in some plastic font or crudely scrawled on in red marker pen, I saw the glossy colour advert tacked onto one end. Turkish pizza? Erm... You sell those? "Yes Boss." He replied with a genuine turkish smile. Such jolly fellows, especially when you're about to order a meal. Then I'll have one. No, just one. Yes, a bag is okay. No, no sauce. No nothing else. No, really, that's all I want. And all for less than three pounds! What a bargain. So I ran back across the street with a maniacal grin to consume my fortuitous purchase. Unlike an Italian offering, with a deep pan crust and cheesy tomato tang, the turkish pizza is a wafer thin pitta bread with a savoury topping. More subtle perhaps, but very pleasing nonetheless. Yum. What Is That Noise? For once I can't blame my neighbours for the annoying noise, but of late there's been music audible outside the back of my home. It sounds as if the source is very loud and thankfully not too close. Nor for that matter do I recognise the songs or artists, but considering I gave up listening to the charts in 1979 that's hardly suprising. Fast Car There's a car dealer not far from where I live. The entire forecourt is packed with little buggies in all shades of grey. It's hilarious, it really is. Why on earth would I be even remotely interested in walking into that showroom? What could the salesman persuade me to believe? That the latest model has go-faster cup holders? Or that the styling is state of the art? Have you seen the Nissan Juke? Nissan Joke more like, it looks like a kit car that's been polished up. Now regular readers will know that I like my sports cars. Who cares how fuel efficient a vehicle is, or how many safety stars it has, or how practical it is, if it can't go faster than anyone else? I wish manufacturers would show some common sense and revitalise the market with cars that people might actually drool over. Well, okay, enjoyable cars are somewhat out of my price range for now, but I notice a go-faster car is coming to Swindon next weekend. Apparently Mr Noble is trying to raise the land speed record again. According to the local paper... The 12.8m-long, 6.4-tonne Bloodhound SSC will travel faster than a bullet fired from a rifle and will accelerate from 0-1,050mph in just 40 seconds. And at its maximum velocity, the pressure of air bearing down on its carbon fibre and titanium bodywork will exceed 12 tonnes per square metre. Brilliant. It really is. Now that Swindon is the first borough in Britain to junk the speed camera, it's also the first place in inland Britain to host a world land speed record attempt, in a what is basically a wingless jet fighter the size of an articulated truck. No, I do exaggerate, the car is only on display, as an inspiration for young aspiring engineers to design cars that people actually want to buy. I'm waiting...

I've had a quick check but I can't find anything heavier than pounds and ounces. If the Romans had no term for such weights, it's because they had no way to measure them, and thus anything of this magnitude might have been described as 'very heavy'. Not a very scientific conclusion I know, and if anyone knows better, please correct me by all means.

I wondrered if you'd mention Cricket. There's nothing more English, is there? Except it might not be, because I notice that recent evidence suggets it's an import from the Flanders, which is kind of interesting, because Britain had migrations of foreigners from that region in days of yore (including Swindon - we got loads of Belgians) I doubt most English people really understand the game to any real degree either. I don't, and I played the game in my schooldays. Since those days however the game has become a little more commercial and so the 'whiteness' of it all isn't important any more. Personally, I think the Americans ought to realise that they're not playing baseball properly, acccording to rules established in England hundreds of years ago. Sorry, but an armed revolution is no excuse. Rules are rules. We cannot allow this sort of colonial chaos in sport. It's just not cricket!

They're back. Having reconnoitered the library the other day, an even greater horde of little barbarians have stormed the premises in a quest to occupy their equally little minds with positive activity. The teachers hiss and hush to no avail as they spot something that interests them and erupt into frantic efforts to point at something first. "I'm only good at the world stuff." Said one child as a statement of his intellectual achievement. Well good for you son. They walked past me on the way out with one claiming "I won!". Glad to see kids are learning to be competitive again after decades of socialist 'Thou Shalt Not Win Nor Lose'. It warms the cockles of my heart that Swindon will be supplying Alan Sugar with contestants for The Apprentice for decades to come. Oh Sweet Lord Talking about Alan Sugar, I see he is no longer Sir Alan, but instead demands his hapless apprentices refer to him as Lord Sugar. They of course stress the title in some hope of impressing the crusty businessman and thus not getting fired. Don't know what they're worried about anyhow. No-one can claim to be a high flyig executive unless they've been sacked by Lord Sugar at least once. How anyone can say 'Lord Sugar' with a straight face is beyond me, but well done to the chap for getting made a peer of the realm. Of course he's just jealous of me. As soon as he heard I was Lord Caldrail he couldn't resist it. I have to admit, he's gone one better, since he's now part of the establishment and I'm not. But watch this space... Rumbles And Grumbles Talking about unwanted noise, last night I became aware of a sort of background rumble. That was quite an achievement, as by that time of night I had reached a state of complemplative meditiation about the television screen, a sort of vacuous nullness that only true couch potatoes can hope to aspire to. What on earth is making that noise? No, it wasn't the neighbours. They've been very quiet the last few days, though I suspect my complaint had something to do with that. Serves the idiot right for refusing my good mannered request in the small hours and closing the door in my face. We have laws in England you know. No, this was happening outside. parked almost on the pedestrian crossing were a pair of tanker lorries doing something very important with a drain. It was raining last night, just a light drizzle, and no obvious sign of flooding. No obvious sign of anything other than high vis clothing milling around, but I'm sure it was very very important. Carry on chaps.

Traditionally we Brits get a little baffled and jaundiced about Baseball. To us it's a game of Rounders, something girls play at school and we don't understand the razzamatazz surrounding Baseball whatsoever. It's all rather like Homer Simpson dancing to the Baby Elephant Walk. Think I'll take a back seat and let you guys enjoy your national sport

And probably involved in more conflicts than that. I'm not concerned with the morality of it. Most powerful nations indulge in military or paramilitary activity on some scale or other because that's how such nations safeguard their interests - though it does sometimes backfire, and the nature of the global ideological struggle of the last century demanded responses in secondary fronts, and also since the religiously motivated ideological struggle of this century has resulted in deaths home and abroad, the desire to suppress aggression at source is identifiably strong.

Time to whinge again about the weather. Not because it's particularly bad, but because the weatherment told us the rain was going to lurk over britain for the next week. All those amber triangles were displayed again, warning us of biblical floods and apocalyptic storms. Well... Looking out the window of the library... What a nice day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I wish I'd known it was going to be like this beforehand. So what shall I do today? The options are endless. I could wander here, stroll over there, amble anywhere. Since it's such a nice day, I probably will. Work Gathers Pace Yesterday I saw a crew of high-vis jackets walking toward the Old College. How about that? They're going to demolish the building the old fashioned way. No fancy explosives or heavy wrecking balls, just good old fashioned 'rip-it-apart-with-bare-hands'. There was a rash of adverts for building labourers just lately. Across from the library the old cinema is getting a lick of white paint. No sign yet of what they plan for the premises, but they'd better keep an eye on it, because around here white paint is the perfect enviroment for grafitti mice. Meanwhile, up in Old Town, a demolished victorian house is finally being replaced. I've seen other buildings put up in the area that were made to fit in with the olde worldy charm of brick and stone terraces, so it'll be interesting to see if this trend continues. And just along the way from my home, the other side of the anonymous muddy alleyway, the building site there remains static, unloved, slowly surrendering to the relentless advance of trees and weeds. Sounds about right for that part of town. Can Kids Be Quiet? Whilst I sit here typing this stuff, a party of schoolkids have tramped up the stairs and despite the best efforts of the harrassed teacher, they sounded like a herd of cattle with squeaky voices. They've gone downstairs again, having failed to find suitable grazing land, and sure enough once on the floor below the noise of conversation erupted again. Part of me thinks the Victorians had the right idea. Children should be seen and not heard. Give them six of the best for Breach of the Peace! Except we can't, because corporal punishment is illegal. So I guess these kids will also grow up without the slightest idea of how to behave, and in ten or twenty years they'll be vandalising what's left of my car or decorating the neighbourhood in lurid squiggles on any vertical surface. I've just decided what I want to do today. Time to fire up the old guitar and play until my fingers bleed, or more likely, until I get bored of sitting indoors and venture out into the great unknown of Darkest Wiltshire and lap up some ultraviolet. All I need to do is find a quiet spot.

One of the features of the Wiltshire countryside is the crop circle. A pattern made in a field by flattening crops. Since their early days these patterns have gotten quite sophisticated and some are extraordinary to look at. For me it's a part of everyday life in the country. Every year there's a crop circle or two, so no big deal, though I doubt the farmer sees it that way. Why do these circles appear? This morning I've picked up a book at the local library that discusses this very point. It is hilarious. The author talks about why we should forget trying to figure out who did it and why they vandalised a crop field, and instead concentrate on the meaning of the symbol portrayed. Oh yes, meaning. The author goes into some florid glorification of the phenomenon, such as... Once seen, the innate meaning in the structure of all things does change one's view of reality. It breathes life into what seems lifeless and gives meaning beyond purpose. The crop circles have changed the lives of many; they have started a silent revolution in thinking, one that 'en-souls' the world rather than rendering it a living machine or computer program. Crop circles not only speak of elemental shapes and numbers but they also represent themes and illustrate the archetypal principles that underpin them. Labyrinths, mazes. knots, ropes, tethers, spirals, all become part of a symbolic language that lies at the heart of the human psyche. Those who perceive these things embodied in the crop circles and subsequently become aware of them in the wider world will never see eye to eye again with those who do not. For those who only regard them as a prank or scientific curiosity, the circles do not tally with their reality constructs. Each side now inhabits a different reality; one side lives in a rational, logical world, whilst the other lives in a reality in every way the same but deepened by symbol, metaphor, and intrinsic meaning. Crop Circles (Steve and Karen Alexander) Can you imagine socialising with those two? The book is full of this sort of spiritual goobledegook. Implicit in the meaning of the book is a metaphor for mystery. That's the whole point. Regardless of what caused these things, the authors so desperately want to find mystical significance in them and most importantly describe a divide between people who scoff at the symbolism and those who embrace this new religion, and make no mistake, what this book tries to do is advertise a mysticism as a new source of spiritual well-being. There's even a discussion about how microwave energy can flatten wheat stalks, no doubt to pave the way for our alien visitors in UFO's to use as metaphysical paintbrushes on our landscape. Why, why , why, would a species capable of launching themselves across unimaginable distances in space come to earth to draw pretty patterns in a field? If they have a message, why deliver it in the most obscure means possible? The authors would, I suspect, witter on about how human beings must elevate their intellectual awareness before understanding is possible. I really haven't got enouigh patience to find out if they do. They also mention 'orgone', an energy field that surrounds us, binds the universe together. I feel an urge to extend my light sabre already. Feel the orgone, Caldrail. Remember to spell that correctly. It's complete drivel. It really is. I suppose that condemns me to one side of their divide in society but really this book saddens me. I know modern civilisation has somewhat reduced the mystery of the world with science and so forth. There does seem to be a need inherent in us for some mystery in our lives. For me, wondering why some guy in India thanked Princess Di for attending the Commonwealth Games the other day is mysterious enough. For every mystery, there is someone who will exploit it for their own ends. What is more dangerous than a man bearing answers? A man bearing questions. That's why religion, as a system of organising belief, seeks to suppress our curiosity and set out the framework for us. Take my mother for instance. She's a practising christian. To her, religion is part of her life... No, that's not far enough. It defines her life. Yet although she can play keyboards, ask her to play in free expression. Go ahead, just play something. Jam. Express yourself musically.... But she can't. Without some written music in front of her, the keyboard is silent, static, unable to provide any means of expression whatsoever. Her life is all about duty and Conformance. And that is why she identifies with her religion so readily. Well, I'm not interested in the deep inner meanings of crop circles because as much as you meditate about such mysteries, there is no significant message to find. That might make a few people out raise their eyebrows somewhat, since I'm a spiritualist by choice, but to me there's a difference between wondering at the elegance of an 'interference pattern', admiring its shape and form, or even colour in some cases, and applying some undefined message to it that only the true believer could possibly understand. It's simply another artform, created either for a prank or as a sort of rural grafitti, done for the pleasure of its creation or to enjoy the bafflement of others. There, I think, is the meaning of it. Bye Bye Santa I see a group of German Catholics want Santa Claus condemned to the waste bin of society. he's too commercial. That much I agree with. Modern commerce has reduced the festival to an exercise in satisifying junior greed and materialism. After all, with consumer goods so readily available, the christmas gift has little meaning if it doesn't go beyond the normal purchasing strategy of a family. Instead, the Catholics suggest putting Saint Nicholaus as the patron of benefaction and returning the festival to it's former spirit of communal generosity. Fine words, and indeed, fine intentions, but ultimately what difference is there between Santa Claus and Saint Nicholaus?

Yesterday was a complete suprise. Not that Monday happened you understand, I learned long ago that Mondays are inevitable and crop up on a regular basis. Face it, most Mondays are a terrible experience. Weather turns for the worse automatically as thousands leave their front doors for the start of the working week. No, the suprise yesterday was how nice a Monday this was. The sunshine had a lot to do with it. Unlike a blistering hot summer day, there was a cool, refreshing air to it. As mondays go, this was a lazy, hazy day. Everyone seemed cheerful, calm, happy with their lot except perhaps the mother struggling with her rebellious infant. I have never seen so many birds floating on the water at Queens Park as I strolled through there on my way to the job centre. There were even two foreigners asking me to take their picture together. What? In Swindon? I would have loved to spend my time out there on the Downs, but like everyone else it was back to the daily grind and on with the job searching. That said, I really didn't mind. My claims advisor for the day even summoned me to my signing slot by my much debated title. How can you improve on that? Never before has signing on been such a pleasant and sociable experience. Wow. What a day. Death of an Albanian Superstar The americans have recently lost Tony Curtis. Yesterday we lost Norman Wisdom. He was an actor/comedian who genuinely had a knack for making people laugh. A sort of jolly innocence that saw his films become the only western movies to be allowed to screen in Albania, where he was regarded as a superstar. His style of comedy belonged to an earlier age as Charlie Chaplin confirmed by nominating Wisdom as his favourite clown, and he faded somewhat from public view. Whatever your religious beliefs, it's hard not to smile and wonder if yesterdays warm mood was his passing gift.

Has the mystery of the lowered level of water at Queens Park been solved? I notice workmen are repairing the pavement edge that used to meet the water. To be honest, it did need working on, having collapsed in places, but I found it interesting to notice signs of a previous brick lined edge the current pavement was built on top of. That would mean the lake is usually higher than it was when the lake was first created. Not world shaking shaking news, but hey, do you really want another description of birds floating on the lake? Or do you? For Those Who Like Birds Business as usual. The seabirds are ganging up on individual ducks and generally bullying everything that's not bigger than they are. The geese have settled in after ther holiday away from the lake, and the swans are, well, doing swannish things, like floating past regally as swans do. There. That about covers it. Pic of the Day Our weather has turned for the worse just of late. Caught this pic after the rain had stopped a couple of nights ago. Supercars Galore What with the Paris Motor Show and what have you, the latest supercars are displayed in websites everywhere. Some of them do look rather wonderful don't they? Okay, not everyones private parts are stirred by mobile masterpieces, and if I were being honest, supercars aren't always the prettiest vehicles ever made. Is it just me or are there more supercars than ever? Lotus have introduced six new models for crying out loud, one for every niche market they can possibly think of. So what happened to the fuel crisis? Manufacturers seem to want to go out with a bang. There is one manufacturer that has gotten serious about hybrids. Okay, I know Citreon made a big deal of some concept cars, and very striking vehicles they are too, but you can't plop a wad of cash on a counter at your local dealer and buy one can you? Jaguar on the other hand want to have their electrified, and quite electrifying, supercar for sale. Now there is a serious golf cart.

It's difficult for me to draw conclusions because I know almost nothing about US government. I have this sort of hazy idea of how it works via film and television, which I'm sure is a distortion of the truth. There does seem to be a much higher degree of civic credibility required by the americans. Here in Blighty we are still afflicted by old class-system values which mean that people in authority are somehow better than everyone else. I suspect, apart from a badge of office, that the americans have a much more direct attitude, though I do get the impression that wealth is more of a social marker than in Britain, where we see a measure of reverse snobbery toward those better off.

An interesting suggestion, but bear in mind that seaborne trade across the Channel had existed long before the Romans got involved. In fairness, it is possible that some earlier ships routed to Ireland in ignorance, but once the coasts of Britain and Gaul became well known the shorter route across the narrows must have been the popular choice. After all, links between Britain and the continent had existed right from the days when melting ice first split Britain away, and we know that travellers from Europe were visiting religious sites in Britain four or five thousand years ago. In general, it doesn't seem likely that ships routinely routed toward Ireland, especially since prevailing winds would push them toward southwest england anyhow, and in any case, the abilities of early seamen were suprisingly good. The Romans were exceptional in being poor sailors.

In fairness, european nations expect government assistance because socialist governments want us to and have gotten us used to the idea. It's their means of creating a better society, and requires higher taxes not only to fund these services, but as a means of redistributing wealth to those they see as deserving of that assistance. Also, we have come to expect a somewhat poor performance from those we pay taxes to. That's why the public are currently so apathetic about voting in Britain. What's the point? One government is no worse than another. There is the issue of corruption of course. European politics is known for that and in recent decades civil service honesty in Britain has not improved in any way. There was a guy in the local job centre who was firing off about national riots against injustice in society (though I admit, he had a racial motive) and I had to tell him such riots were not likely to spark anything significant, aside from a few burned cars if it got out of hand in one place or another. In Britain, it's the threat of poor publicity that politicians don't like. Once you start manning the barricades, you're against the law and your cause is cast in that light. What politicians don't like are television reports of angry citizens yelling into loudhailers and using up police budgets on keeping demonstrations civil. For that reason, the governments have become very proficient at disarming such moods.

Thank you all for the goodwill. I am convalescing and hope to make a complete recovery by the end of the week