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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail
    As predicted, the temptation to set off fireworks was too much for the local inhabitants. As damp and dreary an evening as it was, they set to work creating as much mayhem as possible.
     
    The early shift started around seven o'clock. I looked out the back window of my home, which has a narrow view across the west of Swindon. Usually on bonfire night one area sets off, finishes, then another begins elsewhere. Not this year. Stretching into the distance was a display of pyrotechnic fountains in all sorts of bright colours, little showers of twinkling light as far as I could see.
     
    Given the weather, the effect was extraordinary, and I've never seen that before. Also, some peoples rockets were penetrating the cloud base, and whilst the burst was hidden from view, the cloud lit up with a dull colour briefly, giving a sort of surreal stormy effect.
     
    With the window open, I could smell the smoke. In one of the gardens backing onto the alleyway, a family were having their own firework party and the wind was sending the smoke in my direction. Again, it was a surreal thing, watching a bright glow appearing behind the fences and garages like something out of a fifties sci-fi B movie.
     
    They're Coming!
    Talking of things from Outer Space, I see there's an alien invasion planned to conquer our local library shortly. Naturally I will be there to defend mankind and fend off their fiendish schemes.
     
    Luckily I doubt the invasion will require any nuclear response, but given that such weaponry has proven to be futile against alien armour, I shall have to resort to coughs and sneezes. Hey, it worked once before pretty well, didn't it?
  2. caldrail

    Noise Alert

    By caldrail,

    This weekend is going to be noisy. Today is after all Guy Fawkes Day, when we celebrate a plot to blow up the British government hundreds of years ago. Given how sensitive the authorities are to security issues right now, I'm probably going to be arrested for this blog entry.
     
    The weather is not encouraging. It's a damp morning, grey and unwelcoming, and I suspect a lot of firework parties tonight will suffer the problems of setting off their noisy and colourful gunpowder fests.
     
    That of course won't stop the evening revellers from having a great time. They'll be hooting and whooping, chanting football songs, and shouting taunts all night long. Bless.
     
    I did see a bit in the newspapers that police have stated that a large portion of their law enforcement takes place because of nightclubbers wandering around drunk without having found a camel to wake up beside. I mean, wasn't that obvious? Is that the sum total of expertise of law enforcement garnered over the years since John Peel decided truncheons were a good idea?
     
    How To Win Friends And Influence
    Having mentioned fireworks, I was stunned to find my current claims advisor chatting about them in a friendly manner. What? Isn't this the guy who signs me on half an hour late and hardly says a word before he tells me I can go? Amazing what happens when you get shirty and remind a pleb he's talking to nobility (even if it is a little faux)
     
    Actually, most claims advisors don't like treating their customers as anything else than people to be bossed around. It's a social status thing. They happen to be employed by a government agency, and possess some authority over us. We on the other hand are lazy good for nothing's who darn well ought to know which side of the bread is buttered.
     
    It's been nearly a year since I got my title. Three people have voluntarily used that title in a respectful manner since. Incredible, don't you think? To a large extent that's down to my appearance. I just don't resemble most peoples idea of an upper class person in any sense whatsoever. Partly it's my circumstance, since I'm unemployed and upper class persons aren't supposed to claim benefits, or even work for a living, as John Prescott proved recently.
     
    Well, since my claims advisor has decided to be friendly, I'll let him get away with it. Especially since in the not too distant future I might well get my tail feathers singed. Fireworks? There's a lady in the Department of Work and Pensions who has demanded my attendance and proof of identity. Uh oh.
  3. caldrail

    Caldrail's Busy Day

    By caldrail,

    Sometime around dawn this morning I woke knowing my day was going to busy. Normally at this time I groan, roll over, and go back to sleep. Today I don't have that luxury, so it's out of bed - Gah! Cold! - and a quick dash to the bathroom for the daily ritual of turning myself into a human being again.
     
    First
    Now for a stroll down to the Job Centre for my daily signing. They told me to come in at a certain time, but neglected to tell me the place was closed for an hour due to staff meetings. Oh great. Now that's my schedule up the spout. Think, Caldrail, think! What would any normal employed person do in situations like this?
     
    Second
    With time to spare I dropped in on the park and watched the builders cementing new stones along the lake edge. The birds seem all bored of this activity and swim away, convinced that the stingy sweaty humans moving stones around won't have any bread with them. If only they knew... But this is boring. And I need to get on with my day, so...
     
    Third
    A quick stop at the library and book a computer for this afternoon, at the last slot available. There is method in my madness, because...
     
    Fourth
    A quick dash down to Swindon railway station and off to Chippenham, fifteen minutes away, a sort of dingy stone-coloured town where I'm being interviewed for a job. I did actually take an earlier train than I intended and just as well, as the office I needed to visit wasn't well signposted. Wasn't signposted at all. Wasn't even a bold title above the door. I just happened to see the company name in the window.
     
    No matter, I found out where they were, and I still have an hour to kill. What can I do in Chippenham on a Wednesday lunchtimne?
     
    Fifth
    One sandwich and a canned drink later, I was sat watching the birds by the river. Still quite a pleasant day, but these birds are ferocious scroungers, not like the polite queues you get at Queens Park. One duck caught a piece of bread and every - I mean every - other bird lunged at it. Swans, pidgeons, ducks, and various other birds I don't know, they all made the poor little duck run the gauntlet. Eventually it swallowed the bread almost whole in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
     
    Sorry birds, but I haven't got any spare breadcrumbs. Why is that swan hissing at me?
     
    Sixth
    After escaping the wildlife by the river, it was time for my interview. A very pleasant positive atmosphere and pretty young ladies to chat up. What could be better? Eh? I sign here?
     
    The crunch came when the agency boss interviewed me. He looked at my CV and asked me with a frown how long ago it was I drove vans for a living.
     
    This is where it gets painful, I admitted, that was twenty years ago. Well that about wraps up this part of my schedule, and before I catch the train home, just one more item to go in Chippenham...
     
    Seventh
    A quick trip over to the Wiltshire History Service building and delve into their archives. Sadly, all I can do is submit requests for stuff to be located in their dark vaults and wait for it to arrive at my desk. Come on, come on, I'm catching a train in half an hour...
     
    Sigh. They failed. very friendly people, very willing to help, but nothing moves. No, wait, I saw one of the archivists breathing. No, really, I did. Wish I'd brought my camera to prove it. I apologised to the helpdesk and told them I wouldn't require the requested documents as I was going home. I wonder if First Great Western would delay the train for me? I mean, what use is my title if I can't make very important phone calls?
     
    Apparently I'm not that important yet. So I'll have to catch the train. Bye...
     
    Eighth
    So I found myself back at Chippenham railway station waiting for the ride home. An announcer warned that a train was approaching that wasn't schedukled to stop, so stand well back! Good advice. The freight train thundered past me at an alarming rate. English trains might not have the majesty and scale of their American cousins, but they certainly don't hang around.
     
    Oh, here we go, that's my train. See you in Swindon.
     
    Nineth
    My return to the library, plus a few pit stops along the way. A magazine here, a baguette there, and another visit to the Job Centre to get advice on what to do if this agency actually comes up trumps.
     
    Now I have a rapid search online for jobs and vacancies. There's one. I can do that. There you go, it's applied for. You know what? This multimedia age has some advantages after all.
     
    Tenth
    Made it! Home again, collapsing on the sofa after rushing back and forth across Wiltshire. All I need now is for some crazy old hermit to wander out of the kitchen, check my temperature, and say "Rest easy Son, you've had a busy day".
  4. caldrail

    Down Memory Lane

    By caldrail,

    Some of you might have forgotten something. Can you remember what that was? No? Not to worry, I forgot too. Yes, it was Bad Memory Day. Now that the point is made, I can confirm I made two significant contributions to that important event in our calendar.
     
    The first memory lapse occured while I was at the library, quietly typing the previous blog entry and trawling through the various job websites for something to apply for. About an hour late, I suddenly realised I was supposed to have presented myself to the bank for a review of my finances. Something tells me the bank manager isn't going to be impressed.
     
    In fairness, the bank forgot which branch I bank at and got that wrong, so they also took part in Bad Memory Day by making it impossible for me to turn up at the right place on time.
     
    The second memory lapse was concerning the inspection of my home by the letting agent. I had thought it was the day before, so totally unaware the lady and her clipboard was approaching the front door, I was entirely esconsed in a guitar playing session, wrapped in black cables and headphones, utterly focused on my clumsy fingering and imginative attempts to create the perfect guitar solo.
     
    The doorbell? Who's that? Now as any experienced musician will tell you, a hasty withdrawal from a recording studio is an impossible task without falling flat on your face or dragging expensive instruments in your wake. However, that sort of calamity is for lesser mortals. As a musician with decades of experience, I was able to perform the houdini-esque task of escaping the clutches of those malignant cables without harm.
     
    There was of course an embarrasing confusion as the letting agent expected to be expected, and I was totally unexpecting. She pulled a copy of the letter and pointed at it. "There you are, it said so in the letter." She told me, rapidly coming to the conclusion I was trying some dodge to prevent access.
     
    Of course I wasn't. I let her in and despite the musical chaos upstairs, she seemed happy enough. Apparently letting agents aren't concerned with how tidy tenants are, but that we aren't demolishing the premises in the process of being untidy. Phew.
     
    Cold Memories
    At the moment the BBC news is entirely given over to Ministers of Parliament baiting each other as more budget cuts are announced and explained. It's all very well watching Ed Milliband make such a clumsy attempt to embarrass the prime Minister, but the real emphasis was on George Osborne explaining whp gets their money stopped, but then we all knew that already.
     
    Instead, lets pop over to Russia Today, and get some world news. Even they discuss Wayne Rooney's desire to escapoe the clutches of Manchester United. Is that really an item of world interest? It seems so. Time and again I come across people from all over the world following our football teams. I was hoping for something better though. Something more real than the fantasy world premiere league players inhabit.
     
    Ahh, now what's this? An interview? I found it fascinating watching a Russian politician whose name I can neither remember nor pronounce properly. He was discussing the relations with Europe, and he made the point that Russia is a new country with new policies, and he found it frustrating that they couldn't shake off the Cold War legacy.
     
    That is the problem, isn't it? And it isn't just the suspicious West continuing as it alsways has. Public attitudes persist regardless of policy statements by politicians. In fariness, the Russians have been pushing for a new European defence policy. That does make sense. If we accept the Cold War is over, then the NATO Vs Warsaw Pact mindset really doesn't belong there.
     
    But has the Cold War ended? Yes, sure, the Berlin Wall has come down. The ideological brush wars have wound down, though I do note that islamic fundamentalism has risen to fill that void, something that Russia herself has suffered from and which might help east and west come to terms after fifty years of sabre-rattling.. Nonetheless, Russia is still a powerful nation. It is still capable of striking out, as inhabitants of Chechnya and Georgia will tell you.
     
    As someone who lived through the Cold War, thankfully untouched by it, it pleases me no end that Russia wants a new start. The problem is, I know the old Russia. The country at the wrong end of countless spy thrillers in television, film, and pulp fiction. Also, there's a part of me that remains wary of accepting the Russian initiatives at face value. I still remember the Cold War.
  5. caldrail

    Fast Food

    By caldrail,

    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...
  6. caldrail
    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?
  7. caldrail

    Standing Around

    By caldrail,

    Why? Why did they do it? Why did they make Ed Milliband leader of the Labour party? He makes you wince every time he stands in front of a microphione. It isn't the first time the Labour Party have made an odd choice. Remember Michael Foot? Probably a great guy, but not the man future prime ministers are made of.
     
    Politics is a funny game sometimes and I can't help wondering if the sole reason Eddy Baby got the job was to stop his oolder brother David from achieving his ambition. He was disappointed, a natural reaction, and gossip indicates he might quit frontline poltics altogether, and now I see a news report that sharp eyed cameraman has caught him making a barbed comment about his younger brother. Hell hath no fury than a politican thwarted.
     
    After David Millibands public love affair with Hilary Clinton it looked sort of certain didn't it? But then, he was in Gordon Browns government, and that I suspect is exactly what the Labour party didn't want.
     
    Standing On The Corner
    That's enough politics. You can only swallow so much of that in one day. So I switch the television off and instead of people standing for parliament, I see people standing on street corners.
     
    One chap in particular caught my attention. There's an asian lad who works for one of the fast food outlets at the bottom of the hill. He spends his day positioning a placard displaying all the low low prices for burgers and other fat inducing nourishment so that passing motorists can see the offers and think how great it would be to stop and eat them if only they didn't have to drive through this road road junction on their way elsewhere.
     
    Come to think of it, there's a sandwich bar in town that has an employee stand all day long holding a sign saying sandwich bar this way. Maybe it's just me, but one wonders if their loaction isn't working for them.
     
    Standing Still
    I'm not interested. Instead I'll get better value for money at my local supermarket, and as it happens I do need a few things this week. It so happens I spotted a rather attractive young woman standing at the exit promoting a charity. I confess I can't remember which one, but I'm sure you understand.
     
    Usually in circumstances like this I can't resist the temptation to have a quick flirt. Can you imagine what I'm going to be like when I get old? I always said I wanted to grow old disgracefully. Funny thing is though I wasn't tempted. She was stood absolutely stock still, frozen, static, looking for all the world like a wax dummy. Perhaps she copes with terminal boredom by entering a state of hibernation, but how odd that it put me off completely.
     
    Just a little eye contact. A welcoming smile. I might even have popped a few pennies in the slot. What a lost opportunity.
  8. caldrail

    Advice & Direction

    By caldrail,

    Now that was a pleasant lunchtime. Lounging on a bench in Town Gardens, the shrill cacophony from the nearby junior school, the bird calls, even the plaintive requests from dog owners to their stubborn pets to stop sniffing at every excuse, did nothing to stop me dropping off to sleep.
     
    I woke with a start. Whether I'd startled the grey squirrel or whether it had startled me, I'm not sure, but away it went, tame or not. Behind me some guy and his companion strolled lazily down the steps and as they passed one said to the other "He's not going to find a job laying there, is he?"
     
    For crying out loud! Am I forbidden from enjoying a lunchbreak? Apparently that might be the case, as a workman started his litter blower and made sure I wouldn't be able to get any peace and quiet. Do these people imagine jobs appear out of thin air? Or that employers grin and shake hands with me simply because I get up from a park bench? I don't suppose any of my critics might actually be willing to assist my job search? Seems to me some people need to something better to occupy their time.
     
    Writing On The Wall
    On the way home I passed a church in Old Town. It's a modest place of worship dating back to the days when Old Town was all Swindon was. But times change, and even Christianity has to change with them. These days it places some incredible advertisments on the wall outside.
     
    God gives better direction than sat-nav. Well that's optimism for you. The temptation to pop in and ask for directions to Droitwich was enormous. The thought that a deep basso voice might issue from a bright golden glow in the clouds telling me to turn left at the lights strikes me as a little ridiculous. Yes, I know some people claim to hear messages from the almighty, but aren't they the people we point fingers and laugh at? In any case, I saw a program the other night that demonstrated a part of the brain that supplies us with religious experiences. If I want to go to Droitwich, I might be better served purchasing a sat-nav.
     
    Come to think of, isn't this advert a little dodgy? I seem to remember something about telling lies not being a good thing.
     
    Thou Shalt Not Bag Apples Falsely
    I've always been an apple a day man. Not because I was obliged to as a youngster, but simply out of choice. As it happens I do genuinely believe an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Being somewhat fussy about the apples I eat, I prefer Braeburns. At my local supermarket, only Pink Lady's are more expensive (and even better tasting unfortunately).
     
    Yesterday I took a bite of my apple and immediately knew it was not Braeburn material. Cheap, slightly tasteless, and leaving a persistent sourness in the mouth. Nope, not good at all. So what's going on? Either some wierdo crept into my flat and exchanged my beloved braeburns for cheap rubbish, or they were never properly packaged in the first place.
     
    The supermarket exchanged them without fuss or bother, and I can only praise their willingness to please. I hope the apple supplier is equally contientous.
  9. caldrail

    One Fine Afternoon

    By caldrail,

    Sometimes the urge to wander gets the better of me. Sadly I didn't have enough time to travel far, so I took a stroll around Swindon's Front Garden, that strip of farmland between the town and the M4 motorway now fast disappearing under a new development.
     
    I came across a road junction. As yet, it's unused, because it doesn't go anywhere. There's a couple of 'bus only' signs in front of an earth bank. They've built a brick bridge across the Wilts & Berks canal, and apart from the huge contractors compound to the east, the only sign of life was a solitary fisherman at the banks of the canal, a couple walking their dog (that wanted to wee up my leg - thanks to the sharp eyed lady who called her dog away), and two lads picking berries on the other side.
     
    At the moment, despite all this building work, the area remains relatively quiet. The only intrusion is the steady woosh of traffic on the M4, but then again, why would anyone want to live next to that? Before long homes are going to sprout up everywhere in this little pocket of land.
     
    It was the sky that caught my mood. Backlit clouds, dark grey with bright cream edges, and along the horizon, a jumble of cumulus in sharp focus, highlighted by the late afternoon sun. Hey, if you don't believe me, check this out...
     
    Pic of the Day
    Taken yesterday on my travels. The sunbeams don't show up too well, but trust me, it was a stunning sight.
     

     
    And Today?
    Strictly speaking I should be getting on with my job search. Truth is, the air is warm, inviting, and it's turning out to be a fine day. I really do not want to stuck indoors writing lots of letters, sending emails, and generally being a good little citizen. Just for today, I'm having a quiet rebellion. I want to sit in the sun and just let the world go by.
     
    I'll do my jobsearching tomorrow. That's going to be a rainy day, so they tell me.
  10. caldrail

    Getting To Know A Stranger

    By caldrail,

    Walking home on sunday lunchtime I came across a lady walking her dog. Out of curiosity I engaged her in conversation about her canine companion, which turned out to be a Husky. We get a few breeds that are similar, such as Alaskan Mamelutes and such, but most of those have thicker coats so I didn't recognise this one.
     
    The Husky in question was a perky little animal, friendly, and very keen on pulling its owner across Swindon. Whilst I was chatting a couple passed by with their bruiser of a dog, stocky build and short face. The two dogs immediately started wagging tails and approached each other for a sniff, as dogs do.
     
    "Be good." Said the others dog's owner, "It just wants to get to know you."
     
    The Husky dived in, up close and personal. I'm not sure what the correct phrase is for that particular activity, but rest assured the terrier was not displeased. Yep.... Thats what I call call getting to know you.... I mean, dogs just don't care, do they? This was graphic stuff, right in front of all witnesses, and we all burst out laughing. What if humans behaved like that? Can you imagine, an interested woman walking up to you all smiles and wiggly bottom, asking you to drop your trousers in the street?
     
    Why do human beings make such a big deal out of courting? All that teenage angst, endless preparation, damage to the liver, impaired hearing, endless advice on how to be good at it, visits to the doctor when you are, and so forth. A part of me thinks it ought be like the films. One action sequence, a blast of violin music, and away you go. hey, how could a century of Hollywood block-busters possibly be wrong?
     
    On The Box
    One of the downsides of all these new television channels is that I now receive a handful of x-rated ones. Yopu might ask why that's a problem. Well, a couple of nights ago I got curious and investigated this source of lewd and decadent entertainment, purely in the name of scientific research you understand. One channel showed a woman doing slow motion gymnastics to get you make a phone call before the channel encrypted itself. Lots of quickfire adverts showing various women enjoying themselves and such, but mostly a grinning lady waving a mobile phone at the camera. Nope, not excited.
     
    Another channel was a pair of young ladies in a paddling pool together. Now this looks more promising.
     
    "We've been naughty" One enticed me to see more, "We've both had girl on girl action and we liked it."
     
    So... Do they do action replays? Or is this just two girls chatting in a paddling pool?
     
    "So phone us now on 0123456789"
     
    And there they were, filmed chatting on the phone. Is is just me, or do dogs get a better deal than humans? Face it, the mobile phone is destroying decadence as we know it.
  11. caldrail

    Mood Changes

    By caldrail,

    I opened the curtains this morning to see a clear blue sky. That happens sometimes, and there's no reason to be concerned, because the sky usually clouds over within a couple of hours.
     
    There's a very lazy mood in Swindon right now. The garage mechanics across the yard are more bothered about cups of tea than mechanical problems, but then they always were. The yard isn't full of cars either, but then, with all the rubbish being deposited in the alleyway that allows access, that's no wonder.
     
    Over the last few days I've seen a crowd of suits, shirts, and ties wandering down the back road toward the rear gate of the Old College site. Given how rough that part of town is, old victorian brick terraces filled with thieves, layabouts, and druggies, they do get noticed. Looks as if the site will be demolished soon. I was tempted to ask the security man if I could wander around outside and take some pictures of the old place now it's covered with foliage (looking very post-apocalyptic), but he had that 'Don't mess with me, son' demeanour having waited all morning for the VIP's to turn up. Sometimes you just know you're asking for trouble.
     
    Unusual Car Spotted
    I came out of the internet cafe on Commercial Road and hey, what's that? A brutal, muscular car in silver paint parked around the corner. I couldn't resist the temptation to wander past and give it a perusal. It turned out to be a new model Camaro, a suprisingly charismatic vehicle, this one on french plates of all things. You don't see that every day.
     
    I'm not sure I want one, but it certainly grabs the attention in dour residential Swindon.
     
    Who?
    I've just a rumour that a Pope has been seen in Britain. Why is everyone fawning over him? I don't get it. Okay, he's the head of a religion, but let's be honest, he's just a guy in a funny costume who pops his head out of a window every so often. I thought God had a monopoly on worship?
     
    It was however nice of him to praise Britain for its stand against extremism, such as Hitlers Nazi regime in World War Two. So he should. At least we actually did something about it. Now, what was that about not dealing decisively with child abusers in the Roman Catholic Church?
  12. caldrail

    Feel Better About Tuesdays

    By caldrail,

    What a miserable, rotten, rainy day. Sorry to go on a downer, but it just couldn't be any greyer. A fine drizzle driven by blustery winds is definitely dampening my spirit. But Yahoo has the answer. Twelve tips to brighten your otherwise dreary day. Okay. Let's have a look.
     
    1. Resist the urge to
  13. caldrail

    As If By Magic

    By caldrail,

    What does a photograph mean? On the face of it, probably not much, as it is after all a static recording of light received by a chemical or electronic process at that given moment. Sometimes it can convey information, or perhaps preserve a happy memory. You could say a photograph has whatever significance you place upon it.
     
    Some people have a gift for photography. They manage to capture more than a smple recording of light. They capture movement, frozen for that instant, or a scene that invokes a mood. My own efforts at taking photos aren't really intended for public consumption which is probably just as well considering how dull they usually are. Perhaps it's just as well that I don't indulge in the worst excesses of the amateur photographer - the family album.
     
    In actual fact, I've been very lucky in the past. So far I've only been caught twice with a family album to look through. Once by a young lady who was desperate to keep me there until she plucked up the courage to... Well.. You know.... The second time by the mother of a friend of mine who was, I think, feeling a bit lonely and just needed someone to talk to. Other than that I've gotten away with it.
     
    Yesterday I got ambushed with some wedding photos of our relations out in New Zealand. The photo of the newly weds was pushed under my nose with particular care. I knew the groom. I'd met him as a troubled teenager and once gave him a swift ride in a sports car around Swindon in an effort to stop him freaking out at what was an extraordinarily dull family meet. He even tried to get me to do the same in New Zealand in a hire car and that after he'd narrowly escaped prosecution for wrapping his own vehicle around a tree on a rain soaked curve.
     
    The woman he was marrying was a very pretty young blonde, who I've never met, and I haven't a clue who she is. But at that stage of the proceedings, I realised what this close encounter of the family album kind was about. My mother is at it again. Scheming.... Plotting....
     
    If you haven't guessed already, she wants to play happy families. She tries this on a regular basis. It isn't that I wouldn't become a family man if the right circumstances came about, but it's the circumstances happening in front of me I don't like. The emotional manipulation annoys me most of all. Why can't she just ask me? Why can't she just accept things are they way they are? The answer is that she prefers to pull strings. It makes her feel clever.
     
    A part of me thinks that she wants me married off not for my benefit, but so she can play the grannie to her own friends. The other part of me thinks it's all about making me conform to her very own fantasy of what I should be. Somewhere in all of this I'm just a means to an end.
     
    Nice try, but wedding photos aren't as effective as magic wands.
     
    Magic Books
    Talking of magic wands, I see Gordon Brown is writing a book about the global financial crisis and what lessons we can learn from it. Maybe it's just me, but I thought we'd already cottoned on how to solve that. Not that I'm particularly bothered. I won't be reading it. His brand of magic is a little bit of a con-trick in my experience. In any case, when the news reporter asked when his book was coming out, he answered that he didn't know. I sense an global publishing crisis on the horizon.
  14. caldrail

    Face To Face

    By caldrail,

    This is ridiculous. Now that I have to sign on the dole every single working day, my usual routine is upset. I don't know if you've noticed but my blog has mutated into a television critic webpage, and I'm gaining weight because I'm just not active any more. Seriously, I have this notion of turning up to my signing slot tomorrow with my pack and hiking gear.
     
    I can just imagine a caustic "Going somewhere Caldrail?"
     
    Oh hi Mr Claims Advisor, yeah, I'm off hiking when we're done here, why not come along if you're not signing anybody else today? Fresh air, grassy hills, heavy showers... Can't beat it.... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah....
     
    Of course I can't leave the reservation because they'll get annoyed and stop my money. And this "Mister Lord" business? I just cannot tell you how stupid that situation is. It's like having dual status, or at least it would do if the first part didn't devalue the second.
     
    You see they had this sort of business sussed back in the Middle Ages. You were either a peasant or very important, and any attempt to be anything else was usually punishable by something painful. Or then again, I imagine myself in a regency country house, set in verdant and manicured parkland. Ahhh, Jeeves, be a good fellow and pass the turnips will you? Oh, and do have the ox cart at the front of the house, Lady Rail and I are going farming this afternoon... Hmmm? What was that Dearest?... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah....
     
    Today is my weekly pow-wow with the big chief claims advisor. Does this white man speak with forked tongue? We'll see. Okay, time to head down to the Job Centre. Gird your loins, Caldrail, this might get ugly.
     
    Later That Day
    Loins girded, I waited for my name to be called. To be honest, I'd reached a state of vacant meditiation when some chap in a shirt and tie asked "Is Mister Caldrail here?"
     
    Gaaah! Not again! He ushered me to a seat and immediately I took the initiative. Pointing out the correct title on the signing booklet, I added politely but firmly that if that was too much for him to swallow, as it was for most people in this office, he was welcome to use my first name.
     
    He remained calm, said what he needed to, and printed off an entire wad of job decriptions for me to apply for. I'm not sure who was the winner of that negotiation.
  15. caldrail

    Talking Cars

    By caldrail,

    Another day, another takeaway vindaloo. Having ordered my meal I sat down and watched the world go by outside. Regents Circus is a busy little road junction and all sorts of people stroll by. Sometimes you see odd things. Now I'm no expert on ethnic dress, but the young moslem lad in a beige dress did look odd to my decadent and preconceptive western eyes. Even stranger was when he calmly walked across the road and drove off in a Bentley Continental GT. How much is this curry costing me?
     
    That White Car Again
    If I've mentioned this before then I apologise because I don't remember doing so. It's just that a few times lately I've spotted a white sports car driving down the hill. At first I wondered what it was. A sort of squarish style but not entirely displeasing. I couldn't see any makers badges and it was beginning to annoy me that I couldn't recognise this car at all. What on earth is it? Eventually I walked by when the vehicle was stationary at the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill. Embossed on the rear was the word "Pontiac".
     
    Pontiac? That's not a Trans-Am, the usual stateside offering we sometimes see over here. Then a moment of realisation hit me. This was a Fiero. Pontiac Fieros are mostly known in Britain as the donor vehicle for kit cars, thus we rarely see the vehicle in its pristine 'as Pontiac intended' form. Who knows, perhaps a kit car is due to hit the roads hereabouts in the near future?
     
    Prancing Horse Or Plodding Donkey?
    On my way to the curry house I pass a more upmarket resteraunt across the road. Parked outside the establishment so the owner could keep a wary eye on his vehicle was a gleaming red sports car with Ferrari badges. A pair of youths sat on the low college wall debating what it must be like to drive it.
     
    I should have spoken up. I really should. Because I know exactly what it's like. Not just driving the real thing which I've done on track days, but the Toyota MR2, the chassis on which this lookalike kitcar was based. Except it didn't really look right. Not one of the better ones. But at least the owner had the two youths completely fooled.
     
    One Last Word
    And before I sign off, a quick word to the Top Gear team. Just in case you really did think everyone was watching the football, let me assure you I wasn't. I did in fact suffer psychological trauma from discovering that Porsche are going horribly wrong, seeing an american muscle car that almost handled well, and finding out that the Stig is not the fastest cyborg on the planet.
     
    Under normal circumstances I would claim Incapacity Benefit whilst I recover my sanity but the current coalition government have banned claimants from ill health. Some might say I shouldn't have risked this trauma by watching Top Gear. Maybe, but I thought that was preferable to letting my brain atrophy watching overpaid haircuts play football.
     
    I hate to say it... But after being trounced by a certain Brazilian gentleman... Is the Stig old technology? Is he becoming obselete? The pressure is on.
  16. caldrail

    Know Your Subject

    By caldrail,

    I've had a bit of an argument with someone. There's an american chappie on another website, who claims to be a pilot of fixed and rotary winged aeroplanes over fourteen years, who's said a few things that to me seemed casually ignorant. I do actually have some sympathy for Americans, I know they get a lot of stick, but then sometimes they really do ask for it and a few times in the past I've encountered their brash arrogance - or at least the behaviour we Brits see as such. I think sometimes they get a little bewildered by our differences in language and ettiquette.
     
    Who's right? Me or him? Well, I was trained as a pilot in Britain largely by a World War Two veteran, so naturally I can sleep safe in the knowledge that I fly the right way. There is a persistent point of view that "Americans can't fly". Actually, a great many of them can, but just as in any nation you will find good or bad pilots. I'm not the worlds greatest after all.
     
    Perhaps the most interesting real comparison was a chap who popped over from the States to give flying enthusiasts a lecture about his companies homebuilt aircraft range. He knew his subject. Clearly his knowledge of aeronautical engineering was well up to the job of building, or indeed selling, his companies products. The most telling thing though was when this Californian man was asked what he thought of flying in Britain.
     
    "Well..." He mused thoughtfully, "I sat as a passenger on a flight between the Isle of Wight - Is that the right name? - and Fairoaks. Heck, I was lost in the first ten minutes".
     
    My Very Own Aeroplane?
    People do get a litle suspicious about my claims sometimes. I understand their reasons. Maybe I just don't conform to their preconceptions of the sort of people who 'do' things, or that they cannot comprehend that someone they know has done something beyond their own horizons. What I never do is lie about it.
     
    As a child I was always imaginative. My desire to fly aeroplanes emerges from those early years, playing out battles with plastic kits and wondering what it would be like to fly those wonderful machines, never mind the inspiration of the books with page after page of exotic aircraft beyond my experience.
     
    As a schoolchild I designed a sidevalve V8 as a project for my technical drawing classes. As an engine, it was horribly crude and it's doubtful it would ever have run succesfully had some idiot actually decided to build it. But it kept me busy. And my teacher was more than happy about that.
     
    Then along came adolescence and my leanings toward aviation could not be contained. My creative instincts took over and I began doodling not only sleek and slippery shapes, but all those interior details that an aeroplane would need. Little by little a seed took hold, and without really understanding what I was taking on, I found myself developing a concept. An aeroplane design. My very own aeroplane.
     
    Ah yes. The "Mark One" as I called it. There was never any official designation. If I were honest it was merely an attempt to realise an adolescent daydream. The problem with making something real however is that daydreams make no account of the realities. In any case, it should be pointed out that a large proportion of designs never reach fruition even with aircraft manufacturers.
     
    It wasn't an especially ambitious design, just a single engined, two seat, low wing monoplane taildragger. Wooden frame, glassfibre skin, fixed undercarriage. I didn't like the typical 'club' trainers or the flashy teardrop 'cruiser' aeroplanes that were becoming the norm back in the seventies, and some of the american oddities like Jim Bede and Burt Rutans offspring, often featured in magazines, were viewed with increasing concern by officialdom. I think deep in my heart I wanted a substitute for warbird flying and at the same time the satisfaction that I'd created this thing myself. Unfortunately, even in the less stringent regulations of the time, my design fell outside the accepted categories.
     
    Of course I was only eighteen or nineteen years old. With no qualification or practical experience of aeronautical engineering, my design fell woefully short on overcoming some of the basic obstacles of system functionality, and I knew very little of the mathematics I would have needed to succesfully convince the Popular Flying Association that the design was airworthy. They set a higher standard than the EAA and for good reason. Back then I wasn't a pilot either, and my experience of aircraft was limited to that acquired as a member of the Air Training Corps. In retrospect, I have to accept I was being hopelessly naive.
     
    That said, I did make the effort. I learned a few things. There was a positive atmosphere in my life at that age. I remember one chap who was part of my cadet flight and in the year above me at the same school who'd managed to get a board game produced commercially. It all felt as if everything was possible if only you found the right door. In my case, I ldidn't know the right equations, and I didn't know anyone who did.
     
    Perhaps if I'd found an engineer who knew more about the practicalities of aviation then something might have emerged from that particular project. As it was I'd reached the point where even I realised it was going no further. It didn't matter. I'd left the air cadets, moving on to further education at college, and music was to become the major focus of my life for the next twelve or thirteen years.
     
    I was thirty one when I found the time and finance to qualify as a pilot. There was a brief flirtation with the PFA but had I found the money and workshop facilities to build an aeroplane for myself, I would have built an established design, which the PFA naturally encourage.
     
    If any paperwork concerning the my little "Mark One" survived the passing of time, it was sent to landfill eight years ago. My father was never a man to value paper you couldn't spend. I have this cute mental image of a seagull nesting in a ragged sun-bleached remnant of faded notes and diagrams with my name on them. You never know.
  17. caldrail
    In the beginning, God said "Let there be light". And he saw that it was good. So good in fact that we human beings have invented little contrivances to achieve the same result ever since. First we invented fire (and what fun we've had with that!), and finally in the 21st century we've reached the very pinnacle of light engineering, that silly little thing screwed into the ceiling of my bathroom. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I'm not God, so now the blessed thing has stopped working.
     
    Also, being a mere mortal, the mysterious workings of this lighting device are beyond my experience, and lacking the divine ability to fix and create with a flick of my fingers, I popped down to the letting agent and asked if they could send a man to see to it. Not an emergency, of course, but when you have the time. They smiled and I parted in a good mood.
     
    The time and date was set - and no-one came. I exchanged a few mobile texts in which the contractor claimed I was not present, not listening, or not co-operating, but I answered all of those and he rang me eventually to set another time and date the following day.
     
    And no-one came. So the following morning I was straight down to the letting agents office to let them know that this was going on. They arranged another time that afternoon. "You will switch your phone on?" The lady asked as I was about to leave. The cheek of it! yes, the phone will be on.
     
    A little later than the specified time the contractor phoned me and told me his boy was outside knocking on the wrong door. Could I let him in? I assumed he meant my own premises and I duly went downstairs and opened the door. No-one there. Then a foreign handyman, a young polish lad of indifferent demeanour and speaking unexceptional pidgin english, popped his head out of the downstairs flat below where I live and told me he couldn't do anything because he didn't have the parts. What? But.... He buried his nose in his mobile phone and closed the door on me.
     
    I was infuriated. I called the maintenance department of the letting agent and related my woes. Actually I don't think they were all too suprised to hear my complaint and she dragged the contractor away from his coffee to speak to me. He rattled off apology No 34 and tried to get me to accept another time this morning. Oh? Can he get the parts to fix my bathroom light in 24 hours? I'm not falling for that one. I stopped him short and requested he arrive on the following Tuesday. That should give him enough time.
     
    He agreed to the time and date, possibly with witnesses at his end. Then he added "But I might not be able to turn up."
     
    I got annoyed. What is the point of setting a time and date for a repair if you've no intention of keeping it? I've sat there for three afternoons and all I've gotten so far is 'tough luck mate' and some guy airily telling me over the phone that he doesn't answer to me and doesn't like being spoken to in such a manner. Oh really? Then maybe a good policy might be to not fob off your customers.
     
    They're All At It, You Know
    At times like this I wish my title had some medieval authority. I'd have that idiot boiled in oil. Take a deep breath and forget the self-important cowboy the letting agent use for domestic repairs. It's still insufferably hot and I just can't be bothered to do anything but watch television. Good grief, I've watched more television in the last month than I have over the last year!
     
    It seems the channel lists have changed and I need to retune my receiver. Luckily my receiver was designed to be used by people over the age of nine and thus was a simple and quick procedure. Now I even more shop-at-home channels advertising great new gizmos that no home could possibly do without, and exactly the sort of item you stuff in the cupboard and never use twice.
     
    The energetic young american with a microphone headpiece (don't they have recording equipment in that tv studio?) is squeezing water from a piece of space age cloth that is apparently a miracle of science. Give me a break. The only miracle here is whether I'd part money for that tatty old rag. What a con.
  18. caldrail

    The Bizarre Truth

    By caldrail,

    Industrial estates are odd places. You see them everywhere in british towns and cities, a road along which factories and warehouses are lined up in bold advertisement and yet give off a feeling of almost monastic solitude. You don't see any activity. There's no sense of urgency or productivity. I'm sure that's not actually the case or all these companies would go out of business. It's just that the square and architecturally cold brick frontages do not reveal their inner workings to the casual passer by.
     
    Well, here's the factory unit where I'm supposed to learn how to drive a forklift. As with almost all of them, the offices face the street, the production areas kept out of sight to the rear. The lady at the reception desk sighed when I produced the letter confiorming my course placement and thumbed in the direction of the side entrance. Tradesmen at the rear? It seems so. No matter, her opinions aren't important. So I wandered around the side of the factory, through an open iron gate, and looked along the weed infested pathway. Just before the verdant english jungle completely overtook the discarded piles of wood, corrugated iron, and worn tires, there was a door propped open. Here we go then.
     
    The light and airy factory floor was almost empty. At the other end I observed the forklifts wheezing and whirring. Along the right hand side was a garden. Seriously. Flower beds, gravel, wooden sheds, birdtables - this was truly bizarre. The two ladies dealing with the paperwork didn't acknowledge my presence for a while and I was there for two hours waiting to sign on to the course, which I now know will start in a couple of months time. Oh, but I did do something useful while I was there. A literacy test.
     
    Seventy two questions designed to test my spelling and grammar. Obviously an essential requirement for driving forklifts. I'm pleased to announce I scored 100%, and thus qualify as an englishman.
     
    More Bizarre Stuff
    What is it with the Germans these days? They always seem to come up with strange stunts. There was Matthias Rust who landed a Cessna in Red Square, Moscow, for no obvious reason. Now I read that a some idiot in Bavaria threw a puppy at some Hells Angels and escaped on a stolen bulldozer. Like you do.
  19. caldrail
    I hate the internet. It all looks colourful, quick, and easy. But no matter how much I try, there's never a version of the interesting looking pages in english, the downloads get filtered out by web security, the online application system sends you round in circles, and the company that requires you to log on doesn't send you the password reminder. That about sums up the day so far.
     
    I've wasted tons of time trying to get this to work. Now I've got ten minutes to write todays blog entry. Okay. I'm up for a challenge.
     
    Bump In The Night
    I think my neighbour is getting fed up with my long nights over a hot PC. It isn't that I deliberately make noise but it just isn't possible to be completely quiet, and the edwardian floorboards are creaking like an old galleon every time I move. So early this morning he was banging draws and doors. Okay, okay, I get the hint. Maybe if I put a spot of oil on the floorboards they'll stop creaking? A part of me so wants to try that.
     
    Annoying People
    There's a guy in the next cubicle who keeps making heavy breathing noises, rather like someone who's personal life is entirely devoted to photographs of naked women in anatomically impossible poses. Glancing across the website he's browsing seems inoccuous. There he goes again. Wheeze.
     
    Now on the other side is a guy who fidgets. He just can't keep still. Always coughing, gesturing, clearing his throat, and now he's testing the contours of his balding head. Sorry mate, but the brain isn't getting any bigger.
     
    More Rubbish
    More rubbish has filled the alleyway beside the houses where I live. Where is all this stuff coming from? Mattresses, clothing, bottles, all sorts of stuff. I notice some of the clothes look vaguely asian in style. So let me take this opportunity to point out to our immigrants that we have bins in this country to put rubbish in. I know the council and their recycling is a pain in the butt, and that you have to sort your own rubbish into fifteen different plastic bins these days, but please try.
     
    Gun Law
    I was reading on another forum about one chaps uncle, who apparently owns live .50cal machine guns. It all sounds dubious to me. Automatic weapons have been banned from public ownership in Britain since 1937. If you look at the legislation, it's been rising exponentially ever since, and these days toy guns are illegal to sell if they're anything other than cheap lurid yellow plastic. Following yesterdays alarming and tragic shooting incidents in Cumbria, clearly the next step is to ban shotguns too.
     
    I suppose there's a case for that. If you don't have a gun, you can't shoot someone. And it would prevent those idiots I passed in the countryside last year from posing and looking macho with shotguns draped all over them. But then - if all these pistols and rifles are illegal - How come people still own them?
     
    More Gun Law
    Israel has done it again. After my comments about Al Q'aedas recent loss I've no doubt serious islamic revolutionaries are howling for my blood and demanding to know why I'm not speaking out against Israel for its heavy handed approach to national security. Well... Perhaps if you didn't keep threatening them, they wouldn't be so bullish. other than that I just don't care, because if I don't get a job soon, the government will shoot me for being a drain on their financial resources.
     
    On the Bright Side
    The weather is nice.
     
    And I still Have...
    Woah! Two mintes left. Just enough time to press submit. Job well done.
  20. caldrail

    Dear Juliet

    By caldrail,

    Thousands of love lorn people every year are sending heart felt letters to 'Juliet' in Verona, Italy. A part of me sees this as ridiculus, given that Juliet is a fictional shakespearean character dreamt up hundreds of years ago, but on the other hand, an illustration of how popular fantasy and modern privacy have made people feel so lonely.The 'Juliet Secretaries' who are paid to read these letters answer them too. I can imagine them being sympathetic to these messages of despair, but at what point do they become used to it, or even contemptuous?
     
    How To Chat Someone Up In Five Minutes Flat
    Following on from How To Spot Someone Is Interested In You, I discovered this gem on the internet news site. How to chat someone up in five minutes.
     
    1. Picture the scene
    Before you approach that gorgeous creature or meet your date, run through some chatty scenarios in your head. Think about things you might say and how they might reply. Picture yourself responding with calm wit and fluency. You probably won
  21. caldrail
    The stifling warm spell seems to run its course. Last night was a blessed relief from lying there gasping for breath, a definite cooler feel to the air, and this morning was actually quite chilly. At last... A chance to get some real sleep....
     
    But no. For some reason every alarm in the neighbourhood was going off. The abanonded office across the road made its usuall insistent bleeping. Car alarms went off one after the other in the streets behind my home. A burglar alarm sounded into the small hours. What is going on? A mass invasion of teenage thieves? I just want to sleeeeepppp......
     
    A Question of Time
    Here's something for the scientifically minded to ponder....
     
    Our view of space time is effectively einsteinian. That is, we have three dimensions plus time, which Einstein recognised is linked to our mundane cosmos. Most people wouldn't go any further than that - it isn't a big real world issue. Now, most people would simply regard our three dimensions as all there is and that it's a simple rectilinear description of the volume of space we observe. There are theories that other dimensions exist, seperated from the ones we can perceive, and curled up so small they'd be invisible anyway. But our familiar three dimensions might not be so rectilinear. Einstien himself recognised that space-time is curved. A theory now describes the universe as 'crinkled'. In other words, although we see everything as sort of flat, it isn't, because light and other electromagnetic energies we use to observe the universe around us are simply following the curves, thus we don't see them.
     
    Now we consider dark matter. A strange, mysterious substance that cannot be detected yet accounts for a bulk of the theoretical mass of the universes contents. It should be there, but we can't find it. A theory describes dark matter not as some exotic form of 'stuff', but as the gravitic footprint of ordinary matter like stars and planets that to us appear very, very far away, but that because of the folds in space -time are actually quite close.
     
    Now consider time. Traditionally this is seen as a dimension of its own, like a river, or in some peoples imaginations, a container for all possibilities. Scientists are now coming around to the idea that time does not exist. There is only Now, this moment, flicking from one quantum state to the next at the rate of ten to the thirty four times a second. This means there is no past and no future, no co-existence of things happening in other time periods. So this means that time travel really is impossible.
     
    But wait a minute. We know space-time is curved, We know time runs at different rates according to velocity of the observer and the gravity well of whatever mass is close by. We think electromagnetism follows the curvature of the universe, and that gravity doesn't. What if then, if it were possible to do the same as gravity - to cut across folds in space? Certainly that would make science fiction come true in that you could travel huge distances instantly, but because of the relative variations in time rate, you would also be travelling back and forth in time, because everything is relative to the observer.
     
    Think about that the next time you see a blue 1960's police telephone box. Or not. Depending on how much time you have, how busy your social life is, or whether you give a monkeys
  22. caldrail

    Heavy Going

    By caldrail,

    What can I say about last night? Without doubt, it was the worst nights sleep I've had in ages. Usually that would be because the local gorillas are out partying, or some resident of north swindon is trying to use my half-abandoned car to get a cheap ride home, or simply that the urban foxes living in the old college site are yelping their heads off. No, it was off course the stale air. It wasn't warm enough to be sweaty, just unpleasantly heavy. This morning is one of odd days. There's some thick haze and low cloud around, fighting it out with the sunshine for dominance of our weather, and judging from what I see out the library window as I type this, it seems the sun is winning hands down.
     
    So I can expect another sultry night. I might have to move my fan into the bedroom. Have I mentioned my trusty electric fan? He's.... No, I refuse to give him a name.
     
    Pixie Spotting
    I passed the Malignant Pixie this morning. She's an odd one. She really is. All mischief and no intelligence whatsoever. Today she passed me with a grin, but didn't answer me when I relunctantly said hello. Fine with me. Her boyfriend, a young lad desperately trying to look cool in shades, remained aloof as if to underline his superior status. Sorry son, I'm a little too old to be fooled by that. Let's face it - if the Malignant Pixie is the best you can do, trying to impress me is a waste of time.
     
    Who's On Duty
    Now that I'm sat using up my allotted time on the library computer, I notice which librarian is on duty at the enquiries desk. It's that old guy, the tall one. He is, for want of a better description, useless. If you ask him anything he merely responds "I don't know."
     
    Could you fetch someone who does?
     
    "I don't know who would be able to help you" Is his standard reply. Usually I have to throw a minor strop and he rushes off to do what he should have done anyway. At the moment he's helping someone out with a problem on their computer. Poor bloke's more confused than when he asked for assistance.
  23. caldrail
    Like many others with projects to get on with, I find myself in a struggle. On the one hand, the relative quiet of the early hours is conducive to productivity in the absence of distraction, yet on the other you're tired and want to go to sleep. Eventually I succumbed to the latter, and realising I was asleep at my computer, decided it was right and proper to abandon any more effort and seek the comfort of my bed. Tired.... Eyes closing.... zzzzzzzzzz
     
    THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD....
     
    What the...?! Ten o'clock and the neighbours have decided that they want to play music. Okay, I've slept in, and I do snore at night, but I can't get any rest with this noise coming through the walls and floorboards. As it happens I do need to be elsewhere, so I left my hi-fi pumping out a choice selection of death metal tracks. If I'm not allowed to sleep, no-one is. That's the kind of mood I was in this morning as I shuffled into the bathroom and noticed a zombie in the mirror. Oh no... That's me...
     
    Eventually my errant neighbour got the hint and quietened down, leaving me free to rush out the house satisifed in having administered to my sense of justice. Except... The front door won't close. Eh? What's going on? I haven't got time for this! No, no good, it won't close. It's saturday so the letting agent have gone to sleep and won't wake up until monday afternoon, so I'll have to sort this out.
     
    Back upstairs, dig out some screwdrivers, and back down to the front door in a sort of battle between urgency and tiredness. Adjust this... Adjust that... Nope, still wont close. I all but had the door off it's hinges until I discovered a small insignificant stone had gotten into the doorway and was preventing it from shutting completely. How on earth did that get there? More to the point, how on earth did the door close previously with that stone there? No matter, the world is back on course, and my life returns to mundane tedium. Sigh....
     
    Radio Amnesty
    In 2015 the ordinary old fashioned radio broadcasts in Britain will be switched off and everyone will need to own a shiney new digital radio to hear their favourite metronome and chuckle at the inept humour of programme presenters. The government are aware that many of us are unhappy and may even be ignorant of that fact and have offered a 'radio amnesty' to persuade us to upgrade. Everyone will buy new radios. Do you hear?
     
    Actually I'm not that bothered. I just hope my neighbours are too busy bonking and arguing to realise that the reason their radio isn't working has nothing to do with dead batteries or being thrown against the wall.
  24. caldrail
    So much for drizzle. We had a right downpour yesterday afternoon. The weather is the same today, a grey day with a sense of dampness in the air. Certainly there's some great piles of darker cloud in the vicinity threatening to make my day wetter than planned, so my trip to the supermarket is starting to look risky. Hey, that's life in the wilds of Darkest Wiltshire.
     
    I find the habits of Swindoners a little odd when confronted with changes in weather. We seem to be a few days behind, continuing to wear clothes more suited for sunny days and then adopting more rain-worthy apparel when the sun returns, no doubt having realised at last that occaisionally we might get wet. Umbrellas appear in sudden tides of fashion for a day or two. Those in hoodies get soaked by rain or sweat either way, because they do so love their anonymity. As for me I just get soaked because I didn't bother looking at the weather report.
     
    A Tale Of Two Burgers
    Thursday night and my rations have not contained the hunger I feel. I could save money and indulge in another dry sandwich.... No, I can't face another slab of foam rubber and yeast. This does mean spending some money of course, but there's only so much bread and water you can consume before you realise you've become a prisoner of your finances. So off I trot, to the takeaway across the road.
     
    The turkish lads are, as always, all smiles. They do love a good customer. Anyhow I ordered my cheeseburger and with his usual display of turkish service, he asked me if I wanted cheese with that. Yes. Yes I do. I like cheese on my cheeseburgers. This isn't the first time he's done this and I suspect it won't be the last. With a smiling apology he handed me my seriously unhealthy but seductive snack and away I went happy as larry. Yum... Good burger this...
     
    Friday night and I face the same problem. Only this time my bread is twenty four hours drier. Another burger? Okay, just this once. I resolved to buy the bottom bargain basment model, the one with a slab of processed cow and other stuff in a toasted bun. No sauce, salad, or cheese. This evening I will take my burger straight. I am not afraid.
     
    The turkish lad flipped the processed cow over on his hotplate and asked me if I wanted anything on my burger. No. No I don't. Just an ordinary burger in an ordinary bun for a low low price special offer. Somehow he didn't really understand what the problem was in piling food into a small carton with a shovel, but there you go. I paid my cash, and waited for the meal to finsih its chemical reaction and become halfway edible.
     
    He was distracted by more customers arriving. A jolly bunch, made sociable by copious alcholic drinks and luckily they managed to save one of their merry group from altering his nose on the floor. So I was served by another turkish lad. They all look the same. They really do. Is there a cloning facility in Istanbul? Even the chap who serves kebabs down the hill, a young turk, claims there are too many turks. But I digress. The youngster started assembling my meal and he too looked confused by the stark bareness of merely a burger in a bun.
     
    "You want something on this?" He pleaded with me desperately to improve the culinary appeal and creative artistry of my intended snack. "Salad? Cheese?"
     
    Oh go on then. Put some stupid cheese on it. He beamed with delight and handed me my cheeseburger, obtained legally at a 20p discount. I strolled home, negotiated the drunks and drivers, and set about polishing off my meal. Yum...Great burger this...
  25. caldrail
    Thursday is jobsearch day again, and that's official. You would expect that we get access to facilities and resources to assist us in the quest for gainful employment and up to a point you'd be right, but what might suprise you is the extent to which the advisors go to obstruct and prevent us from actually making any attempt to apply for a job.
     
    As usual TB began her class in... erm... whatever it was, I've forgotten already... Oh yes, I remember now, it was a group thing about a hypothetical product or service and present a sales presentation on it. One table actually attempted this, discussing a baby-alert thingy,
     
    We have a television show in Blighty called Dragons Den in which a panel of business success stories offer investment and executive input if the hopeful guests impress them
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