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 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| American Idols (5) Numero Cinque: The Mailbox and Mailman Everyone knows the American mailbox, that arched metal box with a flap at one end and a flag on the side, perched upon its post by the side of every driveway. Like the fire hydrant, we know it from countless movies, comics and cartoons, an ever-present companion to every suburban household. Here truly is a symbol of America, for you'll not see it anywhere else in the world. There is so much more to it than meets the eye, however. That little red flag on the side, for instance; what's that all about? I have researched long and hard into this (I asked my wife) and can now reveal the secret. In America the postbox for mailing letters is actually quite rare, being confined to high density residential areas of the big cities. Instead, a much more sensible idea has taken hold: they use the mailboxes of the houses for both incoming and outgoing mail. If you want to post a letter, just pop it into your mailbox and move the flag to the upright position. Then, when the mailman comes along, he will see the flag and know immediately that there is outgoing mail in the box. He collects it, puts in any mail he has for you, knocks the flag down again, and off he goes, back to the post office. Isn't that a brilliant idea? And so sensible, so labor-saving and so obvious. Think of all the shoe leather that could be saved if those trips down to the postbox in Britain could be done away with. I was staggered by the simplicity and efficiency of the system when I first heard of it. Now, those of you who remember the old days of trade union power may be thinking of the poor mailman at this point. How fair is it that he be expected to carry a load to the post office as well as from it, you may ask. But that question falls away when we look at the American mailman. Forget old visions of the mailman trudging through the blizzard, muttering under his breath slogans like "The mail must get through". That is an outdated image. These days the mailman is supplied with a little van that he drives through the streets, stopping at each mailbox. And this van is something of an idol in itself. Imagine Postman Pat's little van, square and boxy, but painted white and with the flashy red and blue logo of the US Mail on the side. There you have the modern American mail van. And this van is unique in another way: it is the only right hand drive vehicle produced in the States. Why? Purely so that the mailman can drive down the right side of the street, doing his little transactions with each mailbox without ever having to dismount from his vehicle. In America, the job of mailman is a sedentary profession! Oh the brilliance and wonder of it. I can only applaud the genius of the system and wonder why it has not been copied in other countries. And this is why I have decided to award the title of American Idol 5 to both the mailbox and the mailman; they are the essential parts of a whole system that is so American in its solution to delivery and collection of mail. So let us stand and cheer these humble elements of a system that defines America so well. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the US mailman and the mailbox!  Word count: 586 |
| Revolution! I have the cat figured out. After years of study and reflection, I have worked out the devilish feline scheme to control us and dominate the world. It’s all a hoax. Everyone knows that attempting to provide a cat with the correct food at all times is a fool’s game. Something devoured yesterday is treated with total disdain for the following week, as though we were trying to poison the creature. The moment we decide that we have found the acceptable brand, the cat chooses to eat only what it was refusing before. We say that the cat’s very choosy, excusing it because it’s so soft and furry and has such big eyes and meows so plaintively to get its own way. Maybe switching things up a bit more, presenting it with something different every time will work. Forget it. This is an animal that eats mice, whole, from the head right down to the tail. It swallows everything, the fur, the skin, the bones the teeth, the claws, the entrails, the lot. And doesn’t blink an eye. I know, I’ve seen it done. And yet we think it will genuinely be disgusted by some expensive cat treat because it might be a little crusty having been rejected for an hour or two. Not a chance. The cat is playing with us. It is overfed and can go for long periods without even thinking about food. The game is to have us running about, ever the servants, presenting it with ever more tasty and tempting delicacies. Don’t be fooled. It’s a cat playing a cat’s game. The only answer is to choose a brand and flavour that has been accepted at least once before and give it to the cat. Give it nothing else until it has licked the dish clean. It’ll happen, I assure you. Steel yourself against the pleading looks, the pathetic cries, the begging whenever you enter the kitchen. This is a war of wills that you have to win. Be strong. Of course, now you are going to accuse me of being a cruel, heartless beast who should never have been granted the honour of cat ownership in the first place. But I didn’t say this was my strategy, did I? It was merely a cry from my servitude, a desperate plea to others to save themselves. Just because I am completely unable to treat our cat, Pookie, in this manner, this is no reason why the evil scheme should not be exposed for all to see and understand. Save yourselves while you still can! Word count: 429 |
| uPhone Wouldn't a truly smart phone cough gently and inform you that someone wished to speak to you, rather than crassly interrupting you with some awful parody of a TV show theme? Instead of wildly vibrating, wouldn't it respectfully touch your shoulder and ask whether you wished to accept a call or would rather the phone take a number and advise that you'd have your people contact them in due course? I await the day… The title of this rather obvious post is intended (quite clearly, I think) as a comment on that vile intrusion upon our lives that is the iPhone. But, as soon as I thought of the name, I recalled that “euphony,” far from being an iPhone for Europe, is defined as “the quality of being pleasing to the ear, especially through a harmonious combination of words” and/or “the tendency to make phonetic change for ease of pronunciation.” That seems to me to confirm the selection of title. Word count: 161 Note: Definitions by Oxford Languages. |
| General Heinrici I was thinking today that being old is like being General Gotthard Heinrici. There was a time when I, like you, had never heard of General Heinrici. For me, his name first came up when someone I knew cited him as the best German general of World War II. As somewhat of a student of that conflict, I had to know more and proceeded to find out. The story is quite surprising and somehow exemplary. Heinrici was a general who never won a battle. It’s in the investigating of the battles he was given to command that we discover his greatness. He was the man the Germans would call upon when battles were already lost. For much of the long retreat from Russia, Heinrici was put in charge and was the reason the Russians had such a hard time of it. He invented what became known as the “empty bag technique.” With what seemed like a sixth sense, he would know where and when the next Russian attack would come. Heinrici would withdraw his forces from the relevant area during the night. When the Russians attacked, they would find no opposition and would hurtle through the gap, creating the bulge in the front line known as a salient. Then Heinrici’s forces would attack from the sides of the initial breakthrough, cutting off the Russian force and destroying it at leisure over time. It was this feel for the exact time and place of the next assault that was essential to the technique. And only Heinrici had it. Time and again, he was removed for disobeying orders that he disagreed with, only to be brought back to patch up the disasters that resulted. His final disobedience was in withdrawing his armies to the west of Berlin, refusing to see them wasted in the futile protection of Hitler. Summoned to appear in Berlin for punishment, Heinrici took the advice of another German general and drove off in the opposite direction. He survived the war and died eventually in 1971, now celebrated in his homeland as a hero. How is being old like being General Heinrici? Because being old is a matter of constant rearguard actions against an enemy that is going to win in the end. It’s all about saving a few faculties here, a few senses there, and keeping the wolf from the door a few more hours or days. There’s no possibility of gaining a victory, since the old enemy has all the cards, but you can make his job as difficult as possible. If you’re old, you’re General Heinrici. Word count: 428 |
| American Idols (4) Numero Quattro: Soaring Sign Posts The poor foreigner thinks that he knows about American sign posts. He has seen the famous golden arches that indicate his local McDonald's diner and imagines that this is the real thing. Well, he better not believe it. Those golden arches are an imposter, a mere imitation of how it's really done. At some time in the distant past Americans forgot the purpose of legs and bought wheels instead. This is a nation that moves on wheels, wheels of cars, trucks, pick-ups, vans, semis (what we call articulated lorries in Britain), SUVs (sports utility vehicles - the dreaded four-wheel drive monsters) and MPVs (multi-purpose vehicles). And to serve this horde of vehicles, the drive-in was invented. There are drive-in restaurants, drive-in banks, drive-in tobacconists and drive-in liquor stores. You name it, you can probably drive into it somewhere. As an aside, the originator of this culture of driving in, the drive-in theater (or cinema as we would call it) is dying out and an uncommon sight these days. I do not know the reason for this threatened extinction but, in some ways, it is a pity. The drive-in cinema had a role to play in my teenage years (we had them in Africa) and there is a certain nostalgia in contemplating those serried ranks of car parking spaces, all facing a giant screen, with their individual posts holding the speakers that you attached to the side window of your car (and the inevitable posts with dangling wires amputated by a forgetful motorist departing without first removing the speaker). Civilization moves on and forgets the bold icons of its youth. But to return to my point: this proliferation of the drive-in everything has meant that businesses have had to compete for the attention of the passing motorist. And the most effective way of doing this is to put up a sign where the traffic can see it. That is fine in theory, of course. But when every store, outlet and diner has put out their sign, the effect is actually counter-productive; it becomes a confusing mass of signs, all competing for attention, all shouting with the same voice, getting in the way of each other, and only becoming a gaudy display without meaning to the driver flashing past. The first solution to this problem was the distinctive logo. Recognizing that motorists had no time to read more than a word or two in their passing, businesses began to design simple and easily-recognized emblems that would say all that was necessary about the delights they offered. The logo was used everywhere, in advertising, signs, literature, anywhere that could be stamped with the mark of approval. Even the buildings were made to conform to the standard design and colors. The company style and logo became all that was needed for the potential customer to know immediately what was on offer. Here was the start of the most famous of brand logos, the golden arches, the ice cream cone of Brauns, the green and yellow of Subway. Of course, the usual problem then raised its ugly head. Once everyone had climbed on the band wagon, the customer was presented with a mass of colors and designs that merged into a kaleidoscope of confusion. How to rise above the rest, to shout loudest, to be the one noticed in the crowd? Oh, to have been at that meeting where some bright spark first had the light dawn upon his feverish imagination. I can see it now: "How's about if we stick it on a pole?" "A pole?" "Yes, a pole. But not any old pole. Let's put it on a pole so high, it'll stick out way above the rest." Silence in the meeting for a few moments as the towering idea begins to infiltrate the minds of the perplexed. "You know, I think he may have something there." The first drops of the coming torrent of inspiration begin to flow. There is another pause as understanding begins to inhabit the slower minds. Our hero, the inspired genius, warms to the unfolding vision. "In fact, let's stick it on a pole so high, nobody will top it! We'll get so damn high, they'll see it for miles!" The dam breaks. The flood begins. In an explosion of enthusiasm and new conversion to the astounding revelation, the meeting breaks out into a celebration of joy and wonderment. Or so it should have been. As other companies followed and reached for the sky, something else was discovered. Yes, the concerns with the most money could afford the tallest poles. But it didn't matter. Now that the third dimension had been invented, there was order brought to the horde of enticements. As layer upon layer of signs were added, it became apparent that it mattered not how far you were from the uttermost peak; as long as you chose a height at which your sign was visible, you were in there with a shouting chance. And so the look of an American town was altered forever. Streets became a vista of logo upon logo, sign upon sign, all at different heights, all creating a three-dimensional cornucopia for the eye. The public responded with true recognition of the bold achievement. They learned the logos, understood the stratified environment and became able to pick out the required establishment from huge distances. I salute the invention that has come to be the look of America. Oh, lofty spire, so cunningly be-topped with your familiar statement, your brave summation of meaning, I honor your attainment so towering, so lifted above the mere humdrum. In your teeming multitude you stand supreme, an essential part of what is now America. A symbol of pride and accomplishment, let it have its moment upon the podium. Stand and salute with me, friends, the soaring sign post that is an American icon. Word count: 974 |
| The Scandalous Behaviour of Language Today’s amusing newsfeed post from More Furter than Stein!  spurred me to comment on his use of the word “tuned.” I recalled that “tune” once had a special place in southern African slang and, typically, was an important part of the sentence, “Don’t tune me grief, kerel.”This led me away from my intention to think of a suitable plot for a story, and I found that my brain refused to go back to that, preferring to ponder on ancient South African slang and the mixture of languages that contributed to it. That one sentence I quoted contains offerings from English (“Don’t” and “me”), slang (“tune” and “grief”), and Afrikaans (“kerel”). South Africa may have been the land of apartheid but nothing could stop the many languages of the country from joyously and interestingly mixing with each other. There was a lot of good humour involved too, most obviously in the the little phrase “ek sê.” This would be used in any of the languages to give extra impact to what was said. So one might say, “This Coke is lekker when cold, ek sê” or “Ek sê, have you been to the bioscope lately?” Literally, the two words mean “I say” in Afrikaans but the irony is in the fact that one would never say such a thing in that language. To the Afrikaaners, it is blatantly obvious that, if you speak, there is no need to say that you are. Only the English were in the habit of announcing things in this way, perhaps to add a little pomposity to whatever is said (and sometimes doubled as in “I say, I say, did you know Carruthers has a gorilla?”). So the use of the Afrikaans in this way is actually making fun of the English expression. The fact that all languages use it shows that everyone understands this and finds it funny. Quite often, English speakers would turn the joke around by saying, “Ek say.” Which just goes to show that language is a freedom loving thing and no great regarder of the law. And to the French, who are trying to keep English out of their language, I hope they enjoy “le weekend.” Word count: 366 |
I don't often make a fuss about things I've written but the one I wrote today is a part of my attempt to break the writer's block that has dogged my short story writing of late. A little self promotion never did any harm. I think.
It's not really about fishing. |
| A Mysterious Package I had a strange dream a few nights ago. That in itself is unusual, since I rarely remember dreams longer than a moment or two after waking. But this one has held on and remains quite vivid. There may have been stuff before in the dream, but my memory tells me that it opens with my receipt of a package in the mail. Awake, I would have been suspicious immediately as I haven’t ordered anything by mail for years. But in dreams we happily accept the most preposterous of things and events. Without even asking myself a question, I began to unpack the thing. The package contained a box about the size and shape of a shoebox. In my recollection there was no indication of its contents. I opened the box. Don’t you love the way things happen in dreams? We just think an action and it’s done, the task itself dismissed as if completely irrelevant. This box had that feel of the convoluted packaging granted to high tech items protected by the most ingenious and complex containers ever invented. If you’ve ever bought computer software for instance, with its crafty design of locking flaps and boxes within boxes, you’ll know what I mean. And this box felt exactly like that. It should have required at least half an hour of concentrated examination and deduction before yielding to my exploration but not this one. This was a dream so I wished it open and there it was, open. Carefully fitted inside, like a tetris puzzle of fitted shapes, was a machine in various parts, mostly orange plastic but with a few silver or black objects included. There appeared to be two of each part, as though the machine would have two equal sides to its whole. Something like a pair of binoculars, for instance. In fact, that was my first guess as to its function - that it was to be a very small set of binoculars of amazing and unexpected powers. Those silver bits, round and flat as they were, could be the lenses, I guessed. Clearly, the next step was to fit the parts together to see what exactly the thing was. I extracted one of the largest pieces from the box and examined it. A very complex shape, it was covered by a clear, protective film, vacuum packed to its exact form and dimensions. I picked at it with a fingernail, managed to get an edge to lift, and began to pull the covering away from the object. This proved to be more time-consuming than expected, as the film kept breaking and I had to find another bit that I could pull away from the surface. While I was doing this, I noticed that another part, still in the box, appeared to have been damaged. Part of its shape was a plastic net forming a hemispherical bulge erupting from the top of the piece. This was now flattened as though it had been crushed at some stage of its journey to me. I knew that it was not supposed to be flattened in this manner because a glance at its partner component revealed the bulge as it was intended to be - truly hemispherical as it protruded from the rest of the piece. I presumed that I’d be able to push the damaged portion out into the required shape and returned to my struggles with the clear film. And now I have to disappoint you in the same way that I was at this point. This was the moment that the morning decided to awaken me and I found myself in bed, wondering what on earth the machine’s function had been. I lay there for some time, trying to make sense of the parts and the need to protect some of them with a clear plastic film. Eventually, it occurred to me that I could use the experience to write some kind of story. But I have spent days trying to finagle something out of these bare facts and they have turned out to be obstinate in the extreme. There’s a story there somewhere but it may be years before I manage to extract it. In the meantime, I have this all down now so I can’t forget it. And, if you can think of what to do with it, go right ahead. Something in the science fiction line would be most appropriate, I think. Word count: 736 |
| Ducks Yesterday, a conversation with More Furter than Stein! brought to mind the following little tale that I wrote a while back. It occurred to me that I could get a free blog post out of it, so here it is.“You need to get your ducks in a row.” So said my boss as he turned away in dismissal. I left his office, wondering whether I would ever gain his approval. These humiliating visits to “the carpet” happened all too frequently and it seemed that, however I improved, the man was never satisfied. And now I had a problem with ducks, according to him. Maybe this was the secret I had been missing all along. It was ridiculous but his statement was quite clear: I needed to line my ducks up in a row. This was not going to be easy. For a start, I had no ducks. To get ducks in a row, you had to have some ducks. One duck would not suffice, obviously, and two seemed dubious. You could draw any line you wanted between two ducks - an arc, a squiggle, anything. It had to be three at least to make the row undeniable. All I needed now was a few ducks. I visited a duck farm to find out prices and, very quickly, it became clear that I could not afford three full grown ducks. It would have to be day-old ducklings. The farmer explained that day-olds were sold in batches of one hundred. He was very reluctant to sell me fewer than that but we haggled for a while and, eventually, I became the satisfied owner of six fluffy and noisy little ducklings. The farmer presented them in what looked like a pizza box with holes in it. I headed for home. In those days I was still living with my parents and, after some discussion, it was agreed that I could keep the ducks in their basement. I bought a heat lamp to keep them warm, a bale of hay for the floor and some duck food from the pet shop. In what I figured was good practice for lining things up, I fenced off an area of the basement with a wall of boxes and junk. A cake tin filled with water and my duck nursery was complete. My childhood reading of Konrad Lorenz now proved useful. According to the wise Konrad, the ducklings would become “imprinted’ with me as their mother and this proved to be true. They would follow me everywhere in a long line - as long as I kept moving. When I stopped, the group would descend into chaos, with each duckling wandering off on a mission of its own. No matter what I did, I could not stop this annoying tendency towards anarchy. The ducks were growing, too, and it wasn’t long before I had the inconvenience of a line of waddling birds tailing me wherever I went. My mother began to complain about the mess deposited behind me as I moved about the house. It had dawned on me as well that the idea of taking the ducks to work was not a good one. Visions of my ducks milling around me as I stood on the boss’ carpet yet again made that a no brainer. The ducks were returned to the farmer and I had another think. It was on a visit to my grandmother that revelation came to me. Her apartment was typical of a matriarch’s of the era, overdecorated and cluttered but padded and comfortable in its furnishings. As I flopped down into an overstuffed armchair in the living room, epiphany struck. On the wall facing me there flew, in a perfect straight line and decreasing in size from front to rear, three china ducks. I remembered noticing the same arrangement of china ducks in every household of my grandmother’s generation. This, surely, was the object of my boss’ instruction to me: get your ducks in a row just as my grandmother has done. In the excitement of my new understanding, I became quite persuasive and the old lady agreed to lend me the ducks - as long as I returned them undamaged. We found a small cardboard box and filled it with the ducks and some old newspaper. Once more, I headed for home. The next day, the ducks accompanied me into the workplace, together with a hammer and some nails. Arriving early, I was able to hammer the nails into a wall of my office without being interrupted. A few moments more and the ducks were flying in an impeccable line behind my desk. I stood and admired them for a while, then took my seat and awaited the inevitable reactions of approval that must follow. Things did not work out quite like that. After my secretary came in and seemed to be stifling a giggle fit, a stream of visitors dropped in on me. Their reactions varied from smiles and shaking heads to open guffaws. I realised that I had miscalculated somehow. Before I could take down the ducks, however, the boss arrived and stood staring at them. I shrunk down in my chair at the coming storm. When it came, it was not quite what I expected. A wry smile spread across the boss’ face. “I see you’ve taken our little chat to heart,” he said. “You have a sense of humour after all, it seems. I had almost given up hope of you getting the point but the ducks have saved you. Well done, my boy, well done.” It was the turning point in my career. At last I was able to relax and be myself. Everyone took my literalism for humour and I became known as the office wit. I have a lot to thank ducks for. Word Count: 931 |
| American Idols (3) Numero Tres: Microsoft Windows Much of my time in America has been spent just as it was in England: in front of a computer. It was only twenty-five years ago that I began my education into computers and that I was successful in this was entirely due to the invention of the Graphical User Interface (GUI) and the mouse. I had glanced at computers prior to this and always been horrified at the strange code it was necessary to learn before one could even start. The discovery that I could now access the wonders of computing through a visual representation and a pointer was a revelation to me. I was hooked immediately and was soon spending all my time investigating the new world that had opened before me. Now, I know that it was Xerox that invented the GUI, but they did nothing with it. I know, too, that Apple stole the idea and made it usable. But it was Microsoft that stole it yet again, made it usable and then sold the idea to the public. And that is what counted in the end. No matter how many versions he had to go through before he got it right, our friend Bill managed to persuade all of us to use his system. Apple have only their greed and poor organisation to blame for not dominating the market as Microsoft does. This domination of Windows in the computing world affects the way we foreigners see America. Films and television have shown us what the USA looks like and how Americans speak. Now Windows teaches us about how they spell. No longer do we think in terms of programmes and dialogues, prioritise and harbour; nowadays we are getting used to programs and dialogs, we prioritize and find a safe harbor. Windows is also the umm "window" to the internet for the vast majority of us. We see this ever-growing worldwide databank and debate forum through an interface designed by Americans. The language that dominates it is called English but is really American, and it's America that shapes the destiny and direction of the net (no bad thing - imagine if it were North Korea leading the way); and all by courtesy of this thing we call Windows. Love it or hate it, the fact remains - it's Windows that brings the net to the masses and vice versa. I can see the Mac-users and Linux geeks standing and yelling at the back. To the Mac-users I have only this to say: you had your chance and blew it - get over it. And as for the Linux dudes, I can only suggest that they stop proliferating pretty GUIs to compete with Windows and look at the way Microsoft does things. Design a file system that makes sense to the layman, stop using meaningless filenames, copy the way Windows instals programs, stop imagining that networking is the driving force behind everyday computing and you might stand a chance, a very faint chance, of beating Windows in the end. In fact, if you do that I'll swap to Linux tomorrow. But until you geeks get your heads out of the sand and look at the way ordinary people use computers, you will never see Linux dominate as Windows does. I am no great fan of Windows and the way it tries to think for us. But I do appreciate that without it computing would still be the preserve of the programmers and professionals. And I think we should honour it for what it is - America's way to bring computing to the world. We've cursed it and kicked it and bad-mouthed it for years - but let's face it: where would we be without it? Like it or not, Microsoft Windows is an American Icon. Word count: 623 |
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