Lucky Heather
“Lucky heather?” The voice cuts through the general white noise of mumbled conversations, shop music spillage, and distant street-busking and traffic, slowing my determined lunchtime strolling through the precinct. I glance at the area in which the voice originated; it’s a woman, older than me, shorter than me, and holding more plantlife than me in an outstretched hand. And she’s started to smile, I’m guessing because I’ve paid her some attention. “Lucky heather?” she says again, edging towards me and forcing a couple of other pedestrians to swerve out of her way swiftly and with a barely-concealed look in my direction that says sucker from every angle. I lean towards her and then peer down at the sprig of flora gripped tightly in her small hand. The non-green bits are a pale mauve sort of colour but my knowledge of anything to do with nature is so poor that I can’t be certain that this isn’t dandelions with a lick of paint. Or even just dandelions. Maybe you can get mauve dandelions. I’m trying to clarify just how little I know about the subject. “What is it,” I say slowly, “about this heather that gives it a probabilistic advantage over other heather?” “Lucky heather!” she says with a wink. “Two quid.” “Uh huh,” I continue. “I’m just wondering if you have any peer-reviewed analyses of double-blind trials conducted on the luckiness of this type of heather.” “What?” “Have the findings of any research performed on heather variants to determine whether some have a correlation with statistically relevant improved luck appeared in a peer-reviewed publication?” The happy look has most definitely been replaced by one filled with irritation and confusion and it seems to suit her round face better. I begin to feel sorry for her and consider parting with two whole English pounds, justifying the transaction in my head as being one that might permit me to run a few scientific experiments on the mauve flowers later when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Fortuitous dock leaf?” asks the scruffy, scrawny, bearded man behind me. He waves a rather sad-looking bit of greenery at me. I take a quick, deep breath in preparation to ask him a pertinent question but the newcomer lifts up a glossy magazine. “19% more fortuitous than other leaves in clinical trials in Canada according to Leaf Science Quarterly,” he adds. I’ve heard of Leaf Science Quarterly and know it’s got a good reputation in the field of scientific leaf analysis. Moments later I’ve exchanged two pounds for a dock leaf almost overflowing with fortune but that still leaves the forlorn-looking woman and her...
Star Trek And Mrs Thatcher
Former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher died this week and the world went a little crazy. It’s been a week that’s seen British people partying in the streets because an old woman died of a stroke. It’s been a week that’s seen people who assert that they are rational, skeptical people liken Margaret Thatcher to Robert Mugabe. It’s been a week that’s tested my ability to hold my tongue and walk away in order to keep some semblance of peace and friendship with those who engage in and support the most vile of human actions. And anyone who knows me knows how difficult that has been. Too difficult. I need to vent a smidge. Fortunately, I have my own website for just this purpose. Almost universally, I would say that my friends and peers would describe themselves politically as left wing. I imagine that if any of them had considered it, based on arguments or discussions we’ve had in the past, they might think that I’m right wing. But they’re wrong. This belief that I am right wing might have been reinforced from the way I immediately started attacking those who celebrated the death of Mrs Thatcher. And it’s still wrong. And even though I voted Conservative in the last election it’s still wrong to think I’m right wing. I vote for the best candidate to fix the mess the last one made or to limit future damage; in recent years I’ve voted Labour and Liberal Democrats for the same reasons. Anyone who votes for the same party time after time without realising that the party’s politics are changing time after time is a complete moron. I do believe in very liberal attitudes where it comes to society. And I do think that everyone deserves the chance to be what they want to be and get what they need. It all sounds very socialist; it all sounds left wing. And it is. I want the Star Trek future of peace and no wants. But I realise we’re living in the wrong time for it. The best we can do is push the species forward towards that goal and hope to catch some of it before our molecules break apart and move into new homes. And to do that we need to prosper and innovate and improve the standards of life, lifting everything and everyone up around us. Keep at it and eventually we’ll get over that tipping point where everyone wins. So, how does this differ from those people who sentimentally hold to the fiction that Margaret Thatcher single-handedly destroyed their lives three decades ago or some other such nonsense?...
The Alliteration Assassin
The mirror’s steamed up on account of all the hot, wet bodies sheltering from the rain but the obscured reflection that greets me still looks haggard. I’ve been putting the decision off long enough and it’s not as if the weather’s going to improve any time soon so I down the golden film coating the base of my whiskey glass, pull my still-damp hat from the hook under the bar, and make to leave. There’s a hand gripping the crook of my arm. “You’re not going are you?” I know this guy by sight; a recent transfer to the local police department from some out-of-city place I never bothered to learn. Some kind of big-shot detective, only unlike me he’s the kind that gets a regular paycheck. “Are you buying?” I figure I’ve got nothing to lose by asking. Mister Big-Shot gets Brett’s attention behind the bar straightaway – not a difficult job seeing as this cop is built like one of those new upright refrigerators; bulky, long-faced, distinctive nose – and indicates three whiskeys. He’s either being very generous, needs to drink twice as much to maintain his fluid levels, or he’s got a partner here I haven’t spotted yet. “Let’s take them outside,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “We might be able to hear ourselves speak.” I don’t have much to say but I’m happy to listen if he wants an ear. It’s not that much quieter outside, truth to tell. The rain’s pelting down on the sidewalk and the guttering of the bar’s blocked, sending a waterfall crashing onto an iron chair not quite under the canopy out front. Still, it’s a little cooler and that’s something. The third guy in our group who was waiting outside has the look of a rookie cop and I figure if I get close enough to him he’s probably got that new cop smell too. “Cheers!” I say, nodding appreciation and taking a sip of my gift. It could do with a little water and fortunately there’s plenty of that around so I stick the glass out from under the covers. I wait for an automobile to pass and for the waves in the surface water to hit the kerb. “You’re after my help with something, I take it,” I say, since nobody else seems to want to chat. “Yeah,” says Big-Shot while chewing his lip. “People say you’re quite good at your job and we could do with a fresh look at a case. Any information, insights, ideas. That sort of thing.” I raise the glass against one of the lights outside the bar to...
A Damp Weekend In Dorset
A bit of a spur of the moment thing, but this weekend my wife and I decided to have a short break in the neighbouring county of Dorset. The weekend started on Friday evening. Many do. Straight from work we dropped off work-related stuff, grabbed a bag full of clean clothes and toiletries, and set off westwards down the A27 towards Bournemouth where a hotel was booked. It rained on the journey. Rain, actually, may not be accurate enough to describe what the car had to travel through in its passage from Hampshire to Dorset. Quite frankly, if you’d been a passenger in the car and I’d turned around to comment that I was sorry for having driven into the sea but with luck we’d make it to a distant shore before the seals around the window gave way and heralded our drowning doom you wouldn’t have had cause to disbelieve me. It was wet. The speed was slow, the concentration was high, but eventually we reached the hotel. That evening we had a quick walk around the area near the hotel but it was dark and raining – of course – and we were hungry so after a quick perusal at what was on offer we decided to eat at a place called Cristallo. As we arrived a couple were just leaving and decided to recommend the steak. I followed their advice and it was one of the best peppercorn fillet steaks I’ve had. Nice. Also consumed: garlic bread, tiger prawns, desserts, and a bottle of chianti. Very nice. Friday finished with a couple of stops in two nearby pubs. The first was busy and noisy and… odd. Everything seemed geared for young people but there were precious few of them. We actually constituted some of the younger members and that’s wrong. The second pub, right next door, was a pub that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a sports bar or an Irish bar and so settled on both at the same time. Sitting next to a photo of the Southampton 1990/91 football team encouraged us to drink up fast and vacate the premises. That and the pub calling time at eleven. Eleven. On a Friday. To go with the photo it was like drinking in the nineties too. Saturday! After getting some inspiration from the literature left in our hotel room for tourists we decided to head for Dorchester. There now follows a message to Dorset: Dear Dorset, Please consider relocating some of the revenue from the three point eight million speed cameras in your county towards repairing the potholes in your roads. I mean...
The Art Of The Self Shot
Browse the web long enough – about six minutes should do the job – and you’ll stumble upon a self-photograph taken by a partially-dressed, young girl in a room in her house. Well, you do if you browse the sites I browse. I don’t know why young girls feel the need to strip naked or as near-nude as makes no difference but it’s clear that there’s either peer pressure or herd instinct at play here. As somewhat of a keen photographer I find the pictorial style represented by these undressed girls fascinating on many levels. Do they obey the rule of thirds or do they flaunt it? Are level shots the norm or is a jaunty angle considered de rigeur when snapping oneself in the nip? Actually, none of these questions can be answered as intense investigation has determined that there is only one rule when taking a self shot: include the counterpoint of interest. Self shots need a counterpoint of interest; something which draws the eye from the girl and then to the counterpoint, then back to the girl with a puzzled look on the face, back to the counterpoint, then to the girl in shock. It’s this interactive element that makes the self shot so absorbing and the photographic style such an engrossing art form. In very short order I’ve become something of a expert in the style. Let’s take a look at some examples: A brunette girl with an enigmatic smile stands in a bathroom, framed by towels. It couldn’t be a more normal scene played out in many bathrooms the world over. But then you see the sock. Why is there just one? Where is the other sock? There’s wonderful symbolism of loss here, something we’ve all experienced as we hunt through the tumble dryer and then run a hand around the still-damp inside of the washing machine drum wondering where it is. A wall covering hides a piece of conventional artwork in the background making certain that we’re not distracted from the art filling up the rest of the volume. So we can let our eyes fall on the scene: a girl with blonde hair and white knickers stands serenely in the middle of chaos. This is the eye of the storm and a clear reference to the camera with its picture-taking eye that casually freezes moments of continual motion every day in a way that should seem like magic to us but yet we take for granted. Beautifully-crafted. Another shot of a girl in chaotic surroundings but this is decidedly different. Here we see a short-haired girl trapped by the mess; it’s a...
Lemon Popsicle
In the first days of VHS in our family – we’re talking about the early 1980s – there weren’t very many outlets from which a person could pop along and rent a video for the evening. Filling that particular hole around our area (if you’ll excuse the expression) was a man and his suitcase. I couldn’t tell you what the man’s name was nor could I tell you how it was that he became known to my parents; all I can say is that he would turn up every seven days with his suitcase of videos and as a family we would pore over the titles and select a handful of these marvellous things to hire for the week. I don’t remember many of the films we rented in this way either but one film – or, actually, a series of films – did stick in my memory. Lemon Popsicle was released in 1978; the sequels that I remember were Going Steady and Hot Bubblegum, although it turns out there were many, many more. Even though I knew it was a foreign film back then it’s only now that I’ve researched the series of movies that it turns out these were Hebrew; moreover, this film has something of a cult status, apparently. My memory of the films was that they were 1950s America-based but it transpires they were actually based in Israel. So, what’s the plot? The main protagonist of Lemon Popsicle is called Benji (played by Yftach Katzur); he spends most of the film looking a little broody or moody or baffled or frustrated like this: Or this: Or this: As a typical 1950s-era movie teen Benji, along with his two friends Bobby (the handsome one) and Hughie (the chubby one), is interested in having sex. Unlike his two friends, however, Benji has his eyes set on one particular girl: Niki. His friends are less discerning and none of them are experienced which means that the film progresses through two sexual adventures – one with an immigrant woman who has no qualms about playing around while her sailor boyfriend is at sea; the second with a prostitute – in order that the boys can gain some sexy sex knowledge. Unfortunately for Benji, his handsome friend and the object of his affections also get together, and things get even more serious when she falls pregnant and Bobby isn’t interested in helping out. Benji – our nice hero – comes to her rescue and sells some things to pay for an abortion for Niki. She’s happy, he’s happy, everyone’s happy. Not so fast! The film ends with a party and...
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