Simplicity

Why is nothing ever simple? I’m tempted to say that there was a time in all our lives when things were simple relative to today and, in a way, it’s true but in many other ways that seeming simplicity wasn't as simple as we sometimes make out.

For example if your bus was cancelled or any transportation was disrupted you had no way of letting the hospital know you’d be late for your appointment or any of the similar things which were daily occurrences. Indeed I would say that communication is a huge way in which life has become simpler and yet more complex.

Another example is meeting people when you went into town. You had to make prior arrangements and if anything went awry then I, for one, can recall aborted meetings which caused considerable worry and angst at the time. Now if I go into town with someone we do our separate shopping and then say “Phone me when you’re almost done and we’ll decide the best place and time to meet.” Or if I'm meeting at a particular time a call or text message lets each other know what's happening if something goes awry.

We used to book phone calls at Christmas with our relatives in Australia and Canada. They were expensive and short. Telegrams and their international equivalent could be used in extremis but it could still be ages before you knew a relative had died. Now we can chat every day to friends and family anywhere in the world if we want using a myriad of audio visual or 'written' messenger applications.

Ordinary written conversations with relatives and friends abroad took up to 5 weeks between each letter being written and received: sometimes more. A friend at Prep School had a father at sea (he was a Chief Engineer like my son) and he often arrived home 9 months after he’d gone away and, on one occasion, arrived home before the telegram about his impending arrival. I recall that because my friend’s Mother was cross to say the least.

I mentioned at a gathering recently that I write or send at least a dozen snail mail cards and letters a week. Most of the others present neither receive not write missives sent by snail mail at all. Christmas cards on a reduced level seem to be an exception.

Obviously a book could be written on this subject and many probably have been.

Thinking about it it seems to me that the number of things where simplicity in life these days compared with my youth is absolutely colossal. 

What I can't decide is what is good and what is bad and how many things in our general life are so vastly different now.

The Clock

 For a long time my natural instinct has been to use the 24 hour clock.

I was recently given an appointment at the dentist for a rather odd time 1435.  [I erroneously said 1535 in the original post] However the receptionist said to me that the appointment was at "25 minutes to 3.'' Writing it in my diary and so as to keep it on the 12 hour clock I said "Right. That's it in at 2.35".  "No" she responded "It's at 25 to 3". I immediately apologised and was just about to erase it and re-write it when it occurred to me that we were just misunderstanding each other's format for the same time. I laughed and, apologised, and asked if we could agree on 1435. Quick as a flash she responded with a smile "Oh heavens, I don't know. I've never managed to use decimalisation for time!".

That's not all though. 1230 can also be "half 12" as in "I'll meet you at half 12" ie at half (an hour) past midday. 

In fact 'a quarter of an hour' 'half an hour' and 'three quarters of an hour" are still in common usage in the UK at least. 

Five Minutes

Everyone, except the young (which is, I admit, quite a lot of the world's population) knows that as one gets older time speeds up. For all sorts of reasons this has been in my mind a lot recently. 

It's not that long ago that I was celebrating my fiftieth birthday in this house with a partner (no, YP, not a wife) with a settled and potentially 'boring' lifestyle ahead. It all felt pretty good to me. 

Even in my wildest dreams I could not have imagined how my life would alter. 

Next year I shall be 75 (DV, NP).

I was stirring a paella recently. "Stir constantly until the water has been absorbed." I think that's what one is supposed to do. So, to keep myself from total mental shutdown, I decided to think about time.

How long is five minutes?

If you are running to get to the airport gate and you are six minutes away, five minutes go so fast you wouldn't believe it.

If you are running out of time in an exam five minutes is no time at all.

If you are waiting for an egg to boil then it's five minutes.

If you are stirring a paella it's long enough to get bored.

If you are waiting for the train or a bus in a downpour with no shelter it seems like an interminable age.

Of course all that translates, the necessary changes being made, to 5 weeks, months, years, decades and so on.

I'll leave you with the 'modern'* version of 'Time's Paces'

When I was a babe and wept and slept,
Time crept;
When I was a boy and laughed and talked,
Time walked.
Then when the years saw me a man,
Time ran.
But as I older grew,
Time flew.
Soon, as I journey on,
I'll find time gone.
May Christ have saved my soul, by then

Amen

* Guy Pentreath (1902–1985)

The Lost Art of Timekeeping - Part 1

I was pondering the other day on the marvel of the modern bus stop. The bus shelter had a display telling me where the next bus was going and when it would arrive at this stop (ie how long I was going to have to wait - as if I had an option). The possibilities of what information could be imparted and what we could do with it seemed, and indeed are, limitless.

Later on I was thinking how good that would have been in the days when I used buses regularly ie back in the sixties in the city that spawned the Beatles and Lots of Other Good Things

Then I checked myself. When I first started work I used to walk a few hundred yards down the road (nowadays the number would be slightly smaller because metres are longer than yards) to the bus stop. At 0802 (which we used to call 8.02 am or two minutes past eight) the 6d (the bus that went down Dale Street - where I worked - as compared with the 6c which went down Church Street - the beauty of simplicity) would draw up and I would get on. Occasionally it would be full and so everyone could get on and the conductor (some of you may be too young to remember what they were) would say "Don't worry we knew it was going to be busy today because of - insert reason - so there's an extra just behind.".  The point was, though, that the bus timetable said that the bus would be at that stop at 0802 and at that stop at 0802 it was.

It occurred to me that if the money spent on the wonderful systems to tell me when the next bus would be at the stop was spent on ensuring that buses could be at the stop they were supposed to be at when they were supposed to be there then life would be much simpler

Okay I know that a) I'm living in the past and b) life really isn't that simple (and never was) but, hey, it's good to have an inconsequential rant occasionally.   After all at my age I mightn't get too many of them in: I'm getting more and more reasonable the older I get.

Daylight Saving Time

CJ posted an interesting perspective on Daylight Saving Time - DST (which in Britain we call British Summer Time - BST) here.  That and the comments that had been published when I read the post together with the spooky fact that my central heating time clock re-set itself automatically (it was presumably taking its cue from the German radio-controlled clock that I have in the kitchen, made me think.  And, as my friends know, that is some achievement.

Why do we still persist with DST?  Who is 'we'?  I found the answer to the latter question (shown in the map) quite interesting.  I hadn't realised (until I read Meike's (Librarian) comment on CJ's post that Russia with it's 9 time zones didn't observe DST.  China doesn't either but I've never quite understood how China works things out given that it only has one official time even though it covers a massive five geographic time zones.

Why was DST introduced in Europe?  According to Wiki Summer Time was first introduced in some countries during the First World War, then largely abandoned with some exceptions, mostly during the Second World War, until the 1960s and 70s when the energy crisis prompted a wide scale re-introduction. The practice has been fully coordinated across the continent since 1996.

In the UK the arguments seem to revolve around children going to school and road safety.  That's purely a perception on my part  by the way I've done no research on the subject.  In many ways though the energy crisis would still be a relevant factor if it was relevant back in the 70s.

Here on Lewis BST makes relatively little difference because at midsummer we have sunrise around 0300 GMT and sunset around 2130 GMT but it's light(ish) all night anyway.

Anyway then I started thinking about New Zealand where I have heard a lot of discussion over recent years and where there are some wonderfully odd things as a result.

New Zealand time, including DST, is used by several Antarctic bases that are supplied from New Zealand. This results in the oddity that the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station sets its clocks an hour further ahead during the southern summer, when the sun is constantly above the horizon, than in the southern winter, when the sun is constantly below the horizon. The extreme geographic position of the base means that no possible adjustment of the daily activity cycle can have any effect on the amount of sunlight received during those activities. However, the arrangement presumably makes real time communications with New Zealand more practical, particularly in dealing with offices.

The New Zealand dependencies of Cook Islands, Tokelau and Niue do not maintain DST. They are located on the other side of the International Date Line and differ between 22 and 24 hours from New Zealand proper.

Writing

I have had one of those days when I've only ventured outside when I really had to.  The wind has been  cold and almost gale force and, despite the fact that the sun shone for a great deal of the day, the squalls have come through with great speed and ferocity.  So in between doing some spring cleaning and other odds and ends I've been writing.  I suddenly thought about a post I had done last month on A Hebridean in New Zealand.  Except that I'd apparently never actually posted it. 

How long does it take you to write your average blog post?  Or your average email?  Or a letter?  Or, indeed, anything.   Of course there isn't really an answer to that question other than responding by asking 'How long is a piece of string?'.  I've just written a post which has taken nearly two hours but that's not the whole story.  I had to download the photos from my camera and my phone.  I was, sort of, watching the TV News and making dinner too and in true ARADD fashion I managed to do (and not do) a number of other things as well.

I was thinking of the time it's taken because in a recent post, Terminology, on her blog, Katherine quoted, in context, “I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” It would appear that Mark Twain made the comment.   Apparently, however, nothing is ever truly original because Blaise Pascal (French mathematician and physicist 1623 - 1662), in his "Lettres provinciales", letter 16, 1657 said "I have made this letter longer than usual, because I lack the time to make it short (Je n'ai fait celle-ci plus longue parceque je n'ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte)".

The point of all that rambling is that I spent my career making sure that letters, cases, reports, legal documents, the words spoken by politicians (but written by their civil servants) etc were always clear, precise and, hopefully, open only to the interpretation (or in some cases interpretations!) that were desired.

So now that I am supposed to be writing more entertaining prose where, let's face it, no one really cares whether I have crossed the is and dotted the ts (er that doesn't sound quite right correct does it?), I find it very hard to break old habits.

To which post I was referring I have no idea but the principle holds true.  Some people read and write speedily.  Some do not.  I'm one of the slow ones.

Fine When They Work

I have a kitchen clock which is guaranteed to be correct at all time to within one millionth or whatever of the Rugby Time Signal.  It's German technology (it doesn't actually say where it was made!).  It's great when it's working.  British Summer Time adjustments are made automatically.  But every now and again the battery runs out and a new batter has to be inserted.  So for the next x number of hours until the Rugby radio signal is sent (once a day) the clock doesn't work at all.  This week the battery ran out.  The new battery - duly tested - has been put in.  That was Wednesday.  The clock still won't show the correct time.  When I re-insert the battery in the clock it either won't stop just going round and round at a racing car speed or it won't start at all.  Actually it's a bit like some people I know are in the morning.  Sometimes - just sometimes, mind you - I think that this technology lark isn't all it's cracked up to be.  What was wrong with the old clock stuck on the mantlepiece or in the corner (few people have a mantlepiece in the kitchen now) which had to be wound every day, lost exactly 7 minutes between winds and was almost always set at the wrong time anyway?

Right I don't need a clock to tell me that the weather's fabulous - 18 deg is forecast here for today - and I have to finish painting fences. 

I’m Back.

I do choose original titles don’t I?

I arrived back on the Island on Saturday afternoon to be met at the Airport by a long huge hug from Pat.  At the risk of repeating myself (why should I suddenly worry about that?!) I can think of few things more calculated to make me feel alone and lonely than arriving at the airport with no-one to welcome me. 

I am starting this post at 0723 on Tuesday 27 April.  I’ve been up for quite a while after my first good night’s sleep since I set foot on Scottish soil.  Although the *** nightmares (well they were only ponies I suppose) are back.   Sibelius’s First Symphony is pounding out.  There is a vibrant urgency in this symphony combining the last throws of the great Romantic Symphonies with a push into the music of the Twentieth Century (In which, I think, it was written.  Having said that although Sibelius died in, again I think, 1957 he wrote little or nothing of consequence in the last 30 years of his life and I can’t recall how old he was when he died.  I must go and look it all up – sometime.)  Back to the vibrant urgency!   That is how I have felt since I returned.  There is so so much to be done.  there always is, of course, but, whether it’s my imagination or I just have a short memory, I feel more than ever that there is so much to be done and so little time in which to do it.  Which is odd if you think about it.  Perhaps that’s one for A Life in The Day Of. 

Then there are the silly things.  Where do I keep the saucepans? (The same place I’ve kept them for the last 15 years since I built this kitchen!).  Why have the saucepans moved around (Friends have been staying).  In fact so much seems to have moved but, when I think about it, I realise that I moved quite a lot of things last summer and my recollection just hasn’t caught up.  There are the missing things.  Well, not actually, they are things I take for granted in one life and suddenly realise that I’m in the wrong life to find that particular thing. 

By now it’s nearly midday.

I started making a list on Saturday evening.  I was on the second A 4 page by Sunday.  Now I’ve edited the three pages into lists: communicate, indoors, outdoors, plan.  Then there’s the URGENT list.  Then there’s the I can’t cope I’m going to have another coffee/pour a glass of wine response.

I spent much of Monday shopping and sorting things in Town (I even had my eyes tested).  Today I decided I wasn’t leaving the house.  Blogland beckoned.  However, this morning was spent on the phone and ‘sorting’ problems.  After two years I now have online access to my cell phone account!   At one stage I was on the phone to New Zealand when my other phone rang with a call from New Zealand!  I have made three appointments and ordered my prescriptions from the Docs.

Have you ever sat somewhere with a drip?  The water sort!  The roof of the Study is a double skinned polycarbonate lined internally with wood.  Onto the lead flashing was falling a drip of water from the gutter about 2 feet above.  It sounded, like, a hammer each time a drop fell.  Despite the rain I got the ladder out and scaled the dizzy heights up to the gutter.  It was blocked.  Now it isn’t.  Whilst the ladder was out I put up my wireless weather station.  Oh yes.  Things were getting done.  Now for Blogland.

Why does this wireless keyboard and the previous one which it replaced (both being used here with Palin my laptop) keep missing out letters – and failing to register the shift key - whilst my wireless keyboard in New Zealand works perfectly?  I think CJ has the same problem.  Answers on a post card, please, to…. 

Right.  I’m resolved.  I shall now do some blog posts.

By the way.  In case any of this sounded like a complaint please let me assure you that I’ve enjoyed every minute of the last 71 1/2 hours since I arrived back on the Island.

And, by the way, there are still some more posts to come on A Hebridean in New Zealand so please don’t abandon it yet.

A Use of Time

For those of you who have read Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth  this posting may come as no revelation nor surprise.  (I notice that nowadays it's by Frank B. Gilbreth Jr and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey but it weren't when I read it as a lad - sorry that has to be said with a Lancashire accent)   I've not seen the film but I doubt this bit made the celluloid.  

Frank Bunker Gilbreth Sr (July 7, 1868 - June 14, 1924) was an early advocate of scientific management and a pioneer of motion study, but is perhaps best known as the father and central figure of Cheaper by the Dozen.  

Anyway, I digress.  One of the things FBG Sr advocated was not wasing the time spent in the bathroom.  He put things to be learned by the children on the back of the bathroom door.  Many years before I read the book -  in fact when I were a lad - I used to take my Schoolboys Pocket Book to the bathroom with me and read all the interesting goodies it contained.  One of these was the Greek alphabet.  I learned it by rote before I left prep school.  At that stage I had no idea that all these years later it would serve me in such good stead.  "For what?"  you may well ask.  For doing cross-words.

Now didn't you just want to know all that?

A Question of Light and Time

I wake.  I wonder what time it is.  No point lying here.  The time doesn't present itself as a thought.  I open an eye slowly.  As I do so I am blinded by a bright orange light.  I close my eye hurriedly.

This is not what I expected.  I haven't woken from a nightmare or even a dream.  So why the flash of light?  Where am I?  It is silent.  It is warm and cosy.  I'm not in France - the window would be open and I'd hear the noises of the night.  The air's different too.  I remember.  I'm in Glasgow at a friend's.

So why the bright orange light?  I open my right eye very carefully.  It's still there making other visual contact impossible.  This is becoming a game.  I've had lots of very weird and horrible dreams and nightmares recently and often the worst nightmares have occurred when I've 'known' that I was awake.  I know I'm awake now.  But this isn't a dream.  It isn't even a nightmare.  So am I awake?

I open my eye again.  Again the light enters.  The question of time remains unanswered.

I try to re-group my senses.  My watch, I remember, is on the bedside table.  The bedside table is on the other side of the bed to the one I'm facing.  I turn over and gingerly open an eye for a third or fourth time.  I don't want to be temporarily blinded again.  This time the light's gone.  No.  I realise that's not true.  The light is not bright but a soft orange glow.

And now the realisation.  There is a tiny crack between the curtains where I didn't draw them properly  Outside there is a bright orange street light.  Something that could not be further from the reality of anywhere I usually stay.

I lay there wondering how long all this has lasted and why my brain failed to analyse the issue more speedily.  Then I wonder why I'm wondering that.  So I decide to get up and make a cup of tea.

"It's a funny old world, Dad."  as Andy would have said.