The Perorations of Lady Bracknell

Job satisfaction

2009-08-14T17:22:00.003+01:00

Rejoice with me, for I have just learned that the specialist DDA advice I gave some months ago on a personal case has resulted in the abominably-treated member concerned accepting a substantial out of court settlement :-)

I won't regale the details because I wouldn't want to run even the slightest risk of anyone being able to identify the person involved. But I was asked to find a compelling argument that the way in which she was treated constituted discrimination. And it wasn't easy. But I did. Armed with my advice, the local union rep escalated the case to the Employment Tribunal. At which point, evidently, the employer recognised that it had little prospect of success and offered a financial settlement. Crucially, the member has now had confirmation that she wasn't just making a fuss about nothing, and should be able to put the whole ghastly business behind her. Result.

In other good news, my scarabs were delivered today.

Farewell, cruel world!

2009-08-06T17:11:00.004+01:00

Having but lately returned from an appointment with my diabetes nurse at which I discovered that the miserable half hour I spent three weeks ago waiting for blood tests had been largely wasted in that the only test they didn't do was the crucial one which indicates how my diabetes is doing, I hobbled down to the front door to open it for that nice Mr Sainsbury who was bringing me a delivery of heavy groceries.

Prior to actually opening the door, I grabbed the post out of the wire basket behind the letterbox in order to bring it back upstairs with me.

Before I continue with this anecdote, I should perhaps explain that I attended the colposcopy clinic at the Women's Hospital a couple of months ago for one of those regular girly tests which is intended to prevent one from turning into Jade Goody. (Tests which most women endure at their GP's surgery but for which I, being of an unbending frame, need the support of specialist furniture in order to achieve the necessary position. Even with that support, the necessary position is very far from comfortable. And that's before the test starts. Deep joy.) Anyroad up, I'm always informed of the appointment by the hospital direct rather than my GP's surgery acting as a go-between in these matters. Once the whole ghastly experience is over and done with for the next however many years, one tends to push it to the furthest recesses of one's increasingly-unreliable memory.

Back to my post. (Or 'mail', if you are American.) Today's post consisted of a white, A4 envelope, evidently containing quite a lot of paperwork. Assuming it was probably a communication from my trade union, I scanned the envelope for identifying marks whilst expressing my amazement to that nice man from Sainsburys that there were no changes to my order. As he high-tailed it back to his van to start transporting the crates up the path, I saw that the envelope was boldly marked Private & Confidential and that the return address was the Women's Hospital.

I think I probably aged about ten years in the time it took me to get back up the stairs and open the envelope to discover the questionnaire within.

So, assuming this questionnaire contains the standard 'Is there anything else you'd like us to know?' box, I might just mention the fact that, whilst the difference between an envelope containing a questionnaire and one containing a 'Sorry, you have inoperable cancer' letter might be really obvious to anyone who works in the hospital, we are not all blessed with this insider expertise in the finer points of hospital stationery, and they might just like to think about buying a nice rubber stamp with the words, 'Don't panic. This is just a questionnaire', on it.

The Editor

A futile gesture

2009-08-05T18:50:00.003+01:00

Recently, every time I have trudged into Tesco after work, I have been presented with, in addition to my till receipt, a further flimsy piece of paper offering me £3 off the next time I spend £30.

Whilst this is kind of Tesco, and I appreciate the offer, they do appear to be confusing me with someone who can actually lift £30-worth of groceries.

Given that I have all the heavy and/or non-perishable stuff delivered by that nice Mr Sainsbury every so often, my trips to the local Tesco generally involve buying bread, milk and fresh veg. Bread is, I suppose, not inordinately heavy. But add two pints of milk - or whatever the equivalent is in new money - and several days' worth of vegetables, and goods to the value of less than £10 can easily be about as much as my weedy back is happy to carry.

Having given the matter some thought, I accede that Tesco does sell some things which are relatively light in weight. Unfortunately, they tend not to be things for which I would have much, if any, use. £30-worth of cotton wool balls, for example, would last me until the end of time. Ditto boxes of matches. And, whilst £30-worth of loo roll probably isn't impossibly heavy, it takes up so much space that I would have to wrap myself up in it like a mummy in order to carry it home.

So it looks as though I'm going to be unable to redeem my generous £3 discount (£3 - imagine!!). Unless, of course, anyone has any inspired suggestions.

('Learn to drive', by the way, does not constitute an inspired suggestion for the purposes of this blog post. Just so's you know.)

The Editor

Head, desk

2009-07-01T21:44:00.006+01:00

I know, I know, my neglect of Lady Bracknell's once-proud blog is nothing short of shameful....

Mea maxima culpa.

In an attempt to kick start it again, I must share an anecdote from today with my last remaining half a reader.

For my sins, I have been co-opted onto the committee which oversees the provision of parking bays on DDA and H&S grounds at my office. This, of course, is my own fault for having so often and so publicly stated that, were the bays to be allocated entirely fairly, then those who have a genuine right to one would no longer need to run the gauntlet of abuse from colleagues who 'know' that so and so who has bay such and such can run five miles. With one hand tied behind his back.

Leaving aside the issue that many people who are entitled to a bay as a reasonable adjustment do appear quite sprightly to those who expect that they should have at least one leg dropping off, there is no doubt that a proportion of the people who have been allocated bays in the past have had no entitlement to one at all.

My commitment to ensuring that everyone who is entitled to a bay gets one without question, and that nobody who isn't entitled to a bay manages to slip under the radar is, as you would expect, creating a lot of work.

While I was wading through the scant information scribbled on the application forms by those who would quite like free parking five days a week, thank you, I was visited by the very nice young woman who provides clerical support to the committee.

She, it appears, had been tasked by the committee chair with emailing everyone who currently has one of the bays and reminding them that it is crucial that they let her know when they're not going to be attending so that their bay can be used by one of their non-disabled colleagues who would otherwise have to park either the best part of a mile away, or pay a significant parking cost. (Rather unsurprisingly, said non-disabled colleagues have a tendency to get just the teensiest bit hot under the collar when they could have parked close to the building for nothing if only the bloody crips had stuck to their side of the bargain.)

Anyway, amongst the replies to this missive was one from the email account of one of the miscreants. It read something like this.

"I am Miss Creant's line manager. She can't reply to your email at present because she's on leave."

Always good to see people taking their managerial duties seriously....

The Editor

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

2009-05-04T10:33:00.002+01:00

BADD is good and BADD is necessary, but it don't half expose some hoary old chestnuts. I'm pinning this one on Jack, because his was one of the first posts published this year, but I'm quite prepared to believe that others have fallen into exactly the same trap - I just haven't worked my way through to the offending posts yet.

Here's what Jack says:-

“Of course, the social model of disability tells us that they are disabled by society: that while they might have very poor hearing, for example, this would not represent a problem, were it not for the fact society does not generally adapt enough to their needs. The medical model of disability would say that the people are disabled by the fact that they have very poor hearing. My personal belief is that both models are appropriate, depending upon the circumstances: for example, the social model deals most effectively with disability discrimination (and preventing it); the medical model is better used by the medical profession when looking at the condition in question…”

I've tried not to react to this. I really have. But it's been eating away at me since Friday morning, and I can't leave it alone any longer. So, Jack, much as I love you, here goes nuffin'...

Let’s start with the basics. Models of disability are sociological models. In other words, they are models of the position those of us who have impairments hold within society. That is both what they are and all they are. They’re not designed to do anything. With the exception of the social model, they are reflections of existing attitudes. Also, with the exception of the social model, sociologists didn’t sit down and devise them. The medical, tragedy and charity models weren’t called the medical, tragedy or charity models until after the social model was drawn up, at which point terms were needed to define pre-existing responses to disability.

To say that the social model view of very poor hearing is that it wouldn’t represent a problem were it not for the fact that society doesn’t adapt to the needs of people with very poor hearing is, I’m afraid, a misunderstanding of the social model. The social model distinguishes between impairment (the very poor hearing) and disability (society’s failure to adapt to the needs of those with very poor hearing), certainly. What it doesn’t do is to say that having very poor hearing isn’t inherently a problem.

Hearing is probably the worst of all possible choices of example, as it happens, because many Deaf people are firmly of the belief that an inability to hear simply isn’t an inherent impediment to quality of life. So let’s use diabetes instead.

Does my diabetes present a problem? Hell, yes. And lots of them. Would it continue to present problems if society treated those of us with diabetes as true equals, and encouraged us to eat whenever we need to, even if doing so interrupted a meeting/appointment/social event? Absolutely, it would. Diabetes is a constant, tyrannical presence in my life which robs me of what little spontaneity my chronic pain might have left me with. Ignore the demands of my diabetes, and I die. No amount of societal commitment to full disability equality will alter that hard fact.

The social model of disability recognizes both the existence of impairments and the depth and breadth and extent of their impact on the individual. But it doesn’t dwell on that aspect of being a disabled person because that’s not what it was designed to illustrate. Instead, it differentiates between impairment (a lack of, or difference in, function – the stuff that can’t be changed) and the oppressive and exclusive nature of disability (society’s failure to treat people who have impairments as equals – the stuff that can be changed.)

By implication, because it demands equality of participation in society, the social model treats each and every impairment as morally-neutral. (This is comparable to the fight for genuine race equality, in which it is the reaction to differences in skin colour which causes exclusion, not the differences in skin colour themselves.) Morally-neutral or not – and that moral neutrality is a huge step forward in comparison with the belief that having an impairment is punishment for ill behaviour in a previous life – the impairment isn’t going anywhere. And neither are the problems it brings with it. But what we can eliminate – in theory, at least – are all the additional problems created by a society which treats people with impairments as abnormal and lesser beings. In other words, we can’t get rid of impairment, but we can and should eradicate disability. Just as we should eradicate racism, homophobia and sexism.

The phrase “abnormal and lesser beings” brings me neatly back to the medical model. I know I’ve said this before, but the medical model has been perilously-badly named. As it stands, it sounds as though it’s about providing medical care to people with impairments. Nuh-uh. It is nothing of the kind. If we could rename it the “Dear God, you can’t expect me to live next door to that!” model, then people like Jack would be far less likely to conclude that the two models can happily exist together in tandem.

Under the medical model of disability, you “have a disability” if there is something fairly seriously medically “wrong with” you. Having something “wrong with” you diminishes your position in society. It reduces your rights. Under the medical model, there is no obligation on society to adapt the general environment so that it’s accessible to you. Such obligation as there is lies with the medical profession – hence, “medical model”. Their job is to normalise you; to change and improve you until you fit in. Can’t be done in your particular situation? Oh, shame. Well, in that case, you get to be hidden away, either in your own home or in an institution, so that normal people – the ones with rights – aren’t exposed to your hideous deformities and distressing tics.

So, no, actually, I don’t think “the medical model is better used by the medical profession”. In fact, if I believed for even a fraction of a moment that my osteopath, acupuncturist, GP or diabetes nurse regarded me as an aberration who needs to be changed to fit in with normal society, I would be out of that treatment room as fast as my stick could carry me. There is an incalculably-huge difference between providing necessary medical treatment to someone with impairments and believing that, unless and until that treatment can make them look and behave like a normal person, they are inherently inferior.

The irritatingly-pedantic Editor

BADD 2009: The Unbearable Slowness of Being

2009-05-01T06:30:00.002+01:00

BADD has rather sneaked up on me this year. This may be on account of BADD 2008 having only taken place a couple of weeks ago. (If that doesn't make any sense to you, just wait until you're middle-aged.)

I had been intending to be the sort of sensible person who drafted her BADD entry last weekend. But it was sunny and there were flowers to photograph. Well, that and I couldn't think of anything to write about. Which is not to say that there aren't all manner of things which I could write about, you understand.

I could tell you about the poor man who phoned me in tears one morning last week because his managers don't seem to be able to grasp that they have an obligation to make what is actually a very straightforward reasonable adjustment and because his colleagues are making fun of him because he's different.

I could tell you about a diversity awards ceremony I recently attended at which some bumptious idiot introduced his own self-important slot in the proceedings with the words, "Right! I want everyone in the room to stand up!"

I could tell you about the "revised" national parking policy which actively discriminates against a high proportion of an organisation's disabled staff.

But I don't want to tell you about any of those things. Partly because it would be tricky to do so in detail without identifying the victim/culprit/organisation/myself, and partly because, in all honesty, I'm fed up to the back teeth with those particular issues.

How kind, then, of one of the people who works in (or, at least, is paid for attending) my building to have made the effort of dropping ideal BADD-fodder into my lap this week. You're going to love this...

But first, some background:-

I have worked on the fourth floor of a four-floor office building for about ten years. For even longer than that (see how I assume only young people read blogs?), the building's "fire lifts" have been used to evacuate those disabled people whose impairments prevent them from hurtling down the stairs with their non-disabled colleagues during fire drills and genuine emergencies.

But not any more.

The landlords, in their infinite wisdom, have decreed that the "fire lifts" don't meet the necessary specs to be used for this purpose. And, in fact, they never did. So, to spare you the long, tedious rounds of negotiation and counter-argument, let's cut straight to the result: no more being evacuated in the lift.

A colleague and I can make it down all the stairs we need to get down in order to get out of the building if we really have to. But we would both have to go straight home thereafter, and it would take us both a day or two to recuperate. So our Personal Evacuation Plans (PEPs) stipulate that we will only attempt that descent in a genuine emergency.

(I'm relieved to report that there hasn't been one of those since the lift-use was barred: I'm hoping there won't be until after my team has moved down to the first floor. But back to the main story.)

There was a fire drill a few weeks ago. My colleague and I had been informed of the drill in advance, and had confirmed that we wouldn't be taking part, thank you. As had quite a few other slowly crips in various corners of the building.

(And, if you think not going out during a fire drill is a soft option, then you've never sat through nine minutes of deafening, head-exploding, all-encompassing fire alarm.)

A report on how the fire drill went was circulated last week, and made it as far as yrs truly by last Friday. One read of the offending object was sufficient to raise my blood pressure to dangerous levels. I shut the email down carefully until such time as I might have calmed down enough to put together a coherent response.

Wherein did it offend me? Right at the very end. After all the observations about the number of people who were spotted going back to their desks for their coats/handbags/cups of coffee, and those who were discovered, on re-entry, not to have had their building passes with them that day, was this little gem:-

"As the drill did not test the evacuation of people with serious mobility problems, a concern was raised that had these people been included, the evacuation time would have been much longer."

Well, that's me told, then, isn't it? Somebody is labouring under the common delusion that there's a time limit on evacuating the building completely, and what am I doing? Interfering with some jobsworth's ambition to meet this mythical deadline, apparently.

Blimey. How selfish am I?

As punishment for this insupportable determination to scupper the best laid plans of mice and men, I should clearly, at this point, volunteer to stay in the building and burn to death. It would be the least I could do, after causing "a concern". That or get myself all better - because my impairments are probably all in the mind anyway - so that I can scamper downstairs efficiently and help this numpty win his building-emptying Guinness World Record bid.

Seriously, though, in what bizarre, alternate universe is the fact that the safe evacuation of disabled people is going to increase the overall length of time it take to fully evacuate a particular office building something to be concerned about? By whose scheme of logic is this a problem? Who can't sleep at night for worrying that, although there are plans to get "these people" out safely, "these people" still can't move as quickly as "normal people"? Who - and let's stop messing around, here - hasn't actually understood what his employer's H&S responsibilities are as regards emergency evacuations?

I was lucky enough to have a good teacher about this subject way back when I first needed a PEP. He has long since retired, naturally, so can't be wheeled in to beat some sense into The Man With A Concern. But here is what I learned.

The purpose of an emergency evacuation is to get everybody away from danger as quickly as possible. You expedite this by getting everybody who can get out quickly under their own steam out first. In the meantime, those who can't move as quickly are making their way, with their "buddies", towards fire refuges. Fire refuges have a considerably greater level of fire resistance than the more open plan areas of the building.

Each of the slowly crips has a carefully-agreed, detailed plan of where and when they will go next, and under what specific circumstances. That plan incorporates the way in which their status will be communicated to the Incident Control Officer (ICO). My own plan isn't nearly as complicated as some. It doesn't involve teams of Evac Chair handlers, or me moving through various compartments of the building as successive refuges start to become unsafe. It involves me setting off down the (fire-protected) stairs once it's safe for me to do so, and making my way down them at a speed which is manageable for me. Various members of my team are responsible either for staying with me to make sure nothing unforeseen happens, or letting the ICO know I've begun my descent.

This means that, when the first fire engine arrives, and the senior fire officer asks the ICO whether everyone is safe, the ICO can honestly reply that all those who don't need a PEP are already out, and that the location and progress of all the slowly crips is known, and that none of them is in danger. At which point, said senior fire officer will direct his staff to saving the building.

If, on the other hand, the first fire engine arrives, the senior officer asks the ICO whether everyone is safe, and the ICO replies that most people are, but he or she has a vague suspicion that about a dozen slowly crips probably couldn't keep up with the mandatory deadline for getting out, so no-one knows where they are, the fire officer will direct his staff to put on breathing apparatus and sweep the building in search of the people. And, if that means the building burns to the ground, then so be it. Because the Fire Service - unlike, apparently, at least one of my colleagues - values human life more highly than inanimate buildings. Yes, even the life of someone, like me, who can't walk very quickly.

The Enraged Editor

Oh, crap #3

2009-04-26T16:40:00.003+01:00

Another in the occasional series featuring photographs I have taken without realising there were disturbing, additional "extras" until I started to upload them.

This rather odd image of Macca is part of a larger Beatles graffito on, appropriately enough, Penny Lane.

Who knew Heather Mills got a thick-tipped, black marker pen as part of the divorce settlement?

The Editor

Words fail me

2009-04-23T18:25:00.005+01:00

I was in the office yesterday morning, frantically printing off the papers I thought I might need for an imminent meeting, when an email - entitled 'Dyslexia Meeting' - pinged merrily into my inbox.

Now, the problem with bizarre email titles is that they make me curious and distract me from whatever urgent things I am currently doing. (If you're sending an email to my work address, and you want to be sure I read it the moment it arrives, call it something which doesn't make sense. Works every time. Call it something like 'Directorate Team Meeting Minutes', on the other hand, and it could be days before I bother to open it. Possibly weeks.)

So I open the email referring to some apparent 'Dyslexia Meeting' which I know nothing about, only to find that it's an invitation to a meeting with the Official Side (OS) to discuss the new-and-improved (allegedly) draft of their guidance for managers and staff about dyslexia.

The background to this is that, earlier this year, the OS released the first draft of this guidance to the Trade Union Side (TUS) for consultation. Now, I'm used to OS drafts being awash with medical model language, and richly-laced with implications that it must be terribly tragic to be disabled. Most of the time, I can amend the wording to render the document relatively inoffensive.

Not this time, though. Clearly cobbled together from various, dubious Internet sources by someone who has never knowingly met anyone with dyslexia, it was one of the most shocking pieces of medical model tripe I have seen in a very long time. Started off with an explanation of what's wrong with - and I quote - "dyslexics". (It's their brains, apparently. Their brains are wrong. Not different. No mention of difference. Just wrong.) Followed almost immediately by pages of things that "dyslexics" are all "bad at". Then some staggeringly patronising suggestions of things which might "help"; a refusal to fund a dyslexia assessment under anything other than "exceptional circumstances"; a recomendation that anyone who thinks they might be "a dyslexic" visits his or her GP to find out; and a truly scary quiz to complete, the results of which will tell you whether you might be A Dyslexic. "More than 10 boxes ticked, and you could well be tragically disabled!" No scope there for amateur diagnoses of colleagues, then.

So, as chair of the disability advisory committee, I advised my GEC that, quite apart from the fact that it's national union policy to challenge any attempt by employers to produce impairment-specific guidance, this particular draft was so irredeemably appalling that they ought not to accept it unless it was completely recast from a social model perspective.

After a brief hiatus, when the GEC didn't trust my view on this and checked with the union's national disability equality officer, who said exactly the same thing as I had done, the message went back to the OS that the current draft couldn't be agreed and that it would need to be completely rewritten. From a social model perspective.

So far so day-in-the-life-of-a-trade-union-disability-equality-activist.

And then yesterday's email arrived. And, when I realised what it was about, I was immediately irritated by the inappropriateness of its title. And the fact that I had been tricked into opening it by the lack of relevance of that title.

I might have been moderately happy at the prospect of attending such a meeting, had the author of the guidance not made the fatal error of attaching her revised draft of said guidance.

Remember what we asked for? Recasting the whole thing from a social model perspective? Did we get that?

No. What we got is the same document as before but with a couple of additional paragraphs. "As an employer, we are fully committed to the social model of disability", they lie through their collective teeth. "We recognise the barriers people with dyslexia face in the workplace. Barriers such as other people's attitudes towards them. And we're going to eradicate them. No, really, we are."

So now, if I do go to this negotiation meeting, I will have to be physically restrained from grabbing the author by the front of her (probably) frilly blouse and asking her whether she knows what the definition of irony is, before pointing out to her in no uncertain terms that claiming to be committed to addressing the barrier created by people's view of "dyslexics" whilst simultaneously writing screeds about what's "wrong with" them and how many things they are crap at doing might just meet not only the definition of irony, but also the one of rank bloody hypocrisy.

Right. While I stomp off to smash a few priceless antiques in a paroxysm of fury, anyone reading this who has not yet done so is encouraged - and, be honest, would you really want to cross me when I'm in this sort of mood? - to read this post about Blogging Against Disablism Day 2009 and to sign up to participate.

The Editor

A step-by-step guide to living with diabetes

2009-04-08T18:58:00.002+01:00

Wednesday 8am

Take last Rosiglitazone tablet. Make mental note that will need to open new packet tomorrow.

Thursday 8am

New packet of Rosiglitazone tablets not where expected to be. Look in all obvious places. Draw blank.

Thursday 10am

Try to decide whether feeling odd because am anticipating feeling odd, or because am under-medded.

Thursday noon

Am due to collect next cart-load of meds Saturday morning. Ponder whether can manage without Rosiglitazone until then. Reason that it is much smaller than Metformin tablets and probably therefore less important. Fail to recognise either terrifying faultiness of reasoning or fact that is clearly indicative of raised blood sugar levels.

Thursday 2.30 pm

Can no longer pretend am feeling exactly well. Phone pharmacy. Arrange to pick up emergency supply of five tablets first thing in morning.

Friday 9 am

Arrive at pharmacy. To surprise, am able to pick up entire prescription. Am asked whether small, proffered bag contains everything. Point out that take nine separate scripts and that meds therefore usually arrive in large carrier bag. Pharmacist phones GP's surgery. GP's receptionist admits that only first page of script handed to pharmacist's driver earlier in week. Pharmacist confirms with receptionist that am nevertheless permitted to take everything on both pages. Pharmacist fills script. Try to explain that getting meds two days early will still mean dearth of Rosiglitazone at end of four week period but am by now too peculiar to make sense of response.

Stump off to bus stop. Once on bus, search feverishly through carrier bag for Rosiglitazone. Fail to find it. Panic. Envisage own imminent death.

Search carrier bag more slowly. Find Rosiglitazone at very bottom. Take tablet. Think might live after all.

Friday 9.50 am

Amaze friends and colleagues with immense size of four-week drug stash. Wittily declare, "I told you I was ill".

Sunday 8am

Find missing tablets in kitchen sink under washing-up bowl. Berate self mightily. Tell Pop. Am berated mightily by Pop. Hang head in shame.

The Editor

Ill-advised T-shirt slogans #1

2009-03-24T17:19:00.003Z

"I'm not a gynaecologist, but I'm happy to take a look"

Quite apart from the fact that wearing that is absolutely guaranteed to reduce your evidently already-unimpressive pulling powers, you also run the risk that a woman with an evil sense of humour will accost you, and say:

"Look, I know you're not a real gynaecologist, but I simply haven't had time to go the doctor, and I'm really quite dreadfully worried about this unpleasant, green discharge. Would you mind terribly just having a look at it for me?"

(I didn't, as it happens. But possibly only because it didn't occur to me until several days later.)

The Editor

Blindingly obvious

2009-03-21T20:02:00.002Z

When I'm hobbling around town with my camera slung round my neck, I notice things I've never picked up on before. Like the sculptural reliefs on the building on the corner of Hardman Street and Hope Street.

You can still see the holes where the name of this building used to be, but the letters themselves are long gone.

The lack of any obvious identifiying marks doesn't pose an insuperable problem to someone who has recently purchased a copy of Terry Cavanagh's "Public Sculpture of Liverpool", though. Oh, no. This Grade II listed building was designed to house the Liverpool School for the Blind.

Mr Cavanagh reports that, according to Architect and Building News dated 7th of October 1932, the subjects of the sculptural reliefs "relate to the life and work of the school". One of the reliefs depicts hands reading Braille. If that had been the one I saw first, I might at that point have been feeling fairly sanguine about what the school had to offer.

Unfortunately, one glance at the rest of the reliefs leads one to suspect that the main purpose of the school was to provide the tragic blindies of the time with skills they could employ in their praiseworthy quest to avoid being an economic drain on the rest of society.

Blind people could, apparently, knit. (I know: isn't that clever of them? I bet some kindly, sighted person helped them with the colours, though, don't you?)

Evidently - given that two of the reliefs are devoted to this - blindies were also absolutely top-tastic at making brushes. Which, y'know, to me sounds like a fulfilling and intellectually-stimulating full-time job. I mean, who wouldn't want to make brushes for a living, if they had the choice?

And then there's the predictable relief of hands playing a piano, because everyone knows that blind people are all perfectly suited to a life of tuning pianos, what with the absence of sight having blessed them with almost superhuman hearing and everything.

So, if you're a tragic blindy in 1930s Liverpool, you have a choice of careers. You can knit for a living (although presumably only if you are a girl); you can make fabulous brushes; or you can utilise your enhanced sense of hearing to help you tune pianos.

But that's not all! No, they saved the best (and most stereotypical) of all possible crip occupations for pride of place above the front door.

Yes, that relief really does depict basket-weaving.

I came pretty close to backing off the pavement into the path of oncoming traffic in shock when I saw that. The threat of basket-weaving is such a crip in-joke standard these days that it's a bit bloody chilling to realise that, less than 80 years ago, it was so very far from being a joke that it was actually celebrated in architecture. I wonder how many brilliant minds were thrown away on a lifetime of bending willow for no better reason than that their owners couldn't see...?

The Editor

So, where we we?

2009-03-19T19:17:00.003Z

Last weekend, Pop ran one of the annual conferences in which attempts are made to enliven the average crip lumpenproletariat sufficiently for them to stand for union office. Or, possibly, represent another disabled member with something approaching a modicum of expertise in the issues.

(Does this sound exciting yet?)

Unless these events have undergone a massive sea-change since I attended one myself ten years ago - which, coincidentally, is where I first met the illustrious Pop - I should imagine a moderately grim time was had by all. Except, I suppose, by those who think staying in a hotel, and having access to a bar, is inherently desperately exciting. Personally, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

So there Pop is, on Friday evening, occupying the bar in a stalwart manner, on the lookout for any delegates who may need to tell him the story of their lives before bursting into tears and fleeing into the night. Instead of which predictable occurrence, he is handed a beer mat by the barmaid.

Said beer mat bears the hand-scrawled legend,

"I think you're very cute"

followed by a room number and signature.

Now, the conference didn't start until Friday lunchtime, so Friday evening is too soon for Pop - who is not as young as he used to be, bless him - to have put faces to the names of all the delegates. He does, however, recognise the adoring signature as belonging to one of the aformentioned delegates. Retreating in horror, he manages to lock himself securely behind the stout door of his own hotel room without further incident.

He subsequently proceeds to spend the rest of the conference surrounded by a human shield of trustworthy persons and sedulously avoiding corners.

We imagine that the beer mat-writer, having had her advances so cruelly spurned, has spent the remainder of the weekend completely mortified, unable to believe that she did something so humiliating.

But it would appear not.

Today, Pop received the feedback forms from the event.

One of them is decorated with a big heart, his name, and the chilling statement, "You don't know what you missed".

Pop was last seen digging a bunker in his back garden whilst simultaneously changing his name by deed poll and having facial reconstructive surgery.

The Editor

PS Mr Pickard, please send me your address so that I may embark on the lengthy process of getting round to posting your book to you.

Result!

2009-02-07T21:26:00.004Z

Several years ago, it took me many hours of Googling to track down what I considered at the time to be the least aesthetically-offensive med alert bracelet then on offer.

What with me being diabtic*, it's important that any paramedics who should happen to be scraping me up off the street are aware that I may be in a hypo rather than dead drunk. And, whilst I fully accept the sound rationale behind med alert jewellery, I really don't see any justification for the vast majority of it being so ugly. I mean, it's not as though - as with crutches and wheelchairs - you can get it free. I've long assumed that part of the reason for NHS mobility aids being so unremittingly grim is the sound financial principle that, faced with a grey monstrosity, anyone with any financial cushion at all will rush to use it to buy something sleek and gorgeous, thus returning the grey horror to the NHS to be unleashed on the next victim...

But you can't get med alert jewellery on the NHS, so there's no good reason to deliberately design it to be as ghastly as possible. (Trust me: I was in a meeting a couple of weeks ago with someone wearing a bracelet produced by the most well-known UK manufacturer of these aids. A thing of beauty it was most assuredly not.) I know stainless steel enjoyed brief (and inexplicable) favour as a jewellery component in the 1970s, but surely no-one wears it from choice now?

Why this constant assumption that nobody with a life-threatening medical condition and/or serious impairment will give two hoots about their appearance? Med alert jewellery is something which, by its very nature, one has to wear all the time.

If it's round your neck, you can't wear any other necklaces or pendants. (Well, I suppose you could. But I suspect the hideous med alert pendant would very quickly suck all the aesthetic merit out of anything else worn in its immediate vicinity.)

If it's round your wrist, you have to see it. Which, in the case of my own really-not-that-bad silver bracelet results in me thinking many times a day that my right wrist would look a deal better with something much more to my taste fastened round it. (No: not Pop's jaws: the very idea!)

Anyway, I am pleased to report that a solution appears to have presented itself since my last foray into the stainless steel world of med alert jewellery: behold, I give you the med alert watch**! Whilst not the most gorgeously-designed watch you ever did see, it's pretty inoffensive. And, importantly, it would free up my right wrist for lovely things. Also, it would carry a deal more information than just "diabetes" and "penicillin allergy", which are what's engraved on my current bracelet. Result all round, really....

The Editor

*Aunty Jan and self once had the great misfortune to meet a vulgar individual in a pub who insisted on showing off his ever-so-clever med alert solution to us. (Regularly useful in Spain, apparently, where he often fell down drunk and had to be scraped off the floor by paramedics.) He undid his shirt to reveal the legend "I'M A DIABTIC" tattooed across his chest. True story.

** Yes, thank you, I know it's a man's watch. But so is the watch I'm currently wearing. Dainty watches for laydeez look ridiculous on wrists the size of mine. And you have to squint to see the time on them.

For the love of lambananas

2009-02-01T15:40:00.000Z

For reasons no more complicated than the fact that I bought one myself and was then given one for Christmas, I find myself with a supernumerary copy of the GoSuperlambananas book.

Had m'learned friend Dame Honoria not also managed to get herself presented with a copy for Christmas, I would have passed my spare one on to her.

That particular avenue being now closed to me, it has occurred to me instead that I should send my spare copy to whichever of my readers composes the most superlambanana-book-deserving comment on this blog entry.

If, therefore, you love the lambs and either couldn't find, or couldn't afford, a copy of this book of your very own, tell me why I should send my spare copy to you.

Bertie and I will judge all the entries next weekend.

I'm quite willing to, as they say on all the best websites, "ship internationally". My only caveat is that whoever wins will need to bear in mind that, when it comes to wrapping things up ready to take them to the Post Office, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. (Or, to put it another way, wrapping things up hurts like a bar steward.) So there may be a considerable delay between the winner knowing that they have won, and actually receiving the book.

Assuming you can live with that, let battle commence...

The Editor

Winter warmers

2009-01-31T15:59:00.006Z

I have been aware for a while that it is past time I gave a few more Etsy artisans such scant extra publicity as can be gained by virtue of being mentioned on this blog.

The weather outside being currently what can only be described - even by lovers of low temperatures - as frightful, now would seem like an excellent time to recommend some cosy accessories to people who are feeling the chill.

Firstly, therefore, a big shout-out to Kim of Kimonos for her fantastic fingerless gloves. If you sit at a computer keyboard at home during the day - as I do - and leave putting the heating on as late as possible, then these are an absolute godsend. I reckon I can delay putting the heating on by a good couple of hours if I'm wearing these. (In my own case, I just dislike being constantly in a centrally-heated atmosphere. As does my eczema. I'm not just being mean and/or impoverished. But I'm sure these gloves will work equally well for persons who are mean and/or impoverished.)

The gloves come down low on the wrist, covering the all-important pulse-points. They're wonderfully snuggly, and they don't impede keyboard-use at all. They're also ridiculously cheap. So you can buy several pairs in different colours, if you are that way inclined. (I know not everyone is as colour-fixated as I am.)

Being prone to serious (and virtually instantaneous) over-heating, I possess very few garments with collars. I use scarves where other people might use high necklines. I can remove a scarf in seconds, which is more than can be said for the poloneck of a sweater. (Unless I were to use scissors. But that might not do a great deal for the longevity of the garment as a whole...) Plus, you know, that whole double-chin-in-high-necked-sweater look is really not flattering.

Absolute favourite scarf fabric bar none is silk velvet, which is why I was so thrilled to discover Mimi's Madlight1 3 shop. Mimi makes long, lustrous, luxuriant, silk velvet scarves out of fabric she has dyed herself and - oh, my dears - such colours!! Mimi's skill with colour-combining is unparallelled. Dying the velvet herself, she is able to combine the most unlikely colours because they have either complimentary or contrasting degrees of warmth. Indeed, you can tell simply from the way she writes about colours in her listings that she has an innate feel for their constituents and tones. You are never going to find a scarf in black plum and pumpkin anywhere which sells mass-produced items. But, in Mimi's reliable hands, that improbable combination absolutely sings.

Madlight13 is not, admittedly, going to appeal to determined wearers of solely beige, stone, navy and bottle green. But, then, it's beyond me why anyone would want to clothe themselves in the colours of walls and pavements. If, on the other hand, you're a basic-black sort of girl, any of Mimi's scarves will set your outfits off an absolute treat.

I have said in feedback that I would buy every scarf Mimi has listed if I had the money, and I stand by that statement. They are just gorgeous. Go and look. If they are meant to be yours, they will call to you.

Despite my love affair with silk velvet, I do recognise that some winters are so cold that something thicker and more snuggly is required around the naked neck - particularly at bus stops after dark. If you look as risible as I do in a warm, woolly, winter hat, might I interest you in Ella's stoles, collars, shawls and scarflettes? I had the great good fortune to snap up one of these Winter Sky Collars on a day when its price was temporarily lowered quite significantly, and I went to collect it from the mail depot this morning.

Dramatic, much?

The great thing about this particular style is that it protects not only the neck, but also the back of the head, from chill winds. In my own case, that would obviate the need for a hat in even the lowest temperatures and strongest winds Liverpool can throw at me.

If you, on the other hand, look charming in a beanie, but feel the cold round your shoulders, Ella has lovely capelets which would resolve that particular problem. Scrummy combinations of yarns, crocheted using what I can only assume is a gargantuan size of hook, result in seriously-cosy - but very far from stiff - fabrics. I dithered for ages about buying one, and I now wish I'd taken the plunge at least two months earlier!

Needless to say, all three of these ladies are courteous, charming and humorous: no matter how good their products, I never recommend to anybody sellers who are brusque, off-hand, uncommunicative, or in any way unprofessional.

The Editor

IQ Test

2009-01-28T20:02:00.002Z

Picture the scene...

You are a member of the disability advisory committee which I chair.

As an adjustment under the DDA for me, you come to Liverpool for our meetings. (Which I do appreciate, by the way.)

You know that the venue for today's meeting is the Glaxo Neurological Centre on Norton Street.

You have been provided with a map. It shows you which side of Norton Street the Glaxo Neurological Centre is on.

You use the map to find Norton Street.

There are two buildings on the side of the road on which you know the meeting venue is located.

One of them is a coach station.

How long does it take you to deduce that the building which isn't the coach station - and which has "Neuro-centre" on its external signage (although, admittedly, not "Glaxo") - must be the meeting venue?

If anyone wants me, I'll be banging my head repeatedly against the nearest brick wall.

The Editor

Special Offer! This weekend only!

2009-01-23T18:37:00.006Z

I've been asked to do something I've never done before...

It's surprisingly exciting...

Shall I just get on with it?

Yup, thought so.

Readers of this - and no other - blog can get a $2 discount on any single listing in my friend Nicole's Bela Brazilian Designs Etsy shop.

As many of the pieces are already reduced by 50%, that means you can get one of these fabulous red rose rings for only $14.50. (Also available in purple.) (And yellow, apparently. Gosh: that's new!)

Having had one of these self-same rings of my very own for a while, I can confirm that they are really dramatic, and ever so three-dimensional.

(If your sale is the 700th, you can claim one of these rings - in your choice of colour - for free.)

Or, if - unlike me - you have hair of a texture which doesn't immediately reject all grips, pins and clips with huffy disdain (I suspect my hair of being Teflon-coated), you could get this extremely groovy, bright, lime-green, orchid hair pin for a mere $17.50.

Nicole's hair-accessories are the first things I've seen in a very long time which make me regret the fact that anything pinned into my hair just slides out and drops, with no discernible charm, onto my shoulder. (Actually, come to think of it, at my advanced age, there is a dreadful risk that it might drop into my cleavage instead: how classy and sophisticated would that be?)

To get your $2 discount, you can either ask for a revised invoice in the "Notes to Seller" box on your purchase screen, or Nicole will make an immediate refund to your Paypal account. Crucially, don't forget to mention - again in "Notes to Seller" - that you're claiming your Lady Bracknell Discount. Offer ends midnight Sunday, Germany time, which is 11pm UK time.

As will be immediately apparent should you be trawling Nicole's feedback in an idle moment, I am a big fan of her preserved-nature jewellery. I have many orchids; several roses; and even some dinky little, bright pink, hydrangea blossoms. Preserved flowers - and butterflies, come to that - are very light to wear and come in the most fabulous colours. As with all of Nicole's work, you will get a well-made, good quality piece of jewellery with sturdy findings. No tat, I promise. Friendship or no friendship, I wouldn't keep going back for more if I didn't absolutely love what she creates.

Hmm: am now wondering whether I will be eligible for a Lady Bracknell Discount...

The Editor

Oh, crap #2

2009-01-22T20:36:00.000Z

Really, really, not the shot I was going for...

The Editor

First cut is the deepest

2009-01-19T21:15:00.001Z

Paper cut.

On my eyeball.

Not recommended.

The Editor

I didn't get where I am today...

2009-01-15T05:33:00.002Z

It has been brought to Lady Bracknell's attention that the British Broadcasting Corporation, for reasons best known to itself, intends to "revive" - by which it actually means "remake" - that seminal sitcom, The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin.

Lady Bracknell, whose conversation is still regularly peppered with quotations from, and references to, the original, is appalled.

BBC 1 Controller, Jay Hunt, is reported as exclaiming, "It feels as fresh and sharp now as it did all those years ago."

That being the case, it is a mystery to Lady Bracknell why the BBC does not simply re-run the original programmes. As a licence-fee payer, Lady Bracknell is firmly of the opinion that doing so would represent the best use of her money.

Whilst Martin Clunes has always appeared to Lady Bracknell to be a pleasant and inoffensive young man, Leonard Rossiter he most certainly is not. And pray do not speak to her ladyship of the ghastly Wendy Craig.

That being said, the issue of casting is of only minor relevance in comparison to the overriding principle that one cannot, and would be well-advised not to attempt to, improve upon perfection.

What next? The ubiquitous Ant and Dec in a remake of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special from 1975?

God forbid.

Fame at last

2009-01-07T19:07:00.001Z

That's my moorhen, that is!

The Editor

Oh, crap!

2009-01-02T16:06:00.003Z

Picture, if you will, my horror upon realising, when I was uploading today's crop of photographs, that I had captured the tamest of all the park's grey squirrels being quite exceptionally cute right in front a revolting pile of dog poo.

This - which will not be going on Flickr - is the least offensive of the three culprits. And I have left it un-cropped for your partial protection. Even so, I don't recommend scrutinising it too carefully...

The Editor

Chanticleer

2009-01-01T18:40:00.002Z

Although Lady Bracknell has spent some time of late doubting the evidence of her own ears, she is now absolutely convinced that some person residing locally has invested in a cockerel.

Whilst this might not be a purchase which would expose the buyer to comment were it to have taken place in the depths of the countryside, Bracknell Towers - as regular readers will be aware - is situated, as is only fitting for an aristocrat of Lady Bracknell's social standing, in the city. It is, admittedly, adjacent to a large park, but Lady Bracknell has seen no signs of any tillage of the earth, or other reliable indicators of agricultural activity, during her stately perambulations through its pleasant acres.

Whilst the crowing of a cockerel has considerable charm at something after eight of the clock on a winter's morning, Lady Bracknell suspects the creature's popularity is likely to wane somewhat should it continue to greet the dawn with such audible enthusiasm in the early months of the coming summer.

It being the first of January, Lady Bracknell will avail herself of the opportunity to wish health and happiness - as long as neither is gained at the expense of other persons - to those loyal readers who continue to peruse these humble pages on a regular basis.

Big Brother is watching you...

2008-12-30T17:00:00.003Z

Well, it's Big Sister, really, in this particular instance. But the principle remains the same: always be careful, because you never know when you might be being observed...

I got a phone call in the office yesterday. From one of my colleagues. Who, as it happens, is on leave this week. But who had a burning question which clearly couldn't wait until we see one another again.

"What were you taking pictures of when you were leaning over the wall of the TA barracks yesterday morning?", she asked.

Fortunately, there is an innocent answer to that question. And one which doesn't involve muscular young men in combat fatigues.

I was taking photographs of ice.

The previous morning, the sun had got just warm enough to melt some of the frost off the iron railings which are on top of the wall. This fell into tiny drops and made weeny little puddles which landed on nice, soft, cushiony moss, so stayed intact. By Sunday morning, they had frozen solid. They'll be frosted over themselves by now, but here's what they looked like on Sunday.

And that is why I was teetering on my tiptoes and giving every appearance of being fascinated by the barracks.

The Editor

(By the way, who knew moss could do impressions of the Millenium Dome, eh?)

More tea, vicar?

2008-12-23T18:31:00.003Z

So, here's the thing.

I hear on the morning news that Whittard's of Chelsea (hereinafter referred to simply as "Whittard's") is at risk of being the next major high street retailer to founder in what nobody is ever going to persuade me to call "the credit crunch". (Oh, how I hate that sort of sound bite journalism! A crunch is either something you put in a bowl for your breakfast, or something rather unpleasant you inflict on your abdominal muscles. But I digress...)

Having patronised Whittard's china section for many a long year, I am concerned to hear that it may not be available for me to peruse for very much longer.

I have only, to the best of my recollection, broken one plate ever. In my entire life. (Although plates of mine have been, on occasion, broken by visiting males of the species.) Nevertheless, despite the care I take of my crockery, the rules of my life are such that, should my preferred source of crockery dry up, my entire existing stock will immediately fall prey to some sort of terrible, plate-smashing cataclysm. After which I will be forced - horror of horrors - to replace it with things which match!!

So I determine at once that I will head Whittard's-wards after work.

I want to do my bit to add to their takings for the day, so that the business looks as attractive as it possibly can to any potential buyers.

And that's what I do.

I buy some plates, and some dishes, and a mug which appears to have a cartoon picture of Bertie on it. And then I have to get a taxi home because I daren't carry such fragile - not to mention heavy - items home on a two-days-before-Christmas bus on which the passengers are crammed together in a manner which even sardines would eschew as being downright invasive of their personal space.

And then, once I'm home, I read this.

And discover that my loyalty wasn't needed after all.

But, hey: at least I have some plates, and some dishes, and a mug which appears to have a cartoon picture of Bertie on it.

The Editor

Once in royal David's city...

2008-12-20T20:06:00.006Z

Those inventive people at Utility (you remember: the company from whom Dame Honoria purchased her very own superlambanana keyring) have outdone themselves this Christmas in combining a traditional window-dressing theme with something far more idiosyncratic.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the superlambananativity scene!

It is entirely ridiculous, but hugely endearing.

The large, (not cheap!), garden-ready, superlambanana models have been decked out as kings, shepherds, Mary and Joseph. There are crowns. There are tea towels. There are even little rope circles to keep the tea towels in place. (The superlambanana skull is entirely the wrong shape to accommodate the standard tea-towel-held-on-by-rope-circle shepherd's outfit: however; given that the whole shebang is inherently so absolutely daft, the teetering tea towels merely add to the charm.)

And there is a weeny, pink superlambababyjesus right in the middle, tucked into a little basket. Sorry, manger.

Having seen this display on Tuesday afternoon when, for once, the only camera I had about my person was the one which is integral to my mobile phone, I determined to return this morning, and to do so sufficiently early for the pavements to be relatively empty. Of course, the downside of that sort of timing is the reflection of the Biffa waste truck in the shop window...

(I did, though, inadvertently manage to capture for posterity the hanging display of superlambanana keyrings.)

Good people of Utility, Lady Bracknell's editor salutes your inventiveness and your creativity! Long may you continue to delight us with your talent for window-dressing, and to stock our beloved superlambanana-related souvenir products!

The Editor

Songs from the musicals #1

2008-12-15T21:08:00.002Z

Fiddler on the Roof:-

Sunrise,

Sunset.

Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?

2008-12-13T20:14:00.004Z

Look who I found lurking in an alcove in St George's Hall this afternoon!

It's one of Santa's reindeer!

(Is the plural of "reindeer", "reindeer" or "reindeers"? The plural of "deer" is "deer": does the addition of "rein" make a difference? Would it make a difference if there were reinsheep? Or reingrouse? And what were reindeer/s called before they were sufficiently domesticated to be persuaded to wear reins and pull sledges?)

Oh, ok: it's clearly not one of Santa's reindeer/s, is it? It's an extremely thinly-disguised superlambanana. But, hey - you'll never hear me complaining about the arrival of a new and/or improved superlambanana. No, not even one as ludicrous as this.

I can't find any hard evidence to back up my suspicions, but I think this may be Our George after a nice rub down with several grades of sandpaper and a generous coat of some sort of high-shine sealant. Our George's perch was, after all, on St George's Plateau. So he's a local boy. And he was in such a mess by the end of the run that I suspect he wouldn't have fetched a very high asking price.

All of which leads me on to the exciting (for some of us) news that the long-awaited superlambanana book is finally available. Although, given that the cover price is £8, I'm really not sure how Cities500 can justify charging £13.20 to post it second class to a UK address... If you're willing to wait until they have it in stock, Amazon would be a much cheaper option.

The Editor

The wonder of

2008-12-12T21:29:00.003Z

Lady Bracknell wishes it to be known that her enthusiasm for reducing her household expenses is not so indiscriminate as to enable her, in all conscience, to look a Woolworth's employee in the eye whilst availing herself of tins of biscuits which have been dramatically reduced in price.

Indeed, she finds it astonishing that so few seasoned bargain-hunters appear to share her scruples in this matter.

Man of Mystery

2008-12-08T19:45:00.003Z

There is a statue of a one-legged swimmer - or, possibly, diver - outside Southport's ironically-named "Funland".

I took this photograph of him.

I thought it would be easy to find out his identity.

I was wrong.

I have exhausted every combination of search terms I can think of, but Google is giving me nothing. (Apart from telling me that there is a bronze statue of Queen Victoria and one of Red Rum in Southport. But I knew that.)

If you know - or can find out - who he is, please put me out of my misery and tell me.

(Actually, that should probably read, "Please put me out of my misery by telling me". It would be a bit bloody mean not to tell me until after you'd put me out of my misery. Particularly if you had taunted me with the fact that you knew beforehand...)

The Editor

Bit chilly

2008-12-07T20:14:00.001Z

Um, I wouldn't say it's cold, or anything....

Impulse buy

2008-11-29T19:02:00.003Z

I went to Southport yesterday.

Purely, you understand, for the purpose of taking photographs. With no intention whatsoever of even going inside any shops.

Imagine, then, my horror at finding myself inexorably drawn inside the tiny Osiris Antiques shop, the owners of which had cunningly displayed an irresistible collection of period jewellery in its windows.

It is fortunate that yesterday was pay day, because I was forced to buy this:-

It is both a pendant and a brooch (it even has the original safety chain intact); it is in excellent condition; it is a full 2" in diameter; and it is hallmarked Birmingham, 1923.

I have been purchasing from Neile and Nicole for long enough to recognise the flash of butterfly wing when I see it, but I've never before seen a period piece incorporating it at anything like this size.

Although - with the possible exception of the reflection of the tree in the top right-hand quadrant - I'm rather pleased with this photograph, I must say that the wing is less blue - and more of a lavender colour - in real life. I am hoping one of the aforementioned ladies will be able to identify the species of morpho for me, although I do appreciate that, given the age of the piece, it's possible that particular species no longer exists.

(And, yes, I do realise that any butterfly used in a piece of this age is unlikely to have led a full and happy life, but will have instead been snatched untimely from the forest canopy. But I really don't consider purchasing this piece more than eighty years after said butterfly was ruthlessly hunted down with a big net to constitute tacit approval of the way materials were sourced in those days. It's not as though my money will go to the perpetrator.)

The Editor

Such a perfect day

2008-11-26T09:57:00.004Z

Readers who have followed this blog since its inception can not help but have noticed that the regularity of posting has tailed off significantly of recent months. But that the content of the Flickr link in the sidebar now changes quite regularly.

It's the acupuncture, you know. I am very considerably more mobile now than I have been for at least the last four years. And, with increased mobility, comes the responsibility to consolidate that improvement by undertaking judicious levels of exercise.

(NB, as I have alluded to previously, whilst I can now walk what, for me, are very considerable distances, my pain levels have not altered significantly. I don't feel that I am at imminent risk of what the medics call "an acute episode", but walking is by no means pain-free, and bending of any kind still hurts like a bar steward, and carries great risk. I would rather people didn't leap to the conclusion to which my father leapt with frightening alacrity, i.e. that I am "better". I am not. Nor do I believe I ever will be. But I can get out and about a lot more.)

Not only must I walk for my own physical benefit, but I am now able to look around me while walking. This is both a great novelty and a great pleasure. For years, walking has taken every available spoon - and then some - and has required titanic levels of concentration. Now, as long as the pavements are nice and level, and not crowded, I can almost break into a casual stroll...

However, I have long harboured a completely-irrational belief that passers-by know when one is walking just for the sake of walking. And that they mock one for so doing. Absent the excellent excuse for random walking provided by a dog, walking with intent to photograph one's surroundings seems to me to be an excellent cover for the less-interesting walking-to-increase-one's-capacity-to-walk. Of course, it's entirely possible that passers-by who would not otherwise have paid me the slightest heed now regard me with amused curiosity for taking photographs of things they consider to have no visual merit. But I am too engrossed in what I am doing to care.

To my astonishment, I am now taking an interest in weather forecasts. For longer than I can remember, I only left the house when I had no option but to leave the house. On those occasions, I could tell what the weather was like by the simple expedient of looking out of the window. Now, I want to plan my perambulations according to the quality of the light, and I hate to miss the opportunity of pottering about, camera in hand, on a clear, bright day.

Yesterday being forecast - correctly, as it turned out - to be just such a day, I planned to pay my second visit to Another Place on Crosby beach. The first time I went, I went when the tide was coming in. Quite apart from the fact that it is really quite depressing watching the figures being drowned, the incoming tide makes photography tricky and, indeed, quite dangerous for someone who could not, even in her wildest dreams, leap to safety should she get cut off.

But the tides were such yesterday that I was able to watch the figures gradually emerge from the frothing waves: a much more cheering prospect. Although it was cold - even I was reduced to putting a fleecy hat on eventually - it was also quite incredibly beautiful, with clear views across to New Brighton, and the Welsh mountains beyond.

Having gained in stamina since my last visit, I was able to stay longer, and to mind less that, on a beach, there is nothing against which one can lean casually when one's back and legs are complaining. I even went so far as to buy a portion of chips, and eat them on the prom. The local starlings are evidently accustomed to the presence of chips, and hopped at my feet, cheeping piteously. In fact, one or two took turns hovering in mid-air on a level with the tray of chips and would almost certainly have stolen one had I not waved them away with my tiny, two-pronged wooden fork. I would dearly have liked to have caught this on camera but, of course, if I had put my chips down even for a moment, I would never have seen them again. And I regretted having left the last few to the starlings once I had had to chase the polystyrene tray along the prom a couple of times...

The best of the photographs I took are on Flickr. I should say, though, that not even the most professional photographs - amongst which I do not count my own - can even begin to convey what the installation is really like. Maybe because it's too big. Maybe because the movement of the sea is such an important part of it. I don't know. I do know that you shouldn't miss the opportunity of seeing it for yourself if you are ever in the area. Just wrap up warm if you are in any way nesh.

The Editor

Mnemonic

2008-11-23T19:21:00.002Z

I thought this was one of those things that everybody knows. But the Dude didn't. So it may not be quite so well-rooted in the British subconscious as I had assumed...

In the picture above, there are three mallards, a pigeon, a coot and a moorhen.

How do you remember which of the little, black water birds is a moorhen and which one is a coot?

Easy.

No-one is ever described as being as bald as a moorhen.

The coot is on the right.

The Editor

Winter woolly

2008-11-15T05:49:00.001Z

In preparation for the long, cold months of winter ahead, Bertie has been growing lots of extra fur...

"Oh, my friends, be warned by me"*

2008-11-04T19:52:00.002Z

We had a hard frost on Friday night, which led on to an icy-cold, but quite brilliantly-blue, day on Saturday.

Having woken up at half past five, I waited impatiently for it to be light enough for me to venture out with my camera.

At a little after eight, I caught a bus down to the river. I had heard on the news that the Pier Head had reopened earlier in the week, and I wanted to have a mooch around and see what was there.

For almost two hours, I pottered about. I took photographs of buildings and statues and friezes and war memorials and even lamp posts. The air was clear and the sky was a divine shade of blue.

The moment I got home, I attached my camera to my computer and did the things one needs to do in order to upload one's photographs.

And then the Kodak software crashed.

And I lost them.

All of them.

All one hundred and some of them.

And I wept with fury at my own stupidity.

Never, ever again will I blithely put a check in the box next to the "Remove pictures from original device?" question. I will delete them manually only once I am absolutely certain that they have been successfully transferred to my computer.

My hardly-childish-at-all decision never to take any photographs ever again lasted, you will be impressed to hear, until yesterday morning. Unfortunately, yesterday also saw the last of the beautiful blue skies for the moment...

The Editor

* Belloc

An apology to Pop

2008-11-01T17:32:00.002Z

When I got home from work yesterday evening and told you that I had spent the afternoon in a three-way videocon, I didn't mean that I had had myself filmed having sex with two other people.

I meant that I had been in a videoconference with colleagues from London and Belfast simultaneously, and there was a split screen, and that made it really quite exciting (for about the first thirty seconds).

I know you're disappointed. Sorry.

I'll try very hard to think of something equally alluring - but non-pornographic - to get you for Christmas.

The Editor

I'm so excited. And I just can't hide it.

2008-10-25T16:44:00.005+01:00

You know, being in the loo at the acupuncture clinic when That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill wants to use it is all very well, but it pales into complete insignificance in comparison with meeting an artist one genuinely admires. Particularly when that meeting was completely unexpected.

Long term readers of these occasionally-entertaining ramblings will recall Lady Bracknell's great pleasure at learning that Willard Wigan had received an MBE. Not to mention the Ouch blog entry I had written slightly earlier in an attempt to alert the wider crip community to Willard's genius. (In looking at that again, I recall that the title I gave it was replaced with one of his Damonship's choosing. Not that I'm resentful about that in any way, you understand.)

Well, I was alerted by Chris Osteopath during his manipulations of me on Tuesday afternoon to the fact that the Willard Wigan exhibition at the Hard Day's Night gallery had been extended until the end of his month. (I had missed it earlier because I was not at that point fit enough to fight my way through the crowds of pedestrians.)

I fancied nothing more than a little snooze this afternoon, but Pop wisely insisted that I ought to go out instead. (Please don't assume Pop is prescient - I'd never hear the end of it if he got the idea of that sort of talent into his head. Indeed, when I asked him yesterday why he feels the need to wind me up quite so much, he explained that it is because I am clockwork: I have to be wound up if I am not to run down completely.)

So, off I headed to the bus stop. Once in town, I threaded my way carefully through the mass of pedestrians thronging Liverpool One in a not-looking-where-they-were-going sort of way, and emerged at the other side, slightly dishevelled, but not really any the worse for wear. From there, it was but a short hobble to the gallery. As I paid for my ticket to the exhibit, the nice young woman who took my money explained that Willard just happened to be visiting to spruce up a couple of the exhibits, and was answering questions upstairs.

Hurtling up flights of stairs is not generally one of my strongest suits, but I made a creditable stab at it. And, lo! There he was. Willard Wigan. Crip royalty. In the flesh. Handsome, charming, impeccably-dressed, and absolutely delightful. So delightful, in fact, that he was happy to be photographed next to one of his sculptures.

(No, he doesn't sculpt plexi-domes. That would be silly. He sculpts pieces which are so incredibly tiny that many are actually invisible to the naked eye. Hence the dome and the microscope eye-piece. His work is astonishing.)

I am largely unmoved by the modern cult of celebrity. But I consider it a genuine honour and a privilege to have shaken Willard Wigan's hand, and to have had the opportunity to tell him how much I admire his work.

When I got home and attempted to convey my excitement to Pop, he was quite grumpy. I can't imagine why...

The Editor

Bizarre, tangential links to very minor celebrities #1

2008-10-23T18:39:00.004+01:00

Dr Hazel, my acupuncturist, has confirmed that she does treat That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill.

This means that it was That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill who apologised to me for having rattled the toilet door when I was in there a few weeks ago.

In other news, nothing sharpens the mind like the realisation that it was only one's inherent slowness of gait which saved one from being mown down on the Pelican Crossing by the boy racer to whom red lights are apparently just a sign to speed up.

The Editor

Note to committee member

2008-10-22T17:53:00.003+01:00

Yes, thank you: you are the sixth person to bring this to my attention.

I am aware that it is completely unacceptable. And that something needs to be done, and done urgently, to prevent its ever coming to fruition.

But, when I tell you that I am working on it right now, that means I am working on it right now.

Phoning me three times while I am working on it - and offering to give me your private email address in case I haven't finished it before you go home - is not helping.

The Editor

Twa Corbies*

2008-10-18T20:12:00.006+01:00

Readers with exceptionally long and accurate memories may recall me mentioning more than twelve months ago that I have long wished to explore the cemetery on Smithdown Road. (I now know that its official name is the Toxteth Park cemetery.)

Now that I am (relatively) as fit as a flea - i.e. all the acupuncture I have had has got me back to approximately where I was four years ago: a point, I should add, at which I thought I was as impaired as it was tolerable to be - I decided to take advantage of the good weather this morning and finally make good on my promise to myself.

It is rather unfortunate that I didn't see the sign which said no photographs were to be taken without permission until after I had taken more than fifty photographs. Having said that, I did encounter various members of groundskeeping staff, none of whom seemed to be remotely perturbed by the sight of my camera. And I did take great care to avoid taking pictures of any of the modern graves, particularly those which are still well-tended.

A selection of the photographs I took is in my Flickr stream, which you can access via the rather flashy gadget to the left of the page. (If you hadn't already noticed that it had recently started to flash up photographs of things other than superlambananas, you may now understand why I haven't been keeping up with my blog very well of late. I may be fit as a flea, but I don't have enough spoons to wander about, camera in hand, and blog.) But I digress.

So, anyway, I've decided there's a lot to be said for cremation. Because, apparently, if you choose burial, and your nearest and dearest cobble together the money for a fine headstone for your grave, that headstone will eventually fall over and become a birdbath for some pretty sinister-looking carrion crows. Which is probably not what you or your grieving family had in mind, really...

* It's a Scottish song.

The Editor

Just saying...

2008-10-17T20:15:00.002+01:00

Occasionally, it would be very nice to get on a bus which only has two other passengers and find that at least one of them has had the consideration not to sit in one of the two seats which are supposed to be left free for disabled passengers.

The Editor

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness...

2008-09-30T15:41:00.002+01:00

I am given to understand that it is now autumn.

This understanding is not based on my careful observation of the colours of the leaves, or the shortening of the days, but on the resident felines' previously unwonted commitment to snuggling up on me at night.

I have had cats all my life. I am wise to their ways. It takes more than some pretty purring to convince me that I am being snuggled up to because they love me. It is my firm belief that I am being snuggled up to because I am warm. That I am, in point of fact, being shamelessly exploited as the world's largest hot water bottle!

I am also prone to being shamelessly exploited as The Brunt Of All Blame. And not just by Pop.

Bertie wandered into my bedroom at 5.15 this morning, shouting his displeasure at being soaking wet. To prove just how wet he was, he rubbed his flank against my bare leg. He was right: he was wet. He then proceeded to leave muddy paw prints on my duvet, before settling down to dry off in a particularly absorbent area.

Now, given that

to the best of my knowledge, no-one actually held a gun to his head and forced him out through the cat flap; and
he has a perfectly good litter tray indoors for lavatorial emergencies

I believe I have some justification for feeling aggrieved that he couldn't just have been damp quietly on his own for another hour or so. Particularly given that he had already woken me up in the middle of the night when he decided that it was his turn for the human hot water bottle, and that he would need to beat Caspar up in order to get the best and warmest spot.

The Editor

If it's not superlambananas, it must be...

2008-09-27T15:26:00.002+01:00

... jewellery.

Apologies to the Dude for the sustained lack of anything he can get his critical teeth into, but there a few items of jewellery-related news which I feel it incumbent on me to pass on.

Firstly, my great friend Nicole has opened a new Etsy shop Beijo Flor. In recognition of the fact that most people are currently feeling the pinch financially, she's produced some simpler pieces at extremely reasonable prices. Prices which are made even more reasonable by the fact that you can buy anything at 10% off the listed price in her grand opening sale. Everything in the shop is very recognisably Nicole - no-one else combines stones and colours in quite the same way.

Secondly, Veronica is holding one of her periodic 50%-off-everything-in-the-store sales - always a good opportunity to get hold of something classy for less than you might expect. Now that Veronica is offering lots of gemstone rings, the sale allows you to get one made to fit your ring size* for well under a tenner - and the shipping is free!

(* Here's how to work out your ring size in foreign.)

Thirdly, I found out yesterday that it's possible to buy a book of photographs of the lovely Bek's amazing jewellery designs. Be Clever...The Art of Bek Caruso can be ordered from Blurb.com. I've checked, and they ship internationally. The book is in a chunky 7" x 7" format - so nice in the hands - and is on my list of things-to-buy-when-I'm-slightly-less-impoverished.

Ok, that's it, My need to spread the word is (temporarily) assuaged. On with the motley!

The Editor

Can you feel the love tonight?

2008-09-20T18:10:00.002+01:00

Any remaining readers of this blog who have not yet succumbed to the prevalent fashion for Superlambanana Ennui may be thrilled to discover that the Liverpool Echo - in conjuction with Bruntwood - is running a "SuperLOVEbanana" competition.

The prize for the winning entry is a 4 foot high superlambanana model, with two runners-up prizes of a mini lambanana.

To be in with a chance of adorning your own home with a superlambanana, you need to submit your 250-word entry by the closing date of October 3rd. It can be a poem, a song, a story, or a memory.

(I have visions of nascent poets all across Liverpool desperately trying to come up with words that rhyme with superlambanana. Pop and I devised a deeply unpleasant limerick between us. Fortunately, I failed to commit it to memory.)

In no way is this blog entry merely an excuse for me to publish this photograph of a mini lambanana which I took using my mobile phone on the way into work one day last week, and had completely forgotten about until this afternoon.

The Editor

Pedestrians who have absolutely no concept of how much space they occupy, #1

2008-09-17T21:09:00.003+01:00

Little girls with pigtails and Barbie umbrellas.

Window shopping

2008-09-16T17:19:00.002+01:00

After a long day spent largely despairing at the actions of colleagues several hundred miles away - particularly the one who tried to get me to disagree with a ruling made by a member of my own team - I'm having a gentle potter through Etsy's malachite listings with a view to possible Christmas gifts for Mater.

Mater loves malachite.

I doubt she'd thank me for this, though.

The Editor

Come by

2008-09-13T16:30:00.004+01:00

If have you have been breathing a (fairly sustained) sigh of relief about the fact that Superlambanana Shooting Season is over for the year, and have assumed that I shall be getting back to being snippy about poor access, then look away now.

Because there are still a couple of loose ends left to tie up.

Firstly, there's the auction which took place on Tuesday evening at St George's Hall, at which over half a million pounds was raised, £400,000 of which will go to Merseyside charities. You can read about what happened here. The auction catalogue itself is also available online - it's a bright, glossy publication which, if you have any interest in the beasties at all, is worth a look.

More exciting than the auction - at least, for those of us with neither the finances to bid for a superlambanana nor, frankly, homes with sufficient space in which to display one - was the fact the majority of the auction subjects were herded onto St George's Plateau and put on public display on Monday afternoon and all day Tuesday. The fact that more than 40,000 people went to wander through them should give you some indication of just how well-loved they are in the city.

It was raining when I arrived at 9.15 on Tuesday morning. I doubt this will surprise you. As one of my colleagues pointed out earlier this week, my strongest memories of attendance at Capital of Culture year events will probably be of getting wet.

I was glad I went. Not just because Superstegbanana and Tiger in the Woods were there (click on the link to my Flickr stream in the sidebar if you want to see them), but because the lambs looked fab gathered together. (Plus, they had all been spiffed up for the occasion, so they were at their sparkling best.) Even first thing in the morning, the exhibition was busy. One of my colleagues walked up to Lime Street from the office that lunchtime and regaled me by email with his horror stories of having barely been able to see the sculptures for the swarms of people which had descended on them. Grim.

Another 34 of the considered-to-be-slightly-less-desirable superlambananas will be put up for Internet auction from Tuesday the 16th. Details here.

What remains of the flock of 125 are those which were designed by local schools, churches, community groups, etc. After a wash and brush up, those have been returned to the groups who created them, and are to be seen dotted here and there around the outskirts of the city.

If you have been paying particularly close attention, you'll be aware that I started the third paragraph in this meandering blog entry with the word, "firstly". Which rather presupposes that there will be a "secondly". But what can it be? Surely to God the whole thing is now over, right? Er, wrong.

Secondly, the long-awaited and much-delayed Urbananasplash has finally been unveiled at the Matchworks in Speke. (And not, perhaps, during the best of all possible weeks for Urbansplash themselves.) The original trail map promised that Urbananasplash would be installed "early July". Two months later, we were expecting something really special. Did we get it? Well, it's, um, big. Really very big. And it's a permanent installation.

The local free rag is disappointingly silent on the question of whether it's going to be used as a topiary armature, which is what it resembles to me. Because that would be cool. Well, you know, eventually...

At the moment, unless you approach it from a very carefully-calculated angle, you could easily miss it altogether. It also appears to be rusting at some of its joints already. Which may, of course, be a deliberate design feature rather than a failure to appreciate Just How Much Rain falls in Liverpool. But mine not to reason why. Mine just to hobble around the city, camera in hand, and report back to my faithful readers. Who, I have no doubt, will draw their own conclusions.

The Editor

I'm going to go out, I'm going to let myself get absolutely soaking wet

2008-09-06T12:06:00.003+01:00

We get a lot of rain, west of the Pennines. I had never really realised quite how much rain until I spent three years at university east of the Pennines. Where it didn't rain anything like as much. But, even by our usual standards, yesterday was wet. It rained and it rained and it rained. It didn't drizzle. It didn't spit. It just rained stair rods all day.

Which was a great shame for the La Machine company, because it meant that the anticipated hundreds of thousands of visitors to their street theatre show - the biggest ever in the UK - didn't materialise. (Despite poor forecasts, though, the weather is very considerably more clement today, so visitor numbers really should be up.)

A great shame for the organisers, yes, but good news for me. I can dry off in a couple of hours from getting soaked through, but it would take me weeks to recover from getting caught in a huge crowd of people, none of whom is watching where they are going.

So, donning my already-soaked-from-the-journey-in-to-work raincoat, I limped from the office as fast as my stick would carry me across to Kings Dock, where La Princesse had just woken up for the first time. I arrived moments before her escape attempt was foiled by a fusillade of fire-crackers, which caused her to turn tail and stalk off in a huff.

Nobody who has even dipped into this blog occasionally over the years can have failed to recognise that I am a martyr to arachnophobia. Having seen press photographs like this one over the last few days, I was quite concerned about how I would react to the monstrous beastie, despite knowing in my rational mind that she is constructed from steel and poplar wood. However, given that she is operated by a team of puppeteers, at least seven of whom are immediately visible, I experienced no frisson of fear when I was close to her. (And this despite the fact that I nearly had heart failure last Sunday morning when I discovered a large house spider floating dead in my washing up bowl.)

What I particularly like about the whole shebang is that this genuinely is a dramatic production, and not just somebody showing off their model-building skills and a lot of flashy special effects. Commuters coming out of Lime Street station on Thursday morning, and goggling in horror at the sight of the immense spider hanging off Concourse Towers, were told that she had been disturbed out of her long hibernation by all the building works which have been going on in the city. I initially assumed this to be an example of the justly-famed Liverpool sense of humour, but soon realised that it is part of the fictional narrative which binds the whole event together.

Local opinions over the value of the event are mixed, to say the least. It is causing traffic problems because roads are shut off to allow Her Highness to wander through the city. The tunnel, for example, is closed completely for about twelve hours tomorrow, so this is no small inconvenience we're talking about. The event has cost something in the region of £1.2 million, almost entirely funded by local taxpayers. I have heard a lot of people complain that that money could have been better spent on something lasting and practical. There are also no end of arachnophobes making vociferous complaints about the trauma it is causing them. (To which the only sensible response is, "It's a puppet, for fox sake!!")

If I am in two minds myself, it's only because street theatre on this scale is so damned inaccessible to people with all sorts of different impairments. That aside, I have long been a patron of the arts and have, perhaps, a better grasp than some of the scale of the finances needed to put on a good show. La Princesse will never be forgotten, and she is making newspaper headlines as far afield as Pakistan and China.

I have been told that there will bea programme next week on the BBC in which all of La Princesse's "best bits" will be broadcast. I have been unable to track down any such listing in the online Radio Times, but I promise faithfully to update this blog entry if and when I hear anything definite.

There are many, many more photographs (mostly far superior to my own) on Flickr, if you can bear to look...

The Editor

Pity the poor Pop!

2008-09-03T20:51:00.002+01:00

There he was yesterday, driving innocently down the motorway, talking to me on his bluetooth headset, not a care in the world, when I heard a sudden, loud noise and he explained to me that he needed to finish the call and pull over onto the hard shoulder while he tried to work out what had hit him.

It transpires that what had happened was that a driver on the opposite carriageway had veered off the asphalt and just missed crashing into the barrier on the central reservation. The move, though, flung up a shower of gravel, half bricks, discarded shoes, etc, etc into the path of Pop's brand new car.

The car is quite poorly. Its windscreen has been smashed to smithereens; its bonnet is pockmarked from the shrapnel; and its left radiator is cracked. But it did its job. It sacrificed its own bodily integrity to protect that of its driver. Pop is unhurt.

For which I am profoundly grateful.

But he was very shaken.

So a bit of pity - if you can spare it - for the poor Pop would probably be very welcome.

The Editor

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu

2008-08-25T17:15:00.005+01:00

Well, that's that. Despite mounting public pressure for them to be left in place, it is almost certain that the superlambanana flock will be chivvied onto trucks by the supersheepdogs early tomorrow morning and whisked off to ... well, who knows? Some sort of sheep fold, presumably.

Word on the street (oh, ok: in the local paper) is that 90 of them will reappear outside St George's Hall shortly prior to the charity auction on September 9th.

I am extremely proud to report that I managed to bag a nice, round one hundred of the revised total of 125. Given another month - and a lot more poring over bus route information, and being assured by bus drivers that they don't go where their route map says they go - I could have extended that total to include at least some of the superlambananas to the north of the city centre. But I would never have managed all of them. Some are simply too far off the beaten track, and others have been so badly damaged by the elements and/or vandalised that the supervets can't revive them.

Pottering around Liverpool by bus, train and Shanks's pony to bag superlambananas may seem, to someone who doesn't know me, like an odd thing in which to take pride. But the great joy of this whole, extended safari has been the fact that I could actually do it. Thanks entirely to twelve months of acupuncture, I am now the fittest I have been since before my second back injury four years ago. Rough calculations accomplished by means of an A-Z, a ribbon and a tape measure indicate that I walked more than two miles yesterday. (Yes, I'm paying for it today. Yes, it was only my determination to reach 100 which kept me going. No, it probably wasn't sensible. But I did it. Two months ago, I couldn't have even imagined doing it.)

Speaking of bus, train and Shanks's pony, having been hurried away from Tudorlambanana by a be-cagouled couple who leapt out of their car with their cameras poised, I am now firmly of the opinion that bagging superlambananas by car and sat nav is just cheating. At the very least, it's missing out on a lot of what goes to make up the full superlambanana safari experience. You're supposed to get rained on. You're supposed to discover to your horror that the A-Z failed to mention any number of really steep hills. You're supposed to get lost in your attempts to navigate down the crease between two pages of your only-slightly-out-of-date-honestly A-Z: that's how you get to meet lots of new people who are only too happy to give you directions to their superlambanana.

I am once more approaching my monthly bandwidth limit on Flickr, but I'll upload at least one picture of each of the last several superlambananas I photographed at the beginning of next month.

In the interim, I have discovered - after only about twenty pages of Google results - this website. I'm not quite sure who would want to shell out for prints of other people's photographs of the superlambananas, but it does at least provide you with a complete catalogue of the beasties. Not to mention these rather fab free wallpapers, and a rather fun book you can download and print off so that you or, more probably, your offspring, can design your own superlambanana. (I'm thinking of Alex, here. Alex, I am reliably informed by his mom, is entranced by the superlambananas.)

Superlambanana memorabilia have been disappointingly thin on the ground, but Utility is offering a couple of key rings and a colouring book. (I'm not 100% sure that link to my search results will work, but, if it doesn't, you can get to the right page by using the obvious search term.)

Favourites? Gosh, that's tricky. Supergrassbanana is hugely endearing. Superchromebanana is as classy as an exceedingly classy thing. I still have a soft spot for Superlamba-xray and child. Peel is a very clever idea, very well executed. If I were forced to choose just one, I'd probably plump for Cargo. But ask me on another day, and it might be something else.

If your own enthusiasm for the superlambananas equals that of Pop "Oh, I do hope there is a superlambanana map in my birthday parcel so that I can see where you have been" Larkin, you will be hugely relieved that the whole thing is over. So thank you for bearing with me. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

The Editor

The wind is whistlin', the wind is whistlin' through the house...

2008-08-21T20:16:00.005+01:00

So. It's Saturday morning. Quite early. I've been to Hunts Cross by train to catch Happy Feet, a late addition to the superlambanana flock, and I've got off the train on the return journey at Liverpool South Parkway so that I can have a wander up Mather Avenue in search of Springy.

Springy is supposed to be in the grounds of Springwood Heath primary school. Having sought him high and low, all I can say is, if he is there, he's extremely well camouflaged. Somewhat miffed, I trudge back towards the nearest bus stop through a grassy, wooded area.

And that's when I hear it. An unearthly, fluting, wailing noise. And it's very close. I glance around me in what I fondly imagine to be a nonchalant manner, looking for aliens. Or, failing aliens, a mischievous small boy with a blade of grass between his flattened palms, and suspiciously-pursed lips. The grassy, wooded area is singularly devoid both of aliens and rubicund, Just William-esque small boys.

"What must have happened", I say to myself in a soothing, explanatory manner, "is that somebody has thrown something hollow up into the tree branches. If it was winter, you could probably see the hollow thing, and then there'd be no mystery at all. And no reason to worry."

Hardly worried at all, I break the sticky crip land speed record getting out from under the trees and onto the nice, sensible pavement. Which doesn't screech at me. For this relief, much thanks.

Next stop Speke Retail Park, because I'm hoping to be able to get close enough to Peel to photograph him. I've passed by him at speed a couple of times in the Dude's Rolls Canardly, from which luxuriously-appointed vantage point it has looked as though there is no pedestrian access at all. But, as ever, when one is on foot, the situation is entirely different.

Resting my camera on the useful barrier some kindly town planner has seen fit to erect to prevent reckless individuals from hurtling full pelt into the converging streams of traffic, I hear the fluting, hooting, wailing noise again. It's very loud and it's coming from somewhere very close to my right ear.

Steadying my camera - which, for some reason, has developed a mysterious wobble - I reason that I must have brought the noise with me. And that either I have an invisible alien perched lightly on my right shoulder, or the noise is being created by something I'm carrying. Or, indeed, wearing.

Suddenly - as they used to say in the old adverts for colourless Coca Cola - everything is clear. The wind is whistling through the hollow glass bead in my earring. There are no aliens. Leastways, none which announce their presence with fluting, wailing noises. I just happen to be wearing an earring which goes (rather aptly) bananas when the wind catches it at a certain angle.

Once the penny has dropped, of course, I spend the rest of the morning inclining my head at increasingly bizarre angles in the hopes that it will happen again. Which it does. But not unless I'm in a position which does nothing for my reputation as a sober and upright member of the local community.

If nothing will now do but that you purchase yourself - or someone you want to scare out of her wits - earrings with a built-in ghostly wail, I believe that LauraMae still has some for sale which are deftly-fashioned from blown glass beads.

Pop - who makes extravagant and unsubstantiated claims to be my friend - laughed so much when I related this anecdote to him that I thought his sides were in genuine danger of splitting. What a kind man he is!

The Editor

Health & Safety

2008-08-18T20:45:00.002+01:00

Wise words from my employer's brand new, mandatory, online health and safety training package:

“Furthermore, our relationships with colleagues will be enhanced if we take care and avoid harming them.
Today, behaviour that causes unnecessary pain or injury to others is regarded as socially and morally unacceptable.”

I swear on the Dude's life that the above has been lifted directly from the screen, and has not been subjected to my habitual satirical tinkering. That being the case, I am quietly confident that it needs no further comment from me.

The Editor

(Still recuperating from weeks of building work, but hoping to be back in the blogosphere on a regular basis 'ere long)

Things you learn...

2008-08-04T09:09:00.003+01:00

Liverpool has superlambananas.

Norwich, on the other hand, has elephants.

The Editor

I wish that my room had a floor...

2008-08-03T12:56:00.002+01:00

My lovely builders - of whom very much more later, once they have moved out and I have had a little breathing space - have forbidden me to wear blue to work tomorrow.

There is a very good reason for this.

Much kudos to anyone who can correctly guess that reason.

The Editor

Just occasionally...

2008-07-21T21:15:00.003+01:00

... there is something to be said for working in an office which is so close to the river.

(Which is something you won't hear me saying in the middle of winter.)

The Editor

Octogenarian

2008-07-20T11:04:00.000+01:00

The Editor's pater is 80 today. Many happy returns, Pater!

Superlambsafari the Second

2008-07-19T10:31:00.010+01:00

I picked up a few more superlambananas on my cunningly-extended journey to visit Hazel for acupuncture on Thursday. (You can see the results here.)

But I was determined to bag as many as my little legs would allow yesterday, before heading back to work on Monday. This required some careful planning.

I got off the bus outside Lewis's so that I could go inside and catch their in-house one before the shop got busy. Having quickly established that there were no bags without which I could not continue to live in their Radley sale, I managed to overcome my vertigo sufficiently to descend the two very steep escalators down to the Wirral line in Central Station, emerging one stop later at James Street Station to take in Lambline. (Oh, how the staff at James Street are enjoying having random passengers taking photographs in their foyer!)

Next on to Castle street, where I could see a large man in a fluorescent orange jacket leaning over Baa-ve New World. I initially assumed he must be one of the superlambanana vets who are rumoured to be taking care of the flock but, as I limped closer, I realised that he was, in fact, a member of Unison who had been hanging a sign round the SLB's neck.

"Public sector pay, can't afford lamb or bananas!"

Times must be even harder than I had thought....

Into the Town Hall (where I have never previously set ferrule) to catch up with the magnificently-caparisoned Superlordmayorlambanana before, after only a few wrong turns, espying The Lambtastic Four at Exchange Flags.

From there on to Chapel Street, and through the huge automatic doors of the Finch Ideas Agency to see Top Banana in his full glory, complete with pocket handkerchief and portfolio case.

Back up to Old Hall Street to see the far-from-arresting First Past the Post, followed by Superlambananaleaves and Supercottonwoolbanana outside the Cotton Exchange. Not to mention the very soppy, confetti-sprinkled, SuperLoveBanana in the courtyard in front of Liverpool Registration Service.

Then off Old Hall Street to St Paul's Square for the gathering of the rather disturbing Mona, Commercial District Skyline and Savio the Superlambanana.

Back to Old Hall Street in search of Supergrassbanana. I had been looking forward to seeing this one - which has been covered in grass, and would appear to be hugely endearing - but I regret to report that it was nowhere to be seen. There was only Superplazalambanana, which bears a remarkable resemblance to Supercottonwoolbanana.

Time for a sit-down on a damp bench, a swig of drink, a bit of a think, and a comparison of the trail map with my A-Z in an attempt to work out whether I could get as far as Superlawbanana without needing to be winched up off the pavement by the emergency services.

Indeed, so far away was he from the bottom of Old Hall Street that I twice checked my map, convinced that I must have missed the turning. But it was worth the trek. And you can even catch a glimpse of the original Superlambanana from a vantage point behind Superlawbanana's plinth.

Time for another rest on another damp bench. Where exactly was I? And could I fit any more in? There are four in the Met Quarter at the bottom of Stanely Street, but I had had quite enough on Monday of trying to move through crowds. So I sacrificed that little flock in favour of Sgt Pepper who is perched high up in one of the windows of Blakes Restaurant on North John Street. He is difficult to see, let alone to photograph. Which is a shame, because he's very fine.

Another rest on another damp bench (flagging badly by this stage), before bagging Reflectana in the front window of Debenhams and threading my way wearily through the new Liverpool One shopping arcade in what I fondly hoped was the direction of the Hanover Street Bus interchange. I am relieved to report that even my sub-par sense of direction couldn't get that wrong!

After numerous failures, I have given up on trying to photograph Generation 21 at the top of the Aigburth Road from a moving bus. So I must break my journey there at some point before all the SLBs disappear on the 25th August, and take a proper picture of it.

I believe I have now seen 43 superlambananas, and photographed 39 of them. There are 120 in total, many of which I have no chance of seeing. But there are half a dozen down at the Albert Dock which I shall bag after work one day, and another six further up the river front which, with a bit of determination, I should be able to reach. And a couple in the East Village courtyard off Duke Street which would involve a bit of a detour on my journey home on one of the days when I'm on the bus. Oh, and there's one outside Allerton library which I shall make a special effort to visit after one of my acupuncture treatments. I have tried twice to catch the two at Lime Street station, but they have gone into hiding. If I can work out how and when one can gain entry to St George's Hall without scaling several hundred steep steps, I might try Lime Street again. The two in St George's Hall are particularly interesting.

A fraction of the photographs I took yesterday can be seen here. I am approaching the limits of my monthly Flickr bandwidth allowance, and there seems little point in paying to upgrade to a professional account when I am unlikely to be taking this many photographs ever again. Having to wait until the 1st of August to upload the others is not the end of the world.

My own personal favourite of all the superlambananas with whom I have been up close and personal this week is Superlamba-x-ray and child at the Women's Hospital.

I can't remember when I last had such an active week. I am very pleased to report that, despite all the walking I have done, my back has shown no signs of locking up in a scary and excruciating fashion. Certainly, it has been more painful than it would have been had I been resting at home. But that pain has fallen within manageable parameters, given how much I have enjoyed what I've been doing. This doesn't mean I'm as fit as a flea, but it does mean that I am a little more mobile than I had given myself credit for being. So that's good.

The Editor

Black and blue

2008-07-15T11:13:00.004+01:00

I'm aware that it's horribly disconcerting when someone who can usually be relied upon to blog once a week at most suddenly gears up into daily blogging mode.

Which is why I really hadn't intended to blog again today.

But then the postman brought me a parcel this morning. And I was forced to abandon my good intentions.

There is quite a complicated back-story to this wondrous gift, but now is not the time to rehearse it. Instead, feast your eyes on this (grossly inadequate because taken by me) photograph of a morpho box to keep morpho jewellery in.

If that is not one of the most beautiful objects you have ever coveted, either you must be extremely talented at coveting, or I must be an even worse photographer than I had realised.

Here's a picture of the box with the lid open so that you can see the underside of those luminous blue wings.

Butterfly supplied by Nicole at Bela Brazilian Designs (click on the icon of the morpho wing earrings in the sidebar to visit her shop); box designed and created by Neile (click on the icon of the yellow butterfly in the sidebar to visit her shop).

At the risk of sounding revoltingly soppy and un-British, I feel blessed to have both these talented artists in my life.

Sincere and fulsome thanks to Neile for this unique and glorious piece of art: I was anticipating something beautiful, but the reality far exceeds my expectations. I will treasure it.

The Editor

On safari

2008-07-14T20:01:00.004+01:00

Alert readers - presumably the type who do not depend on opiates to get them through the day - may recall a fairly recent reference to the phenomenon of the superlambanana herd which is currently browsing the pavements of the city.

They are a passing phenomenon, as they will disappear at the end of August to be auctioned off to persons possessed of either very large houses or very secure gardens. So I have decided, as I am on leave this week, to attempt to hunt a few of the blighters down.

So, armed with little more than a pith helmet, a butterfly net, a camera and The Least Helpful Map In The World, I sallied forth on the first day of my safari. (In all honesty, given the state my back is in after all the striding through the undergrowth and fending off marauding lions, this may be only a one-day safari. But I would hope to be fit enough to attempt the more northerly reaches of the game park later in the week. We shall see.)

I did not bag quite as many of the beasts as the map had led me to believe I might, but my haul was large enough for it to be too unwieldy to include pictorial evidence of each specimen in one - or, indeed, several - blog entries.

I have, therefore, taken the previously unprecedented step of opening an account on Flickr. Clicking on the link will take you through to an album of all the photographs I took today. (Well, all of them except for the ones in which surly pedestrians deliberately strode between the camera lens and the object of the photograph.) I've incorporated a couple of pictures into this blog entry to whet your appetite. Or to put you off completely. Depending on the degree of affection you harbour in your bosom for superlambananas...

The Editor

The fine art of apportioning blame

2008-07-13T12:37:00.002+01:00

Being, as I am, possessed of a highly-developed sense of fair play, I am quick to anger when I see individuals being blamed for something which is not their fault.

I am, for example, only too well aware of how cold, miserable and frustrating it is to stand at a bus stop for forty minutes in the middle of winter when the scheduled bus has not arrived. But I do not believe that the driver of the next bus deserves to be viciously harangued on his arrival. Neither do I think there is a great deal to be gained by demanding details from him of what happened to the bus which was never seen. As he has been driving his own bus for the last several hours, I suspect he will have been unable to continue the direct lines of communication with the depot which, in his non-working hours, he no doubt maintains assiduously.

Likwise, I have never succumbed to the temptation of blaming any of Liverpool's legion of taxi-drivers for delays to my journey resulting from the city council's abject failure to keep sufficient roads open whilst tarting the place up for the 2008 European Capital of Culture celebrations. Instead, I have sympathised with them over the impact of the road-closures on their livelihood, and have tipped them to the best of my capacity.

Imagine then, my wrath, on seeing the following feedback left for this delightful jeweller on a site which isn't Etsy. (I stress that it was a different site because it is one on which the buyer is asked to give the seller a star rating out of 5. And the buyer who left this particular gem docked the seller a star.)

"beautiful product, and that is what matters, but i did not
realise i would have a £13 customs charge as it entered the UK which may have
changed my decision.. "

Mmm. Petulant, much?

In what alternate universe is the fact that goods imported into the UK are subject to duties and taxes the fault of one artisan in the US?

I can accept that someone might be sufficiently unworldly on the subject of importation procedures that the Customs charge has come as a very nasty surprise. I can even, at a push, accept that someone might be sufficiently aggrieved to mention it in passing in their feedback on the item they have purchased. But to reduce the seller's average star rating for something that could not, even by the wildest stretch of a particularly fevered imagination, be deemed to be her fault is simply not acceptable.

The Editor

Nice day for a white wedding. Allegedly.

2008-07-10T14:44:00.001+01:00

When I arrived in the office yesterday, the last thing I was expecting was an envelope from Libya.

Said envelope had been delivered from the post room on Tuesday, with the result - given that I worked at home on Tuesday - that speculation amongst my colleagues had risen to fever pitch by the time I hobbled in on Wednesday morning.

As a team, we were united in our admiration of the hardly-intimidating-at-all Colonel Khadafy postage stamp. It lent, we felt, a certain air of carnival to the correspondence.

Unable to fend my colleagues off with a stick after putting my briefcase down and turning my computer on, I opened the letter.

Imagine, if you will, the mixture of emotions engendered in my capacious bosom by the following (very slightly edited) transcript of what the envelope contained:-

"My Dear Editor,

I am more than happy to come across your picture, name and address in the ******** Magazine and I will like to use this as an opportunity to write you this letter.

Before then let me introduce myself to you. My name is NotYetABritishCitizen a 40 years old Ghanaian teacher presently residing in Tripoli. I work with your embassy (UK embassy – Tripoli).

In fact Editor I just develop interest in you from your picture and I wish to spend the rest of my life with you if you would not mind.

I am tall, humble, honest and hansome Christian; and I promise to handle you like egg when we become together. I will take good care of you and your wish will be my command therefore think about it and just give me the chance and the fact will be manifested.

I wish I have got your telephone no. I would have cal you right now. However, this is my telephone no **** *** *** *** *** you can call me any time you like and this is my e-mail address: URgr8@anISP.com. I prefer we communicate via email since it will be quicker and cheaper way.

Please in your reply to me, tell me more about yourself and send me your picture and ask me anything you will like to know about me, Libya and my own country Ghana as we still have to know each other better.

Bye for now Editor looking forward to hearing from you as soon as possible, Your husband to be with lots of love, NotYetABritishCitizen xxx. "

I have, you will probably be relieved to hear, not the slightest intention of so much as corresponding with this charming gentleman, let alone spending the rest of my life with him. However, if there is one thing a blog comes in useful for, it is the cathartic process of drafting a response which will never be sent.

Highlights of my hypothetical reply might therefore include:-

"Dear NotYetABritishCitizen,

My address was most definitely not included in the magazine article to which you refer. You may consider your attempts to track down further information on my whereabouts from my employer's website to be romantic: I consider such behaviour tantamount to stalking.

I am aware of the photograph of which you speak and, quite honestly, do not believe for a moment that it alone could render anyone weak with desire. Frankly, you would have stood a better chance of convincing me of your immediate and undying admiration if you had attributed it to what I had said in the interview. (It is too late now to change tack, by the way.)

It may surprise you to learn that I mind your intention to spend the rest of your life with me a great deal. I consider it presumptuous of you in the extreme to attempt to foist yourself on me in perpetuity in this way. Whatever happened to meeting for a coffee?

When you promise to "handle me like egg", do you mean that you will crack my skull against the edge of a frying pan? Enquiring minds need to know...

I cannot for the life of me imagine what gave you the impression that I would be attracted by the prospect of my wish being your command. I can think of nothing worse than being humbly obeyed in all things. If I wanted a sycophant, I would get a dog.

You are sadly mistaken in your evident assumption that my being an MBE (thank you for using my full title on the envelope, by the way) is indicative of my being part of the British aristocracy, with the house, grounds and influence with HRH to match. Whilst I appreciate that my lifestyle would probably appear luxurious by Ghanaian standards, I am far from wealthy.

Even had I been tempted by the earlier paragraphs of your letter (and, should you be considering attempting this again with any other random British women, might I suggest something a little more classy than a page of lined A4 paper ripped from a pad?), I consider the fact that you have signed yourself off as my "husband to be" to be hugely offensive.

Beauty and youth, I may not have. But that is no indicator that I am so desperate to be married that I would accept a proposal from a complete stranger. You insult both my intelligence and my integrity. Kindly desist from any further importunings of this nature. If you do not, I can assure you that you will find the tone what Mr Larkin will have to say to you very considerably less palatable than the tone of this letter.

Yours finally,

The Editor"

Of grocers

2008-07-09T21:00:00.006+01:00

If I

worked in the "Policy&Professionalism" department of a large public sector organisation; and

sent an email containing the salutation, "Dear Director's"

I think I would now be looking for a large rock under which to hide. Possibly for the rest of my life.

The Editor

Crayola colours

2008-07-04T18:44:00.003+01:00

It may come as a surprise to some of the people who email me, but I really don't want to update my penis. I don't think I would want to update my penis even if I had one. I think I might be very concerned about the processes involved in updating a sensitive part of my anatomy.

I don't want to gain 3+ inches in length, either, because I've been five foot six since the age of fourteen, and I'm used to it. (I assume that I am supposed to be measuring myself while lying flat, and that that's why I'm being offered an increase in length rather than height.)

I certainly don't want any magic potions to increase my girth: I'm more than capable of doing that all on my own by the simple expedient of upping my Pringles intake - I don't need to pass my credit card details on to some dubious purveyor of snake oil for the privilege.

Much to the envy of my male colleagues, I don't only receive these marvellous offers on my home email address. Oh no. Having committed the cardinal error of once having had my email address published on a consultation document on my employer's website, I get them at work as well. All the time.

The firewall catches most of them, and sweeps them off into a secure facility from which I can, if I choose, release them onto the servers. (The wrong choice at this juncture could, I feel, be a funny way of handing in my notice.)

It doesn't catch them all, though.

Just the other week, I was working at home on something very complicated and technical, and concentrating like a very keen person, when an email notification popped - and I use the word "popped" advisedly - up in the bottom right hand corner of my screen, screaming

"You can see her clit!!"

(I couldn't. Just in case you were wondering.)

Even the aforementioned male colleagues who wish they could receive emails from nice Russian girls who are bored and would like to talk to them blanched a bit at that one.

Astonishingly, even the opportunity to catch a glimpse of naked pudenda pales into insignificance in comparison with the quite unspeakably-grim email title by which I was met this morning:

"Jerk your cum crayon and colour me white!"

Don't get me wrong. I am fairly robust. I am familiar with the existence of pornography. I find these "ride her all night and make her scream for more" emails laughable rather than distressing. But, "cum crayon"? Please don't tell me there is any man anywhere in the world who uses that as an affectionate nickname for his knob....

The Editor

Have you seen yourself retreating?*

2008-07-02T21:04:00.003+01:00

Lady Bracknell has long grieved over the petticoat's fall from favour of recent years and the unwelcome consequence, particularly in the summer months, that a lady's nethermost undergarments are a frequent assault upon the eyes of those who, as a result of their delicate breeding, were not brought up to anticipate such visions.

Until today, Lady Bracknell had believed this phenomenon to be largely restricted to those of relatively tender years.

Unfortunately, she now discovers that she was mistaken.

If there is a more unpleasant sight than the rear view of a scrawny woman of very late middle age wearing a semi-transparent white linen shirtwaister frock over what is referred to in common parlance as a "thong", Lady Bracknell has no desire to be exposed to it.

(Lady Bracknell, who chooses her words with great care as a general rule, has immediately regretted her use in the preceding paragraph of the word, "exposed". As a result of that one careless choice, she is now experiencing what she believes are known as "flashbacks". Said flashbacks are not proving helpful to her digestion.)

*Ogden Nash

Promises, promises...

2008-06-28T10:15:00.008+01:00

Pop still being somewhere in that nebulous region between mud and canvas, I find myself with rather more time on my hands than usual and in a position to discharge a promise I recently made.

Ordinarily, when I refer to Etsy artisans on this blog, it is by nature of a review. But I am breaking with my own self-imposed tradition in this instance to promote the work of a jeweller whose work I covet, but who is not yet high enough up on my "waiting list" for me to have yet made a purchase.

EmiliaRose2 offers high-quality beaded jewellery in a colour palette which is strong, sophisticated and distinctive without being brash or dazzling: class, rather than bling.

Whilst it is entirely possible to buy considerably cheaper necklaces on Etsy, I don't consider this work to be overpriced in any way. Unusually - and I can think of only one other Etsy jeweller who does this, off the top of my head - the stringing is done on silk cord, which is knotted between each bead. If you have your grandmother's pearls hidden away in your own jewellery box, it's extremely likely that this technique will have been used to string them.

Knotting between beads provides three main benefits:-

it prevents the beads from chafing against one another and, if they are made from something soft or friable, consequently incurring damage;

should the cord break, you will not find yourself standing helplessly by while several dozen beads bounce individually off into the distance to be lost for ever down a drain;
knotting creates necklaces with beautiful draping properties. There is simply no comparison with necklaces strung on beading wire.

In short, a knotted necklace is a necklace which is made to last and to be worn for many years. EmiliaRose2's designs, whilst distinctive, are also classic: they aren't suddenly going to go out of fashion.

When I first saw EmiliaRose2's work, I contacted her to enquire about the source of the coral she uses. I'm pleased to report that it's all bought from stockpiled sources of several decades' vintage. This is another element which pushes the price up somewhat in comparison with her competitors, but she believes that ethics are more important than turning a swift buck.

Promise duly discharged, there are a couple of other Etsy artisans to whose work I'd like to draw a little more attention than they may gain from other sources.

It's always a sad day for a middle-aged woman when she realises that there are some kinds of jewellery in the world which she really is now too old to get away with wearing. I had just such an epiphany when I stumbled across UpcycleMart's shop. My horror of being perceived as mutton dressed as lamb prevents me from purchasing any of these items which are cunningly constructed out of those free CDs which all of us endlessly receive through the post, whether we've asked for them or not. However, knowing that some of this blog's readers are young - if not necessarily sprightly - and that some of those who are neither young nor sprightly have teenaged daughters, I'm providing the link through to the shop and a photograph of one of the pairs of earrings.

Lastly - but by no means leastly - I have, within the last couple of days, taken advantage of the sale which is running at MidnightBluAdorn's shop. (Great shop name.)

MidnightBlu does very clever things indeed with translucent polymer clay, glass, paper and shrink plastic, producing tiny little works of art to take with you wherever you go. I'm enormously intrigued by the idea of wearing a preserved pen and ink sketch round my neck which is why, amongst other items, I have bought this wonderfully-atmospheric Bird and Tree necklace.

Although I'm more usually drawn to strong, bold colours, I'm not averse to a bit of monochrome if it's appropriate to the design. Do go and have a look - this is highly original work at a very affordable price.

The Editor

Cherchez l'homme

2008-06-25T18:36:00.002+01:00

Mr Larkin having departed from civilisation this very afternoon for the mud pools of Glastonbury, Lady Bracknell believes she could have been forgiven for having anticipated that her amanuensis would be temporarily available for the purpose of transcribing her pearls of enviable wisdom onto the screen of the computing device.

Her ladyship is displeased to report, however, that no sooner had Mr Larkin boarded his charrabang than the Editor was making furtive plans to take luncheon with Another Man. And, moreover, a man who is at least twenty years her junior!

Lady Bracknell, who takes a very dim view of such behaviour, is considering despatching a carrier pigeon to a field in Somerset.

An expotition!

2008-06-21T09:49:00.006+01:00

Yesterday, after much planning, and after taking a day off work so as to be able

a) to attend when it was relatively quiet, and

b) to have two days to recover from any damage incurred

I went on an expotition to the Liverpool Design Show with my friend S.

This was the first time I had left the house for social purposes - i.e. neither to go to work, attend medical appointments, or pick up groceries, meds or library books - for nearly a year. Liverpool is - as any fule kno - the European Capital of Culture 2008, and it grieves me that I am not fit enough to attend the cornucopia of cultural events on offer. In fact, I find it best to avoid looking at the listings, if possible, given that doing so is roughly equivalent to prodding a bruise to see whether it will hurt.

But this I really did want to attend, if possible. Having registered my interest with the site at an early stage, I was able to get two entrance tickets for the price of one. S needed very little encouragement to come with me, and knowing that I would be meeting her there gave me the push I most definitely needed to get out of the house when resting in relative comfort seemed like a far preferable alternative. (I did, however, let her have her ticket the day before: determined to attend a function or no, there is never any guarantee that I will be fit enough on the day.)

So, decked out in some carefully-chosen pieces of handmade jewellery - and the "Support Independent Artisans" badge I won in one of Life Adorned's fantastic blog giveaways - I headed off to attempt to find the entrance to the colossal Contemporary Urban Centre.

Having met up with S - and pausing only to point out to the first member of staff I encountered that there was a sandwich board blocking the level access to the building - I waited with S to hand my ticket in.

We were pleasantly surprised to exchange the torn halves of our tickets for complimentary Liverpool Design Show canvas tote bags, albeit somewhat bemused to discover that each bag boasted a Crown paints colour chart amongst its contents.

Exhibits are on the ground, first and fourth floors, and it was not exactly straightforward to get our bearings, particularly given the sensory assault from the combination of exceedingly dim lighting and some species of ghastly techno music which was being piped through the ground floor spaces. A floor plan with stall numbers and an accompanying list of which artisan was occupying which stall would have been useful. Considerably more useful, in fact, than a Crown paints colour chart.

But navigation issues are a mere bagatelle compared with the underlying problem which befalls all such events: people attend them. For an ouchy crip, this is a severe drawback. They are attended by the sort of people who block access by gathering in small knots of like-minded pretentiousness to engage in earnest discussion, and who reverse suddenly from stalls whose wares they consider sub-standard, without indicating.

Top marks for Being A Danger To All Around Him must go to the yummy daddy of an infant saddled with the hardly-at-all pretentious name of Milo. (One can only pray that couple will have enough money for private schooling when that child is older...) Milo's daddy was wearing some sort of metal-framed papoose thingummajig high on his shoulders. This, combined with the fact that he was holding a wriggling Milo in his arms, added at least two feet to his width. Wholly oblivious to his status as a wide load, Milo's daddy - who was revoltingly energetic - pirouetted his way around the first floor exhibits, leaving in his wake quantities of ashen-faced punters who had just barely escaped being smacked in the face by a papoose. He was later overheard proudly recounting the fact that dear little Milo had managed to pull over a display table at one of the stands. This is just one of the many reasons why I should never be permitted to run a stall at such an event. If Milo had pulled over my display table, I would have gone after his self-important daddy with every walking stick at my disposal.

But, of course, it wasn't all bad by any means. I was very pleased to get the opportunity to catch up with Helen Of The Lovely Scarves. And, speaking of lovely scarves, there were several scarf-creators who, had I been feeling flush, would undoubtedly have benefited from some of my hard-earned cash. If scarves are your thing, you will want to visit Helen Bolland, Murrindal Design and Nawal Gebreel.

Although I was able - just - to resist spending money I really haven't got this late in the month at the scarf stalls, my resolution crumbled in the face of Katie Adams' wonderful City of Culture ceramics. Photographs don't begin to do justice to Katie's work: you really do need to see it in three dimensions. The mug I bought is great: there are two other designs in the series - one featuring St George's Hall/St John's beacon and one the Anglican cathedral/St John's beacon - and I suspect I will get myself down to the Bluecoat centre at some point and complete my collection. It is also possible that a cereal bowl may sneak into my shopping basket. These really are lovely things.

My other downfall was - as I had always known it would be - Rowena Park's gloriously divine jewellery. In fact, it was seeing Rowena's listing on the Design Show website which had made me so determined to make the effort to attend. Exhibiting super-human levels of self-control and restraint, I rationed myself to just one luminous-blue, eminently-strokeable acrylic pebble pendant. I must say that Rowena bore up very well under my statement of intent to stalk her hereafter. I'm looking forward to gradually building up a collection of her pieces.

After a much-needed cup of tea and a sit-down in the cool, airy restaurant space, in full view of one of the multitude of superlambbananas which populated the city this week, S and I wended our weary way home. I was stiff, sore and very tired, but I seem, much to my relief, not to have incurred any lasting damage.

The Editor

Bouyant Bertie!

2008-06-15T18:09:00.007+01:00

This is going to be one of those blog entries in which I heap praises on a particular artisan -if you are, at best, indifferent to jewellery, you may therefore wish to click away hurriedly rather than risk getting drawn in...

Some months ago, I chanced upon the work of a very distinctive metalsmith in the great wilderness of Etsy jewellery listings. "I'll heart that pendant", I thought, "and buy from that chap at a later time".

Famous last words.

If an Etsy item which you have saved to your favourites list is sold, you will still be able to see the details of the listing.

If, on the other hand, the item has expired or been withdrawn, you are left with a box of frustrating blankness. Which is what happened to me with this seller.

Armed with nothing more than the knowledge that he was Australian and that he works in copper, bronze and silver, I embarked on a frustrating two hours of increasingly-desperate searching. I finally tracked him down by searching under the term, "rhinoceros".

Since which nightmare, I have taken great care to favourite shops as well as individual items. In this instance, the shop name is davidloong.

Moving forward to my most recent payday, I decided it was finally time to buy the dear little flying cat pendant I had been hearting for so long because it was so reminiscent of a certain young Master Bertram. But it was gone!!

Reasoning that David sounded, from his listings, like a very decent chap, I ventured to send him what Etsy cringe-inducingly refers to as a "convo".

He explained that the original flying cat had been sold at a craft market, but that he would be happy to make another one for me. The new cat is much more Bertie-coloured than the original, and even came listed with his own poem:

"Bertie was a lively boy
Who loved to leap around.
With fur of curls
And wings with whirls
He rarely touched the ground."

Bouyant Bertie flew over from Australia with surprising speed, and arrived - sewn in to a tiny, protective package - on Tuesday morning. He is gorgeous.

How David can work on such a tiny scale with sheets of metal, I know not: although you can learn more about the techniques he uses on his own website. Given the hours of work involved in creating each piece, his prices are absurdly low.

Whether or not you could envisage yourself wearing an original, miniature artwork round your neck, please do visit David's Etsy shop, even if it's for nothing more than the pleasure of reading his listings: it's rare to encounter such gentle, whimsical humour in a commercial setting. David's work is peopled by mythical beasties who inhabit a world of his own creation: it's a truly seductive vision for anyone brought up on the books of Messrs Tolkien, Pratchett, etc.

David being far too diffident and retiring to market his own work sufficiently aggressively for it to get the exposure it so richly deserves, I am doing what little I can to increase the number of people who are familiar with the magical pieces he creates.

The Editor

Fun and games...

2008-06-11T12:11:00.003+01:00

... is a title which could (if said in a sarcastic tone) refer to how very much I enjoy the days when I am doing my level best to work at home, but I can't access the effing Secure Remote Access System. (See how they put "Access" in the title, so as to lull those of us who use it into a false sense of security? Bah!)

After a good forty minutes of keying in my user ID and a variety of passwords, and plugging something called a "token" into the USB port when prompted, and swearing at the computer, I capitulated and phoned the IT Service Centre. (See how they put "Service" in the title, so as to con us into anticipating that they might actually serve us? Bah!)

The young man I speak to - they are all young, in my experience: far be it from me to suggest that the work they do is guaranteed to burn them out before they pass 30 - tells me that this is a "general problem" which "was first reported yesterday afternoon". But, he adds, in an encouraging manner, it's a "priority 2 referral".

As you can imagine, this information makes me feel a lot better.

Or, rather, I suppose it might have done, if I had any idea what the significance of a priority 2 referral is. I think that means they're working on it. But might they not be working on it more vigorously if it was a priority 1 referral? And what criteria does a problem need to meet for it to be a priority 1 referral?

What the young man can't tell me, of course, is how quickly the problem will be resolved.

So here I sit, periodically moving to the other end of the table to swear at my work PC when it smugly flashes up its "access denied" message. Again.

At least I long ago ceased to feel guilty about the delays this technological incompetence causes to work which I have previously promised faithfully to expedite. Or to feel duty-bound to sit up half the night answering my emails once my access has been restored.

Of course, some games are genuine and can be a lot of fun. Well, for some of the participants, at least....

Bertie's favourite game in the world ever is bouncing Caspar. It never ceases to entertain him. Caspar considers this to be a rubbish game and is, I suspect, fondly waiting for the day when he grows up sufficiently not to feel the need to play it any more.

The best time of all to bounce Caspar, according to Bertie's dear little pea-brain, is when she is running up the back steps to come in out of the garden. This is why he lurks at the top of the stairs, assuming a far-from-convincing innocent expression. If he had the equipment with which to whistle in a nonchalant fashion, he definitely would.

Only Bertie is taken in by his own pretence. Caspar knows he is there. Her task - should she choose to accept it - is to do everything in her power to trick him into thinking she isn't going to attempt the steps yet and is, in fact,completely fascinated by a fallen leaf she has discovered at the bottom, before hurtling up them at the speed of sound so as to avoid being landed on heavily by one very solid young cat. As she is a lot faster on her paws than he is, this ploy does sometimes work.

Having chanced to be standing outside the back door with my mobile phone earlier today (don't ask...), I bring you photographic evidence of the early stages of The Game. Note Bertie's convincing impersonation of a plant pot.

The Editor

An apple a day...

2008-06-09T20:11:00.003+01:00

By virtue of no greater skill than having happened to be reading the front page of Etsy's Promotions forum at a particularly opportune moment, I am the proud winner of this print of Debra Linker's glorious painting, Apple on Blue, which arrived this morning.

How lucky am I?!?

The Editor

Through the SQUARE window

2008-06-08T18:17:00.004+01:00

No matter how long he's been out playing in the garden, Bertie's internal clock always lets him know when it's time for tea.

Which means that, at six o'clock, if you look out of the kitchen window, you can often see him waiting patiently to come in.

The mysterious red and green shapes which appear to be floating in the foreground are Gelgem chilli peppers.

The Editor

Before and after

2008-06-05T19:07:00.003+01:00

You know, in many ways I was really rather fond of my rampant brambles....

... but now they have all been slaughtered.

I know very little about these things, but I'm hoping that the front garden will at least look green again when it's had a couple of days to recover from the shock of being viciously attacked with a variety of wickedly-bladed power tools.

The Editor

A rapprochement

2008-05-31T10:13:00.003+01:00

I am relieved to report that, whatever the cause of the friction between my camera and my computer was, it now appears to have been resolved: the two are once again willing to communicate.

Which means that, some weeks later than I had originally hoped, I can bring you a rare photograph I took when Caspar was helpfully showing off her pretty back paws and didn't run off to hide the moment she caught wind of the camera. (Those glowing green eyes are a bit of a worry, mind...)

Possibly rarer yet - and taken on the same occasion - a photograph in which she doesn't look affronted!

The Editor

Walls come tumbling down

2008-05-29T20:57:00.002+01:00

The scale of the damage and the casualties caused by the earthquake in China is so mind-bogglingly huge that it's impossible to envisage.

"How dreadful!", we think. But we don't really take it in.

Well, after my acupuncture this afternoon, I spoke to Hazel about it. Her mother and her sisters all live less than an hour's drive from the earthquake zone. Naturally, they've been phoning her about their experiences. Hazel passed some of these experiences on to me, and I really feel that I must pass them on to you in turn.

As I know I've mentioned previously, Hazel's strong accent makes her English very difficult to decipher. But I'll try to reproduce her stories as accurately as I can.

Hazel's mother works at a university. The university has six thousand students. What was the canteen for all those students is now one vast field-hospital for the victims of the earthquake. Every day, more children are brought in. Some have lost a leg. Some have lost an arm. Many have lost both parents. Hazel's mother tells her that she cries all day.

"Mummy, you must not cry like this. You must save it for in your own time. You have to stay calm and professional if you are to do your job and help the children."

"Daughter, you have not seen what I am seeing. It would be impossible not to cry."

One of Hazel's sisters tells her that you walk through streets you used to recognise in which buldings have collapsed on top of one another. Hands and faces protrude from the gaps in the concrete. The hands and faces belong to people who are still alive, but trapped under tons of debris. You can do nothing to help them.

One handsome young man of 29 was trapped in such circumstances. He smiled and joked with the people who were trying to rescue him. "I'm fine!", he said. "I'll just wait here for you to rescue me". "Save your energy", they said. "You don't need to keep on talking to us". But he carried on. He stayed cheerful. He was expecting the birth of his child any day, so he was very excited and happy about that.

It took them six hours to pull him free.

He died half an hour later.

The Editor

Eureka!

2008-05-26T07:22:00.003+01:00

Yes.

I have found it.

Entirely by chance when I was using the Pounce feature on Etsy.

It's the ultimate, must-have wall decal for anyone who has chronic pain:-

(And the fact that the seller has chosen a Winnie the Pooh-related shop name doesn't hurt, either!)

Shipping only offered within the US at the moment, but experience has shown that the majority of sellers respond very positively to a politely-worded request to consider shipping to the UK.

The Editor

Spreading the word

2008-05-24T07:22:00.003+01:00

Kanopy - who make The Most Comfortable Pyjamas In The World - are having a £10 clearance sale between now (well, last night, actually) and the 1st of June.

There are nearly 80 garments from previous seasons - both winter and summer - at £10 each. (Some of which, as you would expect from a sale like this, are now only available in very limited sizes and the, er, less popular colours: I don't care how cheap it is, I am not wearing anything in apricot!)

I've been buying fairly regularly from them for six years, and I've never known them discount so many items so drastically at the same time before.

Their cotton jersey is really nice quality, so their clothes don't develop unintended wavy hemlines when exposed to the rigours of a washing machine. And it's all extremely comfortable to wear, which is a key criterion for those of us who are in pain all the time.

Speaking of clothing websites, the Razzberry Bazaar site has recently had a very colourful makeover: exceedingly scrummy.

The Editor

Testing, testing

2008-05-23T11:35:00.005+01:00

I found something at work yesterday in my list of bookmarked websites when I was looking for something completely different.

This happens to me a lot.

So much so, in fact, that only this week I had an email from someone who won't be a member of our trade union advisory committee for 2008/09. "I know you won't be able to send me any of the confidential papers", she wrote, "but could I ask you to carry on copying me in to all the things you find when you're looking for something else?"

I'm not sure whether to feel gratified or mocked by that, really....

Anyway, back to my find.

I don't know how long ago I bookmarked it or how I came to know of its existence. I have the vaguest of vague suspicions that it may have been the Boy Marmite who first sent me the link. As his memory is, if anything, even worse than mine, though, we may never know.

WebEQuality offers online disability equality training for UK organisations and individuals. (Fairly large parts of the training would be of interest to non-UK residents as well, but they stress - with good reason - that they are dealing only with UK legislation.)

Given that

the advisory committee will have a whole load of new bugs on it this year, and
that I would very much prefer not to have to devote half the year to introducing said new bugs to the concept of disability equality and exactly how it differs from what I have every reason to suspect is their current approach of just feeling sorry for themselves because they suffer from terrible afflictions

I suggested to the appropriate full-time official that it might be an idea to insist that they work through this training package before setting foot - or wheel - in the first meeting venue. And that he and whichever assistant group secretary has "volunteered" for the equality and diversity portfolio this year should work through it as well. (You will note that I am nothing if not tyrannical!)

Well, the day wore on, and the very important thing I was waiting for regarding the other part of my job arrived, and I was assured that there was nothing more needed from me on that front for the moment, and I found myself with a couple of hours in which there was nothing immediately pressing for me to do. So, having worked out by this time that I could do the WebEQuality training for free in my non-professional capacity (wot wiv me being disabed), I decided to sample its wares so that I would know whether what I was recommending would be worth the fee.

And I've got to say that I was very pleasantly surprised indeed by the calibre of the modules. I have worked through ever so many of my employer's online training packages and, as a result, have learned to expect that the questions at the end will test memory only. And will therefore lodge in the brain only as long as it takes to print the certificate off and wave it under the nose of one's manager.

The WebEQuality modules are a lot smarter than that. (There's a list of the modules here.) You don't get any opportunity to pass the tests by simply regurgitating what you've just read. Nuh-uh. Instead, you have to apply what you have just learned to hypothetical situations. What's even more tricksy and demanding is the fact that there are pretty strong arguments both for and against some of the scenarios they quote. So they make you analyse the ramifications of every choice.

For example, there's a section on barriers to employment for disabled people. In one of the tests in that section, you're given a list of of criteria a supermarket has decided are crucial in anyone taken on to work on the tills. Your task is to decide which of those criteria actually are crucial; which are merely desirable; and which should never have been included in the list in the first place.

Imagine my glee when I was faced with a list of fictitious newspaper headlines and asked which of them represented a negative portrayal of disabled people. (Not that this is a trigger issue for me, or anything...)

All in all, really well worth devoting a couple of hours to: even if you're already fairly expert on the subject. Ok, so it lacks the life-altering impact of spending a week on a residential training event having one's eyes opened by the Mighty Mr C, but, as online packages go, it packs a pretty serious punch.

The Editor

So Clear In My Mind

2008-05-18T12:26:00.003+01:00

Regular readers will recall that I have mentioned the Mighty Alan Counsell more than once in the past. Three times, in fact.

A copy of his autobiography is currently listed on Alibris for the not-unreasonable sum of £16.02.

I'm unwilling to trust my own copy to the post for anyone to read because Mr C wrote a personal message to me on the inside cover when a few of us ambushed* him at a Positive About Disability training event for a "celebrity signing", so it is irreplaceable. But it really is worth reading, whether you have the privilege of knowing Mr C personally or not.

No news to report on the planned sequel, I'm afraid. I must make enquiries of the man himself.

The Editor

*Don't worry: he got his own back. I still bear the scars...

MiMiPoland

2008-05-06T17:46:00.004+01:00

Ok, I'm going back to work tomorrow. So this blog is very likely to return to its usual semi-somnabulant status for a while. Before I disappear though, I want to tell you that I have this wonderful pair of earrings.

As soon as I saw MiMiPoland's Etsy shop, I just had to buy one of their stunning creations straight away, immediately and at once.

I checked the shop a few days ago and was stunned to see that I am still the only person who has bought anything from these fabulously-talented ladies.

What is going on?!?

There are hundreds upon hundreds of jewellery shops on Etsy which stock pages and pages of things I wouldn't give a second glance to. But original creative vision of this calibre is ignored?

This doesn't seem right. Short of buying the ladies' entire stock up myself, the only thing I can think of to do do is to promote their shop here. Which is what I'm doing in this blog entry. In case that point had passed anybody by.

So. I have "favourited" five fairly random items from the shop so that they will show up on my mini-Etsy sidebar for persons who lack the time or the strength to click through to the shop itself. (I update my favourites so regularly that, if you're reading this on anything other than the day it was written, they'll probably have already slipped out of sight.) And I just want to encourage as many people as I can reach to go and have a look, really.

The Editor

It's good news week. Quite literally.

2008-05-05T21:19:00.002+01:00

Just a very quick update before I head off to what I sincerely hope will be the Land of Nod...

Regular readers will recall that I have written about Nicole's gorgeous jewellery in the past.

Well, trust me, it hasn't got any less gorgeous since I wrote that. As my bank balance will attest.

And now it's your chance to win some of that gorgeousness for yourself:-

"Greetings from Bela Brazilian Designs...
Being that there is so much morbidity in the world today... we thought it would be something out of the ordinary if we would run a contest where fellow Etsy members would share the ★VERY BEST THING★ that happened to them in this forum.
We KNOW that there is a lot of GOOD out there that is often over looked and being who we are here at Bela Brazilian Designs, we would love nothing more than to give everyone a chance to share something wonderful with others.

The contest will begin Monday 5/5 and end Friday 5/9.
We could not possibly choose one winner, so there will be one runner up.
Initial winner receives $50 store credit (good towards any exotic piece of wearable art in our store), the runner up will receive $25 store credit.

There are three of us here who will decide amongst ourselves who managed to shed most light and cheer into this forum."

See? Dead easy. All you have to do is get yourself registered on Etsy - if you haven't already done so - and wander over to this forum thread with your story of the best thing that ever happened to you. What could be simpler than that?

The Editor

In which the Editor's dirty little secret is revealed

2008-05-05T17:36:00.004+01:00

I went to visit the hairdresser for more hours than I would have believed possible on Saturday. (Previous clients had exhibited outrageous behaviour like asking for extra things they hadn't been booked in for, so everything was running very late).

Between parts of a number of lengthy and arcane hair-transforming processes, I was left to my own devices with a cup of tea and a pile of glossy magazines.

I have developed a great aversion to glossy magazines over the last few years, so I only get to flick through one every seven or eight weeks. This is probably A Good Thing as I don't think my blood pressure would benefit from more frequent exposure.

(Mind you, if you think glossy magazines are tripe, you should see Lancashire Life. Somebody - somebody possibly quite evil - donates back copies to the doctors' surgery which I visit to see my osteopath. Picking one of those up to pass the time was a mistake I only made the once, I can assure you!)

So. I'm leafing in a desultory manner through some vapid publication called, "You Look Gorgeous", or, "Let's Pretend We Hate Men Whilst Doing Everything In Our Power To Ensnare One", or something of that nature, when a huge headline leaps out at me:

"Are you worried about the impact your wedding will have on the environment?"

it screams at me.

I'm not, as it happens, but I'm sufficiently intrigued by the juxtaposition of these two glossy-magazine-fodder standards to read on.

Now, personally, I have long considered big, white, frothy weddings to be something akin to drawing several years' worth of savings out of the bank, putting the money in a metal waste-paper bin, and casually tossing a lit match in so as to enjoy the pretty colours as it burns. Last of the great, pie-eyed romantics, I am not. Even as a small child, I never had fantasies of what I would look like in a gigantic meringue-frock on my wedding day. Possibly because I was aware from a very young age that a gigantic meringue-frock would not be a good look on me.

So, even were I contemplating matrimony, I'm never going to be a key player in the sort of wedding about which, were I that way inclined, I might spend sleepless nights worrying about the amount of carbon said celebration might consume. But, then, I find it difficult to imagine that anyone who was a real, genuine, dyed-in-the-wool environment zealot would choose to throw a big wedding party at all.

However, the glossy magazine researchers have tracked down one such couple, and interviewed them in a sidebar to the article. Mrs Conspicuously Green is beyond smug. She is the sort of woman who makes me want to run the dishwasher for one slightly dirty pastry fork. Twice. Whilst simultaneously tumble-drying a small hanky. I relate what I can remember of her smugness to Pop that evening.

Mrs C-G (smugly): "Instead of cut flowers, we decorated the tables with violets in pots".

Pop: "Oh great. That's just what you need at the end of an evening's drinking when you're trying to pour yourself into a taxi, is a pot of effing violets".

Mrs C-G: "We didn't want to kill the poor ickle treesies, so I wrote all the invitations and the place settings for the tables by hand on recycled paper". (Oh, ok. I'm paraphrasing. She didn't actually mention the poor ickle treesies. Not in so many words.)

Pop: "I see. How lovely. Well, let's hope she has very nice handwriting".

Mrs C-G: "I'm afraid I just couldn't bear to have a second-hand wedding dress, so I ordered one from (insert name of fabby designer here) and had it flown over from America. Awful, I know!"

Me (to Pop, sarcastically): "Yes, that's right. Because the wedding dress will have travelled in the hold of an otherwise entirely empty plane, so she is personally responsible for one hundred percent of the carbon emissions resulting from that flight."

And then Pop explained something to me. Pop is an intelligent man who, by his own admission, is constitutionally incapable of telling an untruth. So I have no option but to believe him, even though what he said strikes me as being really rather unfair.

Apparently, every time I order even one tiny pair of earrings from somebody in the States, the carbon emissions of the aeroplane on which that weeny little jiffy bag is carried are all immediately transferred onto my carbon footprint, and mine alone. And all the hundreds of passengers who are also travelling on that aeroplane get to do so with completely clean consciences because they know that I have been tagged as the carbon scapegoat for that particular flight.

Overnight, therefore, I have gone from being someone whose carbon footprint was so tiny as to not even register as a measurable percentage on those, "Take our test and find out just how much of a carbon miscreant you are" websites to someone who is single-handedly responsible for the carbon emissions of at least one transatlantic jumbo jet flight a week!

Which is shocking.

And the very worst thing about all of this is that I no longer have a metaphorical leg to stand on if I want to sneer contemptuously at Mrs Conspicuously Green and her evangelical cohorts. No wonder they have to hand-deliver wedding invitations written in crayon on the back of cornflake packets when there are people like me around!!

The Editor

And still they come: yet more BADD highlights

2008-05-02T14:37:00.002+01:00

I've definitely reached the conclusion that the overall calibre of BADD entries has been higher this year than in previous years. I mean, I'm really not somebody who promotes for promotion's sake, or in some ghastly and unsubtle attempt to make new friends. In other words, every single BADD entry listed in this and my two previous posts is one I consider to be important: one which has fully met the BADD objective of raising awareness of the societal evil which is disability discrimination.

These are (to me) the pick of the crop, but there are many more entries which are well worth reading. Almost everyone who has contributed this year has given serious thought to the message they want to put across. It's not at all unusual to find opening paragraphs which indicate that the author has vacillated for days, or even weeks, over the relative merits of several important subjects. I am pleasantly surprised to see that there are very, very few contributors this year who have confused writing about disablism with simply writing about having an impairment.

Although I have always done my best to be supportive of it, BADD was not my idea. It is the brainchild of the wonderfully-perceptive Goldfish, as bright and shining light in the blogosphere as anyone could ever wish to encounter. She should be very proud.

Anyway, moving on from the mushy stuff, this will be the last of my highlights posts unless there are some truly exceptional late entries. I don't know whether these posts been helpful to anyone but, if nothing else, I trust that they will have at least made the authors of the entries conscious that they have been read and appreciated.

So. My final list of goodies:-

Jade Lennox on the bizarre belief of programme designers that accessibility standards are only relevant to external customers -“It isn’t accessible because it’s for internal audiences”. (It is probably better not to get me started on the average IT bod's understanding of the requirements of disabled customers. Suffice it to say, much of what Jade says had resonance for me.)

Schooling Inequality: this is an absolute joy. It's not every day you get to witness someone's epiphany about what disability actually is.

What can you say about the Unreliable Witness? Even by his own self-imposed high standards. he's outdone himself with this satirical piece.

Insane Journal: because the Princess Bride reference kicks serious bottom. And I’ll be quoting it from now on. In perpetuity. And quite possibly ad nauseam.

Ashlupa. Downright chilling. But, oh, what a battle cry!

JayAngel on health privilege. This may just be the single most important post of BADD 2008. It is hugely powerful. I want to grab non-disabled people by the scruff of the neck and hold their heads close to the screen until they have not just read, but understood, what Jay is saying. Please read it. At least once.

The Editor

Still reading: more BADD top picks

2008-05-02T06:37:00.002+01:00

Is it just me, or is the calibre of BADD entries extremely high this year?

I still have quite some way to go before I've read everything but, in the meantime, here's another list of entries which have particularly appealed to me:-

Three Square Meals on Body Police.

SpeEd change, pointing out the inherent discrimination in making the provision of reasonable adjustments dependent on an “acceptable” medical diagnosis: (SpeEd Change is writing about this issue specifically as it applies to education, but there is a direct read-across to the workplace – as anyone who’s read my own employer’s internal guidance on reasonable adjustments would confirm...)

Quirkiest? Mais Oui! On the towering frustration of “accessible” venues. (No, it’s not the first time you’ve heard somebody kick off about this, but I doubt you’ve heard anyone do it better.)

Closely followed by Willendorf5761 on a very similar subject, taking no prisoners. “That’s right, funky business owner – the mall is more accessible than you”. Ouch!

A Garden of Nna Mmoy – fascinating piece on stereotype threat:

Mary on the gorilla in your house. (Ok, so this is a - brilliant - metaphor for impairment rather than being strictly about disablism per se. But it's too good to omit. As my own gorillas will confirm.)

Pipecleaner Dreams saw Jack again today. (Warning: this may reduce you to tears.)

And lastly – at least, for this favourites list – Hoyden About Town’s searing indictment of a policy which blames people for their own health problems. A must-read.

The Editor

BADD - favourites so far

2008-05-01T10:24:00.003+01:00

Yes, I know it's only 10.25 in the morning. But there is no guarantee I'll be able to stay awake much longer. (Currently prodding self with pins in order to be awake when Mr Sainsbury arrives - as he should be doing very soon now - with a month's groceries.)

I've taken today off work because I'm too exhausted to get my head round technical gubbins. A spin-off benefit of that is that I hope to be able to do just a little to ease the BADD pressure on the-Goldfish-who-has-even-fewer-spoons-than-I-have.

To which end, herewith a list of links to my favourite BADD entries of the day. (A list which will no doubt get longer as the day progresses.) The risk with doing this, of course, is that I will inadvertently give mortal offence to someone who has put their heart and soul into a BADD entry which I have heartlessly omitted from my favourites list. If that happens, I'm very sorry. If I include everyone, though, I'll just be reproducing the Goldfish's master list. Which would be remarkably pointless. And these are posts which have appealed to me personally: the list is entirely subjective and, in any event, I have often been accused of having very strange preferences!

Ok. So, carefully putting the shovel down now before I dig myself an even deeper hole, let's go:

Elizabeth at Screw Bronze was the first to publish this year: boy, is this one powerful piece of writing!

Miss Nomered takes issue with unwanted - and unwarranted - pity.

Wheelie Catholic discovers a whole new sub-species of disablist.

MidLife and Treachery provides a few useful hints for avoiding being beaten severely about the head and shoulders with a mobility aid.

Sweet Perdition recognises the harm which even our own labels can cause.

In Growing up with a disability, David reveals his hitherto unsuspected talents as a social chameleon.

And, finally (for now!), the ever-reliable Wheelchair Dancer unleashes her coruscating rage on a very, very deserving recipient.

The Editor

Hello? HELLO?!? - The BADD entry 2008

2008-05-01T04:26:00.000+01:00

Ok, so, picture the scene: it's mid-February and I'm sitting in a stuffy conference room in a meeting with the chairs and vice-chairs of the equality advisory committees to my trade union's Group Executive Committee. I'm at this meeting because I chair the disabled members' advisory committee.

It's been a long and decidedly wearing day, but we're drawing towards the end of the agenda now. In fact, the time has come for us to talk about the advisory committee stalls at Group Conference.

When I learn that the Wimmin's Committee is organising a talent show for delegates on the first night of conference, I am Even More Sorry Than Usual that I'm nowhere near fit enough to travel to Brighton myself. However, I rally briefly from this crushing disappointment to make an important point about Stamina And The Disabled Members Ouchy Rep.

I ask the representatives from the other committees to bear in mind that, if the disabled members stall is staffed - as it will be - by someone with chronic pain (yes: wave to the Boy Marmite, everyone...), then simply working at the stall all day will take every ounce of that rep's available stamina. And then some. Which means that, if the rep is invited out for the evening festivities and says that they can't attend, they mean they are physically incapable of attending. They don't mean that they're not sure whether they want to go, but they could probably be persuaded if only enough of you knock on their hotel door and try to win them round. In fact - I go so far as to say - repeated requests that they come with you, accompanied by unsubtle implications that they will be letting the side down if they don't, are actually discriminatory.

It's bad enough, I say, living day to day with massive amounts of pain and the consequent hugely reduced stamina levels. So just imagine how great the rep will feel if you simultaneously

leave them with no option but to explain repeatedly and in gory detail exactly why they can't go with you; and

remind them of what they're missing when they're lying on their hotel bed stuffing painkillers down their neck.

I then retire from the fray, quietly confident that I have got my point across.

Wrongly, as it turns out.

Weeks later, the draft minutes from that meeting ping into my email inbox. And I find - to my astonishment and rage - that I have been recorded as having raised concerns about the physical accessibility of the venue for the evening entertainment. An issue which, let me assure you, I never so much as touched on in passing.

I am rendered temporarily speechless.

And then I start to swear.

And I conclude that either I was speaking Swahili when I was making that particular point, or the message I was delivering was just so bloody unpalatable that the minute taker's brain simply refused to process it. (And she was sitting right next to me, so it's not as though she might not have heard me. I'm not exactly noted for low volume when I'm speaking. Particularly when I'm impassioned about what I'm saying.)

So. It would appear that physical barriers to access are something which people can get their heads round reasonably easily. Start talking about attitudinal barriers, though, and the shutters slam down. Hard.

I suspect - and I may be wrong - that this is because yer average normie regards physical barriers as being someone else's responsibility to resolve. But they're so convinced that their own attitude is completely inclusive towards disabled people that pointing out to them that it actually isn't is so damaging to their self-image that they just can't allow themselves to hear that message.

I was speaking in a meeting which was devoted to equality issues and to an audience composed entirely of people who believe strongly in the importance of equality. I was speaking to people who recognise that I've been doing this for a long time and know what I'm talking about, and who respect my professional expertise.

And I might as well have been talking to the wall.

So, if my voice wasn't heard in that meeting, how likely is it that disabled people's voices are ever heard in less friendly circumstances when they try to make a polite and reasoned point to non-disabled people about how disabling their attitudes towards us are? Having had a written record of how my own point was received, I have proof that the fact that people nodded in agreement and looked sage at the time had no bearing whatsoever on whether they really grasped the point I was making.

I find the implications of this downright chilling. Obviously, I amended the draft minutes quick smart. But that doesn't even come close to resolving the underlying problem. And, despite having wracked my brains for several weeks, I haven't yet been able to come up with so much as one single, solitary strategy for getting past non-disabled people's conviction that they know better than us whether or not their behaviour towards us is discriminatory.

Yes, ramps and 'terps and not distracting the assistance dog with an open can of Winalot are important. Of course they are. And, yes, it's good that most sensible people in this day and age not only understand that we have a right to these things, but will even go so far as to kick up a stink if they're not provided. But that's access. Not equality. Conflate the two at your peril.

Equality would be if the person towards whom my minor rant-ette was specifically aimed had suddenly thought, "Oh my God. I actually did that. I did. In Brighton. Last year. I was being nice. I thought. But it never occurred to me to stop and think that the nature of my colleague's impairment might have a serious impact on his capacity to come out for a drink with us. Now that I know he felt harassed by my behaviour, I feel dreadful. Well, I've learned something here today". And had thereafter - as the result of that sudden epiphany - genuinely treated disabled people as being of equal value to rather than as being physically, neurologically or psychologically the same as everybody else.

The Editor

Rear Window

2008-04-26T19:02:00.003+01:00

When you read as much crime fiction as I do, you soon start to recognise that the fact that your mobility is impaired renders you invaluable to the average detective. (See? And you thought it was all bad...)

Those of us who don't get out much are evidently unable to make our own entertainment, with the result that we are thrown back on the hardly-at-all clichéd expedient of staring out of our windows and watching the world go by.

Until very recently, I have proved to be something of a failure in this role. Living on the first floor as I do, I would actually have to stand in front of the window in order to get a good view of what is happening on the street. Given that

a) I am very bad at standing;

b) I am far from convinced that much of any real interest happens on my street; and

c) on the occasions when it actually does, the police helicopter appears to have everything pretty much covered,

my sense of civic duty doesn't compel me to spend my days with a thermos flask of weak tea in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other.

However, it is now clear to me that not all suspicious behaviour happens at ground level. Oh no.

I was sitting at my work computer the other day when my attention was distracted by movement across the street. What had caught my eye turned out to be a sash window being raised on the first floor of one of the old Victorian houses opposite. Once he had the window open far enough for his purposes, a man wearing a white vest and blue boxer shorts reached out for something small, shallow and round which was sitting on the windowsill and took it back inside with him.

Admittedly, I couldn't see what the something small was, but that's got to be suspicious behaviour, right? I mean, if you lived in a first floor flat, what would you store on your windowsill? (Other than possibly a pint of milk, and this definitely wasn't a pint of milk.)

Suggestions on a postcard, please, to the usual address, marked for the attention of: "No, I am really not turning into my mother. Honest."

The Editor

Saturday Night Specials

2008-04-20T09:30:00.002+01:00

Yes, I do realise it's actually Sunday morning. But that will make sense by the time you've read this entry in its entirety. Honestly. Would I lie to you?

Ok, so this probably won't interest a great many of my readers. If my every mention of Etsy has you immediately snoring over your keyboard, then it's probably not worth your reading any further. (Unless I can assist with your insomnia, of course...)

But, if you meander through Etsy at all - and particularly if you have always felt that you would like to buy from it but that the combination of your DLA and your IB (and whatever other pittances the government reluctantly releases to you in recognition of the fact that you successfully completed its incredibly-demanding claim forms to exactly the standard it required) won't stretch even as far as one teensy pair of earrings, one candle, or one bar of hand-made soap, then read on....

Every Saturday, a thread is launched in Etsy's "Promotions" forum with the title, "Saturday Night Specials - OFFICIAL thread for April 19th - post here". (Er, obviously the date element changes. But the rest stays the same.)

This thread is an opportunity for Etsy sellers to publicise short-term special promotions in their shops.

The value of these will vary: some offer only free shipping (which doesn't sound all that exciting initially, but can mean that you'll be able to go ahead and buy the one really small item you had your eye on, but which wasn't worth buying on its own because the shipping would have effectively doubled its price); there are quite a lot of 'buy one get one half price', 'buy two get one free' etc, offers; and store-wide discounts of anything from 5% to 75%.

As per the wording of the official thread,

"The SNS runs from 5 p.m. EST/NY time and *must* officially end at midnight Samoa time (which is 6 a.m. EST/NY time). You can choose to end your SNS earlier in a different time zone of you wish."

Confusing, no? If you're in the UK, the thread will appear at bang on 10 pm Saturday. Experienced SNS sellers are poised with their marketing threads ready in draft, so there's a pasting-in frenzy the moment the thread opens, resulting in at least three pages of offers in about the first thirty seconds.

If you're already tucked up in bed by 10pm, it's worth bearing in mind that the offers from those sellers who do run their promotions right through to 6 a.m. EST (which, to be honest, is most of those who take part) will still be open when you get up the next morning.

As with anything so short-lived, there's always a risk that you will purchase on impulse and experience buyer's remorse afterwards. So, if you know that you're by nature an incorrigible impulse buyer, the whole thing is probably best avoided. Personally, I've been surprised at just how many of the items I have been "hearting" on my list of favourites have turned up much reduced in an SNS thread. Anything which has survived more than a couple of months on my regularly-weeded favourites list is definitely something to which I'd be happy to give house-room: so, if it's once dramatically reduced in price, it seems daft not to snap it up.

The process of shipping from the US to the UK is evidently labyrinthine in its complexity, so don't be surprised if a US seller asks you how they should go about it. My response in the past has always been one of apology that I couldn't assist but, the next time it happens, I will be able to send the seller a link to this extremely useful entry on The Beading Tree's blog.

So, there you have it. Not the most gripping blog entry in the world ever, admittedly, but moderately informative, I trust.

The Editor

Air on a G string

2008-04-15T16:11:00.002+01:00

Lady Bracknell is given by her editor to understand that she has today been sent an electronic communication entitled,

"Used g-strings for sale".

Given that Lady Bracknell is sadly deficient in the musical accomplishments traditional to those of her age and class, and therefore has no need for a g-string - used or new - she has instructed her editor to delete said electronic communication unread.

Another fine mess

2008-04-12T10:56:00.005+01:00

Ok, so it was early in the morning when I found her by chance on Etsy, and I was extremely pushed for time: however, I feel a lingering sense of guilt that I didn't find the time to send a message to the American jewellery maker whose shop blurb begins,

"I put a little bit of spunk in everything I make"

and explain to her what it is about that statement which might discourage potential buyers from the UK.

The Editor

Mucking words fuddled

2008-04-06T15:01:00.002+01:00

I find myself - I hope, temporarily - articulacy-impaired.

Normal service will resume as soon as I have regained the ability to string words together into coherent sentences.

Or on the twelfth of never. Whichever happens first.

The Editor

Rescue Cat of the Year Awards

2008-03-22T10:18:00.003Z

It being well-known to Lady Bracknell that many of the more regular readers of her humble blog have a great fondness for their feline companions, she is in behopes that her provision of a link to the Cats Protection League's web page in which nominations are sought for the Rescue Cat of the Year Awards 2008 will be of interest or use.

Having familiarised herself with the categories of award, Lady Bracknell must now hasten away and encourage Caspar in her studies towards becoming an effective acupuncturist.

(Although benefiting greatly from having in-built needles at her constant disposal, the degree of commitment Caspar has shown thus far to memorising the precise location of the effective chi points on Lady Bracknell's person has left something to be desired.)

More, more, morpho

2008-03-22T09:12:00.003Z

My camera and my computer have fallen out. Big time. They are no longer on speaking terms with each other. In an attempt to broker a rapprochement, I uninstalled the Kodak Easyshare software and downloaded a fesh copy from the Kodak website. Which took ages. I showed the software icon to the camera and re-connected it to the computer. The camera continued to sulk. I re-charged the batteries in the camera so that it would have plenty of energy with which to face its difficult conversation with the computer. It has since given me to understand that it would take more than just fully-charged batteries for it to be willing to enter into negotiations with the computer.

Until such time, therefore, as B. Dude Esq can tear himself away from his burdensome professional duties for long enough to adopt an advocacy role between the two huffy marvels of modern technology, I am reduced to using my mobile phone to take photographs. The camera on my current phone is of a very considerably higher calibre than the ones I have been used to on previous models, so the photographs it produces are really not bad: they're just not on a par with what my camera can produce if it's in a good mood.

All of which somewhat tedious preamble is simply to emphasise that the photographs in this blog entry don't even begin to do justice to the amazing necklace the lovely Neile made for me earlier this month. Neile has recently succumbed to the universal blogging-imperative, so do drop by if you're interested in getting some insight into the process by which the wings are turned into such stunning pieces of jewellery.

Should you be even a fraction as fascinated by morpho butterflies as I have become since I first saw Neile's Etsy listings, you may wish to avail yourself of one or more of the lovely icons here.

The Editor

Spring is sprung

2008-03-21T10:01:00.003Z

Yesterday was, as any fule kno, the first day of spring.

Although it certainly didn't feel like it when I was standing at the bus stop.

Glorious, scrummy velvet scarf created to my personal specifications (i.e. to match my blue walking stick) by the very charming and talented Helen Chatterton.

The Editor

Zotter Schokoladen

2008-03-16T08:20:00.005Z

The latest Rare Birds Find email - in combination with this recent post of unbridled lust by the always reliably chocolate-smitten Dame Honoria - has led me to a list on the Cybercandy website of Zotter's chocolate bars in, erm, unusual flavour combinations.

Celery, truffle and port wine; banana curry; coffee plum with caramelised bacon; date and shiitake; tomato and liquid olives....

Ok, they're not all quite that odd. Lemon curd-filled chocolate sounds like a good plan, as does blood orange flavour.

According to the good people at Cybercandy, this is what's written on each wrapper:

"Tips for Indulgence

In order to discover the secret of the taste of chocolate, it is recommended to first let the chocolate "breathe" at room temperature and then to nibble it in small cutted pieces. For even a small piece of Zotter chocolate has enough powere and intensity to convince."

So, now that our curiosity is well and truly whetted, and given that there's a real-life, bricks and mortar Cybercandy shop in Brighton, all we need to do is find a Brightonian chocolate addict to do a taste-test for us. I wonder where we could find somebody fitting that description...?

The Editor

Insufferably smug

2008-03-13T19:20:00.002Z

The TUC published guidance for unions this Tuesday about approaches to disability.

It's called Trade Unions, Disability and the Social Model.

Guess who wrote the first draft of the motion for TUC Disability Conference 2007 which resulted in that guidance being written?

The Editor

All for charidee

2008-03-09T12:02:00.003Z

There is only one bus an hour from home to the acupuncture clinic and vice versa. There used to be two. I remember when there were two. But the route of one of them was attenuated some years ago, and that one would now only take me part of the way to the acupuncture clinic. Which is no use at all.

If I've missed the bus home by only ten minutes, or if I'm very tired, or my blood sugars are getting low, or the weather is shocking, I'll hail a cab.

But I rather resent paying £7 to get home for what would be less than a ten minute journey on the bus. And the acupuncture clinic is right next door to a very large Oxfam shop. From which, with considerably less than the £7 one might otherwise have spent on a taxi, one can emerge with something tangible.

This isn't your everyday sort of Oxfam shop in which you have to fight your way past rails of clothes to get to the books. (Not that there is anything wrong with buying clothes from charity shops: I used to do it a lot when I was young and impoverished.) No, this one doesn't have any clothes for sale at all. It sells household objects, furniture (one of my nice, curvy 1930s wardrobes was bought from there years ago for about £15) and books.

Not just a few shelves of books, either, mind you: a whole room full of books. And there are few places in which I would rather fritter away forty minutes of free time than a room full of books. And, because the shop is so well-known locally, you can often find very old books which, I would imagine, have been donated as a job lot after their original owner has passed away. Which means that, for 50p, I get to amuse myself reading cookery books from the 1930s.

One such - which must have been well-used, because the owner has strengthened the cover by gluing on a piece of rather nasty green fabric - has several blank pages at the end for the recording of further recipes. Recipes hand-written in pencil are, of course, the vintage cookery book afficianado's gold. Miss - or Mrs - Bainbridge, who owned the book in 1937, must have been something of a parkin-fancier because she has written down three different recipes for it. Here's the first one:-

Parkin I

5 oz white flour
5 oz oatmeal
1/2 lb brown sugar
1 oz ground rice
2 oz each butter and lard
1/2 lb treacle
1 egg
salt
1/4 tsp bicarb of soda, dissolved in a little milk
2 tsp ground ginger

Mix dry ingredients, and fat, add egg, warmed treacle and lastly soda in milk. Mix to stiff dough. Bake 1 hr in Reg 4.

Anyway, I didn't start writing about the Oxfam shop just to provide you with an old recipe for parkin. No, I started writing about the Oxfam shop because a strange thing happened the last time I was in there.

It was a Monday afternoon. I was engrossed in the cookery book section, checking to see whether any more vintage books had come in since my last visit. I wasn't consciously listening to the conversation in the next room, so I don't know whether The Incident blew up out of nowhere or whether it was the result of a simmering feud over positions in the queue for the photocopier.

I'd be lying if I claimed I could remember more detail about the opening, inflammatory remark than,

"Mumble, mumble, mumble, old fella, mumble".

The riposte, on the other hand, is burned indelibly into my cerebral cortex.

"Who are you calling an old fella, you c***?"

Which does seem to be something of an over-reaction but, as I say, I didn't witness what had gone before. Faces may have been pulled. Offensive gestures made. Toes trodden on. Who knows?

Be that as it may, the manager of the shop swung into action and, after a short scuffle, propelled the fella who clearly didn't consider himself to be old out of the door with the classic line,

"Get out! You're barred!"

Which minor drama led me to ponder exactly where on the street cred scale having been permanently barred from an Oxfam shop would put you...

The Editor

Gift idea

2008-03-04T14:24:00.005Z

Stuck for an idea for a birthday present for your tragically-crippled friend/family member?

You know, the one you admire for being able to stay so cheerful despite the unspeakable sufferings imposed on her by her unfortunate and disfiguring handicap?

How about these?

The Editor

With huge apologies to the seller, whose creations I really like, and who is not responsible for either the tragedy model of disability or the concept of the super crip. But I'm afraid - given my own involvement in disability politics - I laughed out loud when I saw them.

Othello in Earnest

2008-02-24T20:42:00.003Z

Displaying the propensity of the majority of her possessions for cloaking themselves in invisibility whenever their presence is desired, the slim volume from which the following pastiche is taken has been eluding Lady Bracknell's grasp for several years. Now that it has shown itself - and before it scuttles back once more into its shadowy hiding place - Lady Bracknell has insisted that her editor transcribe Perry Pontac's clever words at once for the amusement of this blog's readers. The volume from which these few pages have been extracted may be purchased from this online retail establishment.

LADY BRABANTIO and OTHELLO , just after tea. They speak in the distinctive accents of, respectively, Lady Bracknell and John Worthing.

LADY BRABANTIO: Excellent cucumber sandwiches, Mr Othello.

OTHELLO: I'm so pleased you enjoyed them, Lady Brabantio.

LADY BRABANTIO: And now, to our business. You wish to marry my daughter Desdemona, I believe.

OTHELLO: Yes, Lady Brabantio, very much so.

LADY BRABANTIO: I see. In that case I have a few questions to put to you. (She takes out her notebook and pencil.) What is the source of your income?

OTHELLO: I am a soldier, Lady Brabantio - from an old military family.

LADY BRABANTIO: (taking notes) Ah.

OTHELLO: I am, I'm afraid, often out of Venice: slaughtering the infidel, sacking and burning towns, beheading prisoners.

LADY BRABANTIO: I am pleased to hear it. A man who remains at home can do incalculable harm. My husband Lord Brabantio is a case in point. The more domestic he becomes, the more savage his behaviour seems to be. And now, your property.

OTHELLO: Two main residences, Lady Brabantio. A bachelor flat near the Bridge of Sighs and a large Gothic mansion on the Rialto.

LADY BRABANTIO: That is most satisfactory. And were you born in one of the great houses on the Canal, or did you rise from the rural simplicity of a country seat?

OTHELLO: (reluctantly) I'm afraid I was born... elsewhere, Lady Brabantio.

LADY BRABANTIO: (surprised) Elsewhere, Mr Othello?

OTHELLO: Yes. (Evasively) Rather far away, in fact.

LADY BRABANTIO: (disapprovingly) Rather far away? And where, precisely, 'far away' were you born?

OTHELLO: In ... in Africa, Lady Brabantio.

LADY BRABANTIO: (Lady Bracknell-like) Africa?

OTHELLO: Yes. In a tiny village in Africa. Kajabufu. I was born in a small military fortification as it happens, a simple hut made of mud and dung; my nappy a banana-leaf, my rattle a quiver of poisoned arrows, my cradle a sandbag.

LADY BRABANTIO: (even more Lady Bracknell-like) A sandbag?

OTHELLO: Yes, Lady Brabantio. There in a clearing in the great jungle where the she-elephant suckles her young.

LADY BRABANTIO: (on a rising note of disapproval) And how, if I may ask, did you come to be raised on a sandbag in a hut in a clearing where the she-elephant suckles her young? It seems most improbable.

OTHELLO: My parents were Africans, Lady Brabantio - as am I.

LADY BRABANTIO: (appalled) Indeed? Not blackamoors?

OTHELLO: Quite. Father was a warrior-chief, Mother his favourite wife. (Shakespeareanly) Haply, for I am black...

LADY BRABANTIO: Not happily at all, Mr Othello. I had assumed, from your appearance, that you had recently been basking in the sun at one of our well-known seaside resorts. Indeed, this puts, if I may say so, an entirely new complexion on the matter. Yet, let us continue. I have almost completed my questions, and I always finish what I begin, especially if there is no reason to do so. That is the meaning of thoroughness.

She takes up her pencil.

Now, your education. Which of our great universities did you attend?

OTHELLO: None, I'm afraid. No formal education at all. My childhood was spent climbing the banyan tree, sporting naked in the sunshine, foraging for nuts and grubs with 'Maputu' the wart hog.

LADY BRABANTIO: (not impressed) I see. And as an adult?

OTHELLO: As a soldier I have had many remarkable adventures which Desdemona, dear girl, has often begged me to recount. I have known disasters as well: sold into slavery, shipwrecked on the Isle of Wight for several weeks, and I have been scalped - on two different occasions - by the dreaded Norijwanee tribe of Sumatra.

LADY BRABANTIO: To be scalped once, Mr Othello, may be regarded as a misfortune; to be scalped twice looks like hairlessness.

OTHELLO: (continuing his story, trying to impress her) In Kashina, I was nearly eaten by a lion who sprang upon me in the most unexpected manner.

Lady Brabantio remains unmoved.

It was a fierce Nemean lion, Lady Brabantio.

LADY BRABANTIO: The lion is immaterial. Mr Othello, I confess your history has filled me with disquiet. A life such as yours, with a person such as yourself, is hardly the destiny I have in mind for Desdemona.

OTHELLO: But what is it you advise me to do? I adore the divine Desdemona.

LADY BRABANTIO: I advise you to quit your suit and to avoid my daughter for ever. Desdemona has a noble nature and will be certain to forget you almost instantly.

OTHELLO: I see. Ah, the pity of it, if I may say so Lady Brabantion, the pity of it.

LADY BRABANTIO: Mr Othello, you seem, if I'm not mistaken, to be displaying signs of considerable self-esteem.

OTHELLO: (sadly) On the contrary, Lady Brabantio, I've now realised for the first time in my life the vital importance of being burnished.

They freeze in tableau. Black-out.

What I did on my day off...

2008-02-22T15:49:00.002Z

Create your own demotivational posters at despair.com. They'll even sell you a printed version.

The Editor