Stuff and boxes

It is over 20 years since I last moved house and now that the time has come to gather things together ready for my next move I'm seeing the trappings of life from a different angle.

Some things - pots, pans, dishes, a bed, some clothes - are in everyday use and by most people's standards they are essential. The number and size and quality may vary but almost everyone would have them in some form or another. Most folk could also lay claim to having a fair few other things besides the essentials. Furniture, books and pictures on the walls are there to make the home more comfortable and add to the quality of life.

I wonder though how many homes have long forgotten boxes in the attic and things at the back of a drawer and stuff piled in cupboards that is never used. Those things, like the toasted sandwich maker or the slow cooker had their 15 minutes of fame before the novelty wore off and they were confined to the some dark recess. Admittedly they did seem like a good idea at the time.

Then there is that gift from an aunt or uncle, given in a well meaning way but not quite your cup of tea. Though you never had the heart to throw it out you never had the inclination to use it either. Besides, you probably inflicted your share of inappropriate gifts on your relatives out of a sense of Christmas guilt. At least the ubiquitous plastic gift card doesn't take up space and isn't as crude as simply putting cash in an envelope and placing it under the Christmas tree, even if it isn't anywhere near as versatile as a couple of bank notes.

Which brings me in a round about way to my present situation. I have a pile of strong cardboard boxes, I have a house full of possessions, some of which haven't seen the light of day in years, and I will have fewer and smaller rooms once I do decide where I'll be going. I need to square the circle. Actually, I need to be ruthless and organise several trips to the local charity shop or wherever. Yes there is eBay and there are car boot sales, but there are also only 24 hours in a day and I still like to spend some of them sleeping.

I'm pretty sure that some things that "may come in useful" will make it under cover to the new abode, and who knows, they may even be pressed into service one day. What I'm hoping and aiming for is that I'll end up with just enough possessions to be functional and live in pleasant surroundings in my new home - and that I'll keep it that way. Travelling light has its merits. Of course, Murphy's Law does mean that there will be at least one item that I'll need soon after it has found its way to a new owner, though somehow I don't think the new owner will be making toasted sandwiches with it.

Old Boats

I'm fond of boats. I've been fond of them since I was a boy though I've only ever owned a small sailing dinghy. Boats and anything to do with them were, and still are, fascinating for reasons I don't entirely understand.

Contact with boats was limited back in my childhood, living as I did in the Midlands and miles from the coast. Early memories include rowing boat rides on the Arboretum lake, and a fishing trip to a local reservoir where we used a square punt made out of old railway sleepers to get out to where the fish were - or at least may have been till I arrived. The local canal system, itself a source of attraction to this day, was another landmark that stands proud of the mists of time. I remember playing on the canal bank as narrowboats chugged past towing butty boats full of coal. Cargo carrying has long since gone but the canals are still there, as too are the rope marks chafed into stone bridges - reminders of the days when narrowboats were horse drawn and the tow path was there for the horses to tow them.

Holidays to the seaside provided the main contact with boats. I loved the fishing boats that lined the harbour walls, festooned with ropes and nets waiting for the next high tide. Pleasure craft bobbed at anchor with their slap, slap, slap of rigging blowing against the mast. The first trip I remember on a large boat was a brief excursion out beyond a harbour, I'm not sure which one now. There were two boats, each with a deck full of paying passengers and one with the added attraction of a diver who was going to descend to the bottom in traditional diver's helmet and weighted suit. The one without the diver was apparently cheaper and offered a better view of said diver doing his bit for the tourist industry.

Boats never seem to be called "it"; they are always "she". They have a life to them. Even the weathered skeletal timbers of boats stuck fast in the local sands have a character and prompt thoughts of how they were used in their days afloat. Many a boat spends its latter years on dry land, wooden props and wedges keeping it upright, faded tarpaulins covering the wheelhouse. Partially sanded hulls and patches of red primer bear witness to long abandoned projects that needed far more than a few weekends to transform the boat back to a former glory. Even boats still afloat show signs of neglect; a bottom awash with rain water and stray litter dropped there by the wind, a mooring rope thick with strands of green algae, and cracked paintwork that testifies to years of sunlight and neglect. For all their lack of seaworthiness these old boats often have far more interest and atmosphere than their modern counterparts.

Perhaps old boats really do have a personality.

Growing old? .... not just yet, thank you.

I heard a quote on the radio this morning, it went like this: "People don't stop working because they grow old, they grow old because they stop working".

That quote echoes my own sentiments. Even if I could afford to stop working and take up position by a hotel pool in a sunny climate, cool glass of something refreshing in my hand, I don't think I would. In fact I'm sure I wouldn't. Look closely though and you may find me writing or sketching in the shade of that umbrella.

It would be in the shade of something for sure. Some folks seem to start with the makings of a tan and get steadily darker. I start with the makings of cooked prawn on white bread and graduate to a fine cooked lobster as the day progresses. So what you are more likely to find is that I'm off wandering round looking at buildings and boats and scenery; pretty much anything except the occupying a sun lounger and waiting for the next meal.

So even if I could afford to do nothing I find the idea of exploring the highways of life far more appealing than sitting by the pool.

Carpe Diem anyone?

A Clean House

One of the by-products of having a house for sale and of showing prospective buyers around that house is an unusual transformation. A house with quite generous amounts of assorted stuff in a short space of time becomes something that would grace the pages of House and Home or some similar sounding magazine, or at least aspires to.

Perhaps you've seen such magazines? There's not a trace of dirt, or at least if there is it's intentional on a pair of wellington boots by the door, and no sign of clutter other than perhaps an assortment of wholesome vegetables sitting on the counter top waiting to be made into a warming casserole or an al fresco lunch depending on the season. My kitchen doesn't quite reach those standards, nor does it match their size (in some cases my entire ground floor doesn't match their size), but it's functional and, for a brief time at least, neat and tidy. These transformations can be short lived.

Admittedly, it would be harder for a prospective buyers to picture themselves in a house full of clutter, so it's as well that a cleaning frenzy has taken place in the hours prior to their visit. Flat surfaces become emptier, cupboards become more full, and other unlikely storage spots are pressed into action. Take the microwave, it serves as a handy home for the few mugs and dishes that you didn't quite get time to wash before the viewers arrived; pile the dishes in and shut the door. The car boot is another handy storage place for bags of stuff that ideally need sorting but for now just need hiding. Received wisdom has it that the seller welcomes the prospective buyer with the smell of fresh coffee and baking bread. I draw the line at these and prefer simply to give the place a good clean and open a window or two to let in fresh air.

It's not just the house that is transformed. The seller also takes on a new role, that of official tour guide who's job it is to show the would-be buyers around their prospective home. With no qualms complete strangers are ushered into every room in the house, left to talk amongst themselves in some upstairs room, and responded to politely when they ask their questions. What are the neighbour's like seems to be the standard one, though like every good tour guide I try to give them extra snippets of information and engage them in friendly conversation. Then, almost as soon as they arrived they are gone, copy of the house schedule in hand, off to see the next house they have booked to view that evening. Even if they buy the house I'll probably never see them in person again, unless they turn up with a tape measure to work out carpeting requirements or measure the drop of a new curtain while I still live here.

There is one very pleasant side effect of showing strangers round, it's that brief period before and after the visit where you are free to enjoy the house in all it's cleanliness. You can sit and relax, surveying your home while it still is your home, safe in the knowledge that nothing at all needs to be done. Well nothing that is until you try to remember where you put those important envelopes that were sitting on the kitchen table until you hid them.

In the absence of sleep

I wasn't supposed to be writing a blog post at this time of night, or rather this early in the morning. In fact I wasn't supposed to be writing this at all, but given a marked absence of Mr Sandman I thought I'd best do something constructive. First constructive thing - make tea. Slightly weak and definitely decaffeinated in deference to the situation but it's tea all the same. Second constructive thing - write blog.

Now about this Mr Sandman. My memory of him from childhood is that he's supposed to come along at night time and blow sand in your eyes to help you sleep. How an eye full of sand is supposed to induce sleep I don't know but at the time I never used to question these things. I can only assume he's been doing his job for the past 50 years without fuss as I'm normally sawing logs almost as soon as I my head touches the pillow. And I can't see him going on strike after all these years but one can never tell.

More likely his last batch of sand was faulty - last night's dose only lasted till 3.30am and then I lay awake not minded to emerge from my warm cocoon. I'm sure the neighbours wouldn't have appreciated me banging about the house at that time anyway. I can only assume that Mr Sandman came round with a second delivery later on because when I finally started to think I might officially start my day I found myself fast asleep again. Well not exactly found myself asleep, a more accurately I found myself waking three and a half hours later at a quarter to ten. I was nicely refreshed by that time so maybe the second batch of sand met the quality standards.

Well time I posted this and settled down ready for the next delivery, even if it is late.

First Aid

The recent earthquake in Haiti brings to light problems in the way very large scale disasters are perceived and managed.

A newspaper in the UK recently had a two page spread that included several different stories on the situation. There were the political concerns within the EU as much about being seen to provide aid as the provision itself; there was an article that examined possible jostling for position on news coverage amongst agencies trying to raise funds; and there was an examination of the social consequences of out of country adoptions for child survivors.

Money on a grand scale is being raised around the world. The United States are sending in so many military resources that some feel it is almost an invasion. Rescue teams from around the world have descended on Haiti, located a hundred or more survivors, and having dug them out of the rubble, are now starting to go home, their job done.

All this activity and political playing is set against the reality, and one assumes it is the reality, of the news reports seen on TV. The impression given by reporters, and by all accounts the perception of the survivors on the ground, is that little aid is getting through quickly enough to where it is needed most.

The majority of observers, or indeed the survivors, have no comprehension of the logistics required in such a situation, and few are aware of what it is like to be at the receiving end of emergency aid. Similarities with the relief effort immediately after hurricane Katrina come to mind. The question is just how quickly can any organisation or donor nation respond to such a large scale disaster. Maybe what we are seeing really is as good as present resources and experiences allow.

For sure, the disaster will continue to unfold long after the reporters and cameras crews have gone home and attention has turned to analysis of how well we did (or didn’t do) the things that were needed.

Baked Potatoes

It's Monday lunchtime and I'm sitting in a little cafe near where I work in the centre of Edinburgh. I've sat in this cafe several times in recent weeks all because of baked potatoes.

In an ideal world a baked potato should be cooked in the hot ashes of a fire. My earliest memories of the humble baked spud are when Grandad cooked them on a Saturday afternoon as he sat in his favourite chair to watch the horse racing on a black and white TV. The potatoes would go into the hot ashes below the coal fire in the living room and emerge a good while later cooked, possibly charred in places, with a crispy outside and a soft inside. Served with butter and salt those potatoes must have been heavenly. I never got to taste one cooked by him but I’ve cooked them that way myself.

Things have changed since those days. Horse racing on TV is in colour, open coal fires are a thing of the past in most homes, and Grandad has long since departed this earth. But what hasn't changed is the taste of a well cooked baked potato.

The modern kitchen would not be complete without a microwave oven. Mine has one. It sits in a corner of the kitchen with a couple of oversize cookery books on top of it, and it doesn't work. It hasn't worked for many months and it waits for me to find time to take it to the local refuse point for recycling. For now, keeping books clear of the work surface is as near to recycling as it gets.

Even when it worked the microwave was only used for heating milk or possibly thawing a chicken breast. What I really mean is it cooked the outside of the chicken and left the inside raw but thawed enough to cook on a hob. These days the milk is also heated on the hob in a marvelous invention called a saucepan. OK, milk pan.

The microwave did at times get pressed into service for cooking "baked" potatoes. They too would emerge with varying degrees of cooked-ness, a bit like the curate's egg: good in parts. Perhaps the curate had the same type of microwave. What it could never do was turn out a baked potato with a consistently soft inside and a crisp and tasty outside.

The closest I can get to the perfect potato, the tastiest tattie, the scrumptious spud is to cook one in the oven. But one and a half hours at 150℃ does not constitute fast food and fast food is the order of the day on a Monday lunchtime. One rule I do have is that fast must also mean healthy, so fries, that other great potato recipe, and an accompanying burger are out.

So when I discovered this little cafe, with it's purpose built baked potato oven, and ate a perfectly cooked baked spud served with delicious fillings and a tasty side salad, I started to come back for more.

The first time I visited was out of necessity. It was bitterly cold outside and not the weather to walk the streets let alone eat sandwiches alfresco. So I came to this little cafe, sat in the warmth and ate a delicious baked potato. The weather has greatly improved, but I prefer to relax here, enjoy my lunch, and then sit a while and reminisce about the humble tattie before heading back to work. Speaking of which, it’s time to go.

Many thanks to the All Good Cafe for feeding the soul and stirring the memories.

First Post

Well that's the blog layout sorted, for now at least, and it is out there for all to see. I may change my mind as time goes by and pick a different colour scheme or different picture. Mostly though I want to use this blog not fiddle with it. "If it works don't fix it" is a good starting point. But if we'd all stuck religiously to that maxim I suppose we'd still be sitting in caves and using stone tools to gather and prepare our food. What I really mean is there's no need to fiddle with it for fiddling's sake.

Man has a tendency to fiddle with things - men have a tendency to fiddle with things; women seem to exhibit this trait far less. I came across a podcast this week that brought home that point. It encouraged me to think beyond fiddling with the bells and whistles of gadgets and consider what the gadgets are for. The podcast - an interview with photographer Jay Maisel - was episode #87 of The Candid Frame.

Jay has some pretty impressive photographic equipment but in using it he is puts the picture first, not the camera. Perhaps that comes from his background as an artist. Why is it that if we see a good photograph we conclude the photographer must have a good camera and yet we don't think a good painting means the artist must have had the finest brushes. The podcast made me stop and think about the balance between the pursuit of perfection and a picture that captures what the photographer saw.