Acting my age

What does it mean when someone says 'act your age'? Is it a criticism implying that you are behaving badly? Possibly. But then, what is actually acting your age - fitting into a stereotype that was set by others, at another time, in another context?

Blow that for a game of soldiers.  This year I am rapidly approaching the grand old age of 53 and I have felt no urge whatsoever to wear floral print, thick stockings and beige cardigans. Oh, hang on, I do wear beige, but more along the lines of 'wannabe safari explorer' than zippered cardigan or sensible waterproof jacket.

So how do I act my age? I'm not sure. Take my week so far...

Monday night - The Full Moon Party.

• Drive an hour or more after work into the Suffolk countryside
• Get lost - find a pub and find local who knows exactly where I am supposed to be
• Meet with a childhood pal, a number of interesting artists, sculptors and a neurological psychologist (who used to live in Totteridge Lane, across the road from where I also lived in a past life)
• Make pizza using host-prepared dough and own toppings
• Cook pizza in dragon-shaped outdoor oven
• Have in-depth conversations on dementia (unsurprisingly), the speed of the universe, psychology and probably a few other things I can't remember
• Tickle one of two six year old blond twin boys who are fascinated by the open fire
• Lose half my pizza to a Staffordshire bull terrier
• Sleep for an hour and a half in the back of my car
• Drive back home between 2 and 3am and watch the most spectacular lightning storms all the way from Thetford to Cambridge

Tuesday evening - bowls match against Great Shelford

• Finish work and change into a white polo shirt and trainers
• Walk  two hundred yards from office door to hidden bowling green (at work)
• Help set up for the match
• Get placed as number one in fourth team (playing first means your bowls are most likely to get thunked out the way during the rest of the end)
• Play average bowls (good for me) in winning rink team
• Sandwiches, drink and raffle with opposing team and team-mates in bar (also at work)

So what age am I acting - as if I were 30 years younger by staying out so late on a work night? As if I were 20 years older by playing bowls?

I don't care. I don't want to fit a stereotype, I want to enjoy life and carry on learning new things and meeting new people. But, I have to say, the 3am bed time is not something I want to do too often - especially not with work the next morning. Well, I won't - not until the next Full Moon Party, or gig, or ...

Courage and confidence, pizza and beer

On a hot, sultry Wednesday evening, I left work on time (amazing!) and met a friend at the Haymakers pub in Chesterton. Rumour had it that their pizzas were pretty good – and what better way to break up the week than a pizza and a glass of something cold with a good friend?

Arriving first I ordered a half of cider called something like ‘Pickled Piglet’. If I had drunk more than a half, I would have indeed been such! A very nice cider, dry and fruity, but not burn your throat like some scrumpies. My friend arrived and she had a Malko... something Czech. Not Malkovitch or Maldova, something in between. I could go look it up, but that’s not so much fun.

We ordered our pizzas (no mushrooms for me!) and they duly arrived folded and oiled, looking glorious as we sat in the shade of the old ash tree. A very pleasant supper. I moved on to diet coke – had to drive home and it was a ‘school night’ after all.

The conversations I have with this friend are always interesting. She is a very intelligent person and a highly talented musician. We talked about science fiction films and writing (we both know Dragon’s Egg, a superb book by Robert L Forward from 1980. I mistakenly thought it was by Theodore Sturgeon until I looked it up – but I also love Theodore's book More Than Human.) We talked about the parasitic or symbiotic nature of humanity on planet earth and whether it should – or should not – be eliminated (by nature or other means, we weren't bent on genocide ourselves, you understand).

We also talked about courage:

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” Nelson Mandela

"Put 'em up..."

And then she put it in the context of confidence. Is confidence not similar? The person who is totally confident, who believes everything they say and do is right, is often perceived as arrogant (bordering on psychopathic perhaps?). 

Is confidence an act? That’s how I thought of it – that I may seem confident and outgoing, yet inside there are very different feelings and self-perceptions. So are the self-perceptions right, or is the act the reality? The conclusion from the conversation was that confidence is more like courage.

“Confidence is not the absence of doubt, but the triumph over it. The brave person is not the one who is always confident, but one who goes ahead and follows what they believe, despite their doubts".

Well, that’s kind of what we came up – though I didn't have Nelson’s quote to crib from.

The outcome is that I am feeling more confident as a result of one conversation. Because I can be what I appear to be, and I understand that – as my training colleagues often used to say – showing some vulnerability is not a bad thing, it actually reveals humanity. Being me maybe isn't so bad.

You don’t have to be superman/woman/child - not unless you really want to wear your pants outside your trousers.

Acknowledgements: Cowardly Lion from MGMs 'The Wizard of Oz'

Amazing dementia lab

I have to post the quickest blog about this ever - this on line lab is just amazing! I like the way it uses a Facebook interaction in a very clever way - try it out and see what I mean. It makes it personal and also gets across a very pertinent message.

If you haven't seen it yet, visit the ARUK Lab www.dementialab.org and then vote for it here in the awwwards!

This is an amazing bit of tech, but more important is the story it tells about dementia research.

Thank you.

Ribbons and letters

6th June is a momentous day - the death of Robert F Kennedy, the birth of David Blunkett, the feast day of Claude the Thaumaturge, and the start of D-Day in Normandy.  (Thank you Wiki for some of these.)

It's an important day for me too. It's my wedding anniversary (though, since becoming single it's significance has waned somewhat) and it's my brother's birthday. I haven't seen my brother for a long time. I don't know where he is or how he is. I don't know, to be honest, if he is alive or dead.

When he first moved to Cornwall about 25 years ago, I would write to him, and phone him sometimes. And in 1991 I became pregnant with our son, Alex, and I wanted to tell him. And I couldn't find him - I didn't know where he lived or where he was working. I wrote to him though, at the address I still had, and sent photographs of his new nephew. When Alex was about a year old, we took a family holiday to Cornwall. We found the address Philip lived at, but there was no answer.

My cousin, Nick, went down to Cornwall (he'd lived there for a while and knew the area well) and did manage to catch up with Phil one day. He told me 'your photos were on his wall'. So he had received my letters. Nick told me that Phil was working in a computer games shop. That was probably just after Melody was born, in 1993. But after that, neither Nick nor I could ever reach Phil.

I tried the Salvation Army - who did know him but he wasn't with them. I tried 'Find your family' websites. I found some very nice Philip Sheppards (one also had a father called Anthony, same as our dad, which was a strange coincidence), but I didn't find my brother.

My brother and I fought as kids, don't all siblings? But as adults we got along pretty good. I don't know why he chose to forget us. But you don't choose your family, do you? So the only choice you have is whether you stay in contact or not. Lots of families fall apart over stupid things - lots of families just drift.  I just miss my brother.

My daughter, Melody, wrote a song for me - and for anyone who has lost touch with a loved one. Here it is. Please share and send to anyone who this may touch.

Happy birthday Phil, wherever you are. This family still think of you.

Where is shopping going?

Here's two headlines from the same email which I received from Marketing Magazine:

Amazon eyes international expansion of grocery business

and

Ocado to launch non-food sites in 'hypermarket' drive

So, are we set for a wonderful combination of increased competition driving down prices? Sadly I don't think so. Each of these two huge brands have very clear ideas of who their target markets are and though I am sure there will be as much theft of consumer as possible between brands, I don't think a price war is imminent. But there will be battles for new audiences - I don't go on to Amazon for my bread, nor to Ocado to buy guitar strings.

More entrants in the market will provide more choice, but I can quickly see a time when a whole new industry arises around on-line grocery shopping - where the fulfilment is a different organisation to the seller.

Picture this, in your town an Ocado, Tesco Direct, Asda (new entrants to home delivery) and an Amazon van all out and about delivering groceries. Wouldn't it be more cost-effective to have one van for the food and small goods? (I'm not talking sofas here.)

We already have 'white van' drivers who deliver for multiple non-food goods, so what about it for  food? It's very possible. You have your huge delivery of fresh broccoli  and you pack and label them according to how many orders you get from the marketers. A 'print on demand' solution for non-branded goods.

And for brands, the challenge will be to ensure their unique selling point is a strong one. That's a challenge they face now - whether it's ketchup or kitchen towel - but my goodness I can see that search optimisation and brand values are going to be a whole new challenge for marketers. How do you get that wonderful 'Bisto family' feeling in a search term? You will have to rely on traditional advertising to build brand values and develop customer loyalty, but will it work in an era when you can simply search 'best gravy mix' and find something just as good, but much cheaper? Marketers live in 'interesting times'. 

We are some way off from all shopping being on line and seeing our beloved (or behated, in some cases) supermarkets closing their doors to the browser, and opening the browser as their doors, but I do see big changes ahead, and soon. These two super-players are simply flexing their muscles ready for the battle ahead.


Picture courtesy of http://www.whichbetter.net/comparison/online-vs-offline-shopping-which-is-better/

This single life - internet dating

I have a number of friends who have been successful using internet dating to meet their partner - in fact there are claims that one in five new relationships start on line. We spend more time on line these days than ever before and do more and more things on line, so why not dating too? After all, it's got to be easier than going into a pub or club on your own, hasn't it? You have the safety of distance - cyber distance.

There's a lovely infographic here about how people spend their time on line, and top of the list is email. It doesn't, however mention internet dating or the percentage of people on line who look at or search for 'stuff' that they certainly wouldn't mention in a survey. In fact the internet has produced such a wealth of free material, that it's challenged the industry to reinvent itself. If you don't know what I'm on about - look at this article here. Safe, I promise! It's a link to Reuters.

So what has prompted me to write a blog about this much publicised medium for finding a partner? Well, there's nothing like experience, is there. And experience shared may do absolutely nothing for you, but it helps me.

Now, let's look at the logic of this - what is a dating site? It's a shop window. And like anything else, if you want to sell, you have to market it. I write a nice profile (engaging copy as we'd say in the trade), and I put up some photographs of myself (won't buy without seeing the product), and I looked up some other profiles of 'your recommended matches'.

The result is that I find I am a) too old b) too fat or c) too far away. And, I guess, d) unappealing. I have to add d), because of the lack of response and rather depressing outlook that internet dating has given me. Let's face it - people do react to first impressions, and though you could probably write up a storm on a personal profile, your mugshot is going to be what 99% of people make a decision on. (OK, my statistic isn't verified, but the overall precept is - check out Psychology Today).

So, for me to make a good first impression, relying on a dating website is not the right place. I have no chance to further influence anyone who chances across my profile. They will make a snap decision based on the top two sentences, and no matter how good they are, if the face doesn't fit, then they will go no further.

The one thing I believe you should be on any kind of website where you are representing yourself is honest. So though I have some nice photos (even photoshopped!) I don't put them up as my main profile picture. That isn't me. And the thing is that me being honest isn't much use anyway, because not everyone else is. I have had conversations (brief) with individuals who are married (no thank you!) or who live miles away (internet sex? no thank you either). And the photographs - the age and the photo don't match, but sometimes they are honest enough to say 'Here's a photo taken ten years ago'... hah hah!

All right, so I'm sounding sad and cynical, but in truth it's just about the medium. It's not right for me - but it may be right for you.

Photocredit: http://mysavvysisters.com/internet-dating-safety-tips-for-women/

From heartening to heartbreak

On Friday and Saturday I was at the Alzheimer's Show. 'How can you have a show about Alzheimer's? It's not an entertainment!'.  But what else do you call it? An exhibition? An exposition? Max Pemberton of the Daily Telegraph said 'An Alzheimer's show does make sense.' (His article is available on line here.) Show is just about the only word to describe the collection of talks and stands full of information around Alzheimer's and dementia. And calling it anything else could have been disingenuous.

The first show like this ever run in the UK (and anywhere else? I don't know) we didn't know what to expect. Who would attend? What did the people who visited the show expect too? But it went ahead, despite some challenges in the early planning. And, in my opinion, it was a success. Others' too, I hope.

What I can give you is my experience of the event, which was both heartening and heartbreaking at the same time.

Alzheimer's, the most common form of dementia, is a disease. Diseases can be beaten - but we are a long way off from a cure, partly because we know so little about the complex human brain. So research is happening (not enough) and progress is being made, but we are years behind other diseases like cancer and heart disease.  I was there to help provide information on what research is being done and what real progress is being made, but there were also stands with practical help - everything from phone call screening machines, through legal advice to the admirable Admiral Nurses.


I was on a stand and talking to the visitors - a myriad mix of people, including occupational therapists, trainee nurses, and people with the disease. Though every conversation had was in its own way powerful - and we had very many indeed - there were a few that stood out.

The first was a nice looking man of about 40. He approached the stand and asked for information about Alzheimer's. I asked what his area of interest was. 'I am a policeman,' he said 'and we often get called out to help find people who have got lost, or we pick up wanderers. And sometimes we visit families who are just at breaking point. I want to find out more to help us manage these people properly.' Right then and there I found my hero for the year.

I met one family, husband about 45, son perhaps the same age as mine (early 20s). The wife told me that the husband had just been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. The future ahead for them is not going to be easy, but maybe we'll find a cure for his grandchildren.

I met many people who had recently been diagnosed, and I met their carers, families and friends. Every single story, every exchange we had, there was a heartbreak. One way or another, nearly a third of the UK population has a close friend or family member with dementia (more stats here in this simple animation). The impact of the disease is huge - not just on those with the disease, but on everyone around us.

Another conversation that really stood out was with a young lady from South Africa. She is a dementia carer here in the UK, but her main ambition is to go back to South Africa, to the townships where she came from, and educate people about dementia being a disease. What she told me was shocking - that people with dementia who wander into dangerous areas, or even just into other people's homes and gardens (such as they may be) are considered to be possessed - to be affected by witchcraft. It was almost unbelievable to think that in this day and age people do not understand about Alzheimer's and attribute it to witchcraft, but there is evidence that this is so. When she told me that many of these people are killed through fear and misunderstanding, I realised just how serious this young woman was.

I'm not sure what difference we can make to perceptions world-wide, but every little bit of progress in education and in moving closer to the treatments and cures for dementia that research is unearthing, has to be a good thing. An Alzheimer's Show was, in my humble opinion, a good idea.

Useful links:

Admiral Nurses
Alzheimer's Research UK
Alzhiemer's Show - 16 and 17 May 2014
Alzheimer's Society
Dementia information
Dementia statistics
Dementia UK
NHS About Dementia

Photo credit: Policeman from Strawberry Fair by George

The best morning's birding

Sleepy barn owls

This morning I woke in good time to head off to our local RSPB reserve, Fowlmere, before 10am. It's a popular place on a Sunday, and though I love to see whole families enjoying this lovely reserve, a herd of people does tend to fright the wildlife a bit more than a few individuals.



Chiffchaff
 

I was lucky enough this morning to meet the reserve Warden, who was out and about doing some general maintenance and also on the lookout for anything interesting. The first thing he pointed out to me was some bullfinches - I could hear them but not see them. A quick fly-past and that was it, but at least I saw them. I haven't seen them since I was 16. Then, some redpoll, hopping around a bush above our heads.



Water rail

I was given a delightful display by a family of long-tailed tits, heard my first chiffchaffs (they are two weeks late coming to the UK this year, and who can blame them with our weather this year) and - most exciting for me - the water rail. We (the warden, myself and some others) were in the reedbed hide and a pair of snipe, really close, were pointed out to me. I looked across to see the moorhen strutting about in the sunshine, but it wasn't a moorhen at all - it was the water rail! I've been to Fowlmere many, many times, and this was the first time I have even seen one and in brilliant sunshine, in the open.  I also saw a tree creeper, chaffinch and a party of jays.

My walk round was punctuated by the rattle of a woodpecker, the laughter of a green woodpecker in the fields, and the 'yak yak yak' of a bird I have yet to identify. The woods and the reeds were alive

Snipe

with birdsong - spring is truly here. The robins, dunnocks and blackbirds were singing full belt, the greylag geese arguing in the fields and on the lake, and the gadwall, Canada geese, mallard and swan serenely enjoying the sun on the water. A small muntjack deeer watched me cautiously, a grey squirrel shot across the path, and the sound of fallow deer moving through the reeds provided animal variety.

This, for me, was the perfect way to be alone, because how can you be alone when surrounded by so much amazing wildlife, and the odd enthusiastic birder as well.

The birdwatcher in me

I was thinking today, about my love of birdlife. Where did it come from? My father was a nature lover, but not a birder. And I thought back, to an old gentleman sitting in a big blue chair – Kensitas cigarettes (I used to run to the shop to buy them for him when I was 10) and Mosaic sherry by his side.

Alexander F Long, RAF

My grandpa, ‘Bones’ Long, was the birdwatcher in our family. I remember his excitement at seeing a collared dove on his way home one day (perhaps in the early 60s), when they were new immigrants to this country.  Or do I remember being told about his excitement? Memories are often constructed, but I do know he inspired in me a fascination in birdlife.

Furthermore, my love of dinosaurs (originally enjoyed as a child, and revived when I had a son) was manifested in their modern descendants – birds. Well, I believe that to be the case, anyway. Take away the feathers, put some teeth on those beaks – voilà! Dinosaurs are still here.

Why birds? Because of their variety! A big old pheasant can be phenomenally stupid, whilst a bird a quarter of the size is extremely intelligent. Members of the crow family (they aren’t just black, they are a multitude of blacks), for example, are amongst the smartest of the avian species on the planet – inventing ways to crack nuts and solve problems that would leave an orang-utan puzzled.

Oh, I love orang-utans too, but I don’t get them in my garden (if you do, you are very lucky). I can see birds at any time – day or night – in any country I live or visit. And they all have different ways of attracting my interest. From huge flocks of starlings executing the spectacular murmuration, to that cute little pied wagtail hopping about on my lawn – they intrigue and entertain.

He’s been dead many, many long years; a man who fought in two world wars, rowed in the Olympics for his country and won Bobsleigh and Tennis medals. I have not inherited his courage or physical prowess, but his simple passion and delight in birds.

Thank you grandpa. 

Krakow part three - This Single Life part five

The liberation of loneliness

 I needed some time away from the stress of work (following a very intense couple of months) and to get away from everything I took a long weekend away - in Krakow. I have no idea why I chose that destination, but I seriously needed some 'me' time.

Going to a completely foreign country where I didn't have a clue about the language is not everyone's idea of 'stress free', but I really enjoyed myself.


I arrived at Krakow airport and came out into the airport lounge to a dull grey day and not a clue about the language. I could say one thing 'thank you' (dziekuje - which would come in useful) and decided to get to my hotel by bus. I found a bus stop eventually and bought a ticket from the Bilety machine. I realised that I could read some Polish - though the sounds were unfamiliar to me. 

By taking the bus into the city I saved money and I got to saw much more of the city - taking the bus route through the wealthy suburbs, and the less wealthy areas too. From huge houses behind iron gates to the massive newly built apartment blocks. Flying in over Krakow the apartment blocks looked like huge dominoes all stacked round the city.

I found my hotel and booked my trips (the salt mine and the Jewish Quarter), and with the whole day ahead of me still, thanks to an early flight, went exploring. I felt perfectly safe in the city. It was a typical European city, though more Eastern European than I had even visited. The weather was grey, the snow was piled in un-melted heaps by the side of the roads and my exploring took me all over the city - mostly in circles. I found the castle and cathedral and after an enlightening afternoon headed back to the hotel.

The clapper is the 'heart'

I was not with a group, and the only conversations I had the whole time were transactional - enough to get what I needed. I walked in circles quite frequently, I got lost in some strange parts of town, I went the wrong way on the tram and walked a five mile route to the Schindler Museum instead of a half mile.

There was no one to chide me for a wrong decision, no one to pressure me about time, or activity, or about what to do. I could climb high in the cathedral tower to visit the heart of the bell, descend into the depths of the salt mine, wander the streets aimlessly and was totally at liberty to please myself. I went back to the hotel when I wanted, I ate at small Polish cafes (where my lack of Polish was matched by the owners' lack of English) and I survived, eating wonderful traditional local cooking.

So the liberation was that I had nothing and no one else to worry about. No foibles or preferences of anyone but myself to consider. And yet I had no one to share the story with at the time. But you know - that's fine - because I have more tales to tell since my return.

I think my next trip may well be in a group, because I want to go whale watching in Iceland, but if it isn't, I really don't mind. I like pleasing myself. And I'm sure the whales won't mind at all.

When creative writers go wrong

I go to a writers circle most months, and for February we had a 'write beforehand' exercise. We were given three titles and I started writing about 'The Betrayal'. It was pants. The next choice was 'Thursday morning, 4am' but it also left me uninspired. The final choice, 'Shoes in a charity shop' didn't exactly excite me, but some whimsy took my mind last night as I was thinking about this challenge, and this is what I wrote.  Best read aloud, with a suitably regionalised accent for the shop assistant:

Shoes in the charity shop

“Excuse me,” I said to the lady at the counter, “but these were on the shelf over there”. I pointed towards the shoe rack, and put the two bananas down in front of her.

“Oh my, they are lovely, aren’t they?” she said. I looked at her, a little confused. Well, yes, I liked bananas, but that’s not what I expected her to say.

I looked down at them, and then up at her.

“Well, aren’t you going to try them on?” she said. “They are just your colour.” I looked at her as if she had just landed from another planet. “Go on!” she enthused. I paused, and a small frown creased her brow. “It’s OK, we do spray everything. They won’t smell or anything. They are perfectly clean.”

I looked at the bananas again. Two long, slightly curved, and somewhat wide yellow fruit, delicately scored with black. Actually, the black was rather nicely symmetrical. I looked at the bananas again, turning them round on the counter, to view them from every angle. They were bananas.

“Not too high, are they?” the assistant asked. She nudged them towards me. “Go on. They aren’t expensive, and they are so lovely and soft. I bet they’ll fit like a dream when you put them on.”

Sighing at the complete impossibility of it all, I took the bananas from the counter and put them on the floor. I slipped off my burgundy court shoes and … stepped into the bananas. They felt soft, squidgy. The fruit seeped between my toes, a not unpleasant feeling.

“Walk around a bit, see how they feel.” I walked across the shop floor. The bananas moulded to my feet. The gluey fruit flattened, the slippery skins buttered themselves across my instep. “They do look smart on you.” Said the girl. I decided to stop looking at my feet as I walked. I crossed the shop and went to a full length mirror that hung next to a huge vase full of walking sticks. The bananas felt strangely comfortable.  I looked at myself in the mirror, there were my feet – neatly encased in … mashed fruit.

I went back to the counter and slipped them off. Putting my feet back into my own shoes, my toes still sticky with squashed white flesh, I felt rather silly. “I don’t think they are really for me.” I said. “Shame.” The assistant sighed, and as I put the pulped bananas back on the counter her face instantly clouded. “Look what you’ve done to them!” she said. “They’re ruined – I can’t sell those!”

“But…” I started, and then realised I had not one iota of defence. She looked at me. I looked at her, and then down at the ruined bananas. “I tell you what,” I said. “I’ll take them, but I’d like a handbag to match.” The girl smiled.

“No problem,” she said, and reaching below the counter, pulled out a large yellow melon. She unzipped it and pulled out something not unlike a very ripe mango. “Look,” she said. “Even got a matching purse.”

Krakow - Eposide Two: Above the salt

From Wiki: "The word salary originates from Latin: salarium which referred to the money paid to the Roman Army's soldiers for the purchase of salt."

White gold, below the salt, salt of the earth, worth his salt. Salt has been currency both in physical and literary terms for thousands of years. And though I was familiar with salt harvesting from the sea, I never really thought about rock salt or that it required mining. I never imagined, for example, that beneath the ground the prehistoric seas had left such huge salt deposits as those that give their name to places like Salzburg and Salzach.

My visit to the Wieliczka salt mine was one of the highlights of my recent visit to Poland. There is a lovely story of how the mine was found, through the dropping of a ring by St Kinga (she dropped the ring in a salt mine miles away, and it turned up in Wielicza). St Kinga is the patron saint of salt miners, of course.

The mine itself is an amazing place and certainly worth visiting. 101m underground and you are in a huge chamber that equals that of many a stately home. And it's all made of salt - from the tiles beneath your feet to the crystals on the chandelier. The salt miners (who lived longer than their non-mining contemporaries, due to the 'benefits' of salt) made the most amazing statues and underground chapels - carving out of the salt not only the chambers and passageways, but detailed statues of saints and heroes.

The mine was awe inspiring - in fact it is one of the most extraordinary and intriguing places I have ever been. A mix of nature's wonder (the varying colours of the salt and the way it crystalises on the ancient props) and the ingenuity of humanity - carving not only a living from the salt, but the amazing chapels too.

From the Pope to gnomes, all along the tourist route you get to see the craftsmanship of carver-miners. The tour I went on was around two hours and we walked a long way, exploring three levels of the mine that are open to the public. And the amazing thing is that we saw just 1% of the mine - it must be absolutely huge.

St Kinga

The main hall

One of the tunnels

The floor tiles - simply carved out of the salt floor

One of the carvings in the main hall

Carving detail

I was there! 

The salt mine alone was worth the trip to Poland. I wish I could have taken better photographs, but those I do have don't even begin to do it justice.

Photos: All (C) Carolyn Sheppard 2013

Krakow - episode one: Too fat for a Pole

The town and the places I visited were full of young people – healthy looking, with their distinctive defined features and lean figures. I did, however, notice a distinct lack of middle aged people (and have no explanation for this). The older people were the retired generation (and didn't tend to hang around tourist haunts, understandably), but I was disappointed at the lack of impressive facial hair across any generation. This may be a stereotypical expectation, but one fulfilled in the past (in an adventure in Spain, but that’s another blog post). There’s no denying it, if I hadn't been wearing a big coat with a fur collar and the most ridiculous (but warm) ear-flap hat, I would never have been mistaken for a native, not at my weight.

St Adelbert's

I enjoyed my visit to Krakow and the people were friendly, especially the ones on the market square. These fell into three distinct categories – firstly the tourists, of whom I was one and blatantly wandering about with a camera taking pictures of churches and architectural detail; secondly the visiting Pole who is confident in the language but unfamiliar with the city. They were disappointed when I couldn't direct them to their chosen destination or tell them which tram was going where. Finally were the panhandlers; those individuals (of all ages) who were asking for money or food, with the catch phrase ‘I'm hungry’. One rather elderly lady in a fur coat told me she hadn't had any lunch (but she did have cigarettes).

I adopted a technique for dealing with the latter group – a simple and safe one. Speak complete gibberish. If I spoke English, then they had a way in to conversation, and being British and polite, we hate saying no. But, if I spoke complete rubbish, they gave up and went away, heading towards the next likely looking mark. Now I may sound insensitive and there are definitely those in need in Krakow as in many places, but I am not wise enough to know who is deserving and who is not. Nor am I foolish enough to get out my purse in a market square in front of a person who can (fur coat lady aside) no doubt run a lot faster and further than me.

If you know me, you know I am not a Christian or a great believer in any formal religion, but I do believe that the basic ideas (of nearly all religions) are a good moral guide overall, where they are about mutual benefit. I also understood that Jesus was a man (if he really was, blah blah, nothing deep here, save that discussion for another time) who stood for helping those worse off than yourself and in being humble in this life. So whilst on the freezing streets of Krakow young and old are asking for handouts from strangers, in the churches there are the most extraordinarily gilded statues I have ever seen.

I understand that churches were built to impress and convey the might of god (and the ceiling of St Mary’s is wonderfully impressive), but of the little I know of the Bible, I don’t think the apostles went around in huge gold-laden cloaks. Perhaps just one statue from one church would have yielded enough gold to feed everyone in the square that day.

Oh I know that’s simplistic, but it’s not so much about the money or aesthetics as about the conflict with what I understood Jesus to represent, and then how he is represented. In St Adelbert’s (where I attended a wonderful chamber concert), the painting of Mary and child had silver crowns stuck on top of their halos – an obvious later addition. It looked like a kid had got the silver paper and jelly beans out. Probably real silver and amber, probably worth a small fortune, yet to my mind they detracted from the impact of the painting itself. Mind you, the churches were very impressive and as a visual feast I certainly enjoyed visiting and photographing them.

It was cold in Krakow so I spent most of my time in my coat and well wrapped up. I ate wonderful food at Polish cafes and enjoyed local fare. Still, I didn't over eat and didn't drink much (apart from the delicious mulled wine) and I walked miles and miles. But if I had visited in summer and worn the local fashion of rather hideous check, they’d have still known I was too fat for a Pole.

Expect to pay for the packaging

When I go into a supermarket and buy a bag of rice, I know that I am not just paying for the rice. I am paying for the packet, for the processors, distributors and shippers that got the rice from the field into the factory and into the shop and for the point-of-sale poster telling me this rice is on special offer.  

Right up to advertising it’s an invisible process, but we all know it goes on. When I was a child I found out that the actual cost of the chocolate in the bar I bought was less than half of what I was paying. ‘When I grow up, I’m going to let people buy chocolate at the right price!’ I thought. I did grow up, and I understood. You don’t just pay for the chocolate.

But when it comes to charitable giving, it seems that some people forget this.

Now we are talking very different purposes of course – mostly there is no physical exchange of goods or services for the financial consideration – but the process is the same.

For you to donate to charity, in most cases you need to be made aware of the cause, be given a method by which you can give, the banks need to move cash, the charity needs to allocate the funds and spend the income it generates, and everyone along the line needs to be rewarded (financially or otherwise). This distribution chain involves just as much as the rice or chocolate.

In these economic times even more than ever, charities are keenly aware of keeping their costs down – but administration cannot be cost-free. Even the collection tin requires purchasing, the labels printing, the volunteer recruiting, and the bank that processes the donation makes its buck somewhere along the line you can be sure.  

What percentage of a donation goes directly to the cause? As much as possible. The Charity Commission is there to make sure that charities are not just ‘jobs for the boys’ but are tasked with achieving their charitable purpose. The alternative is simple – we stop fundraising. We let the issue/disease/crime run its natural course.  

The truth is that donors need fundraisers – imagine trying to donate directly to a school in Africa, or a research scientist in a laboratory. How would you decide whether it’s the right place to send the money, how would you get the money there? There are some successful directly funding charities, but they are the minority and usually quite small.

As fundraisers we are often criticised for being a profession as opposed to a vocation, or that we spend too much on administration. But if we were not professional, if we did not administer efficiently and lawfully, if we did not pass on absolutely as much of the money we can – then cancer wins. Then victims of crime are abandoned. The lonely voice in the night has no one to call. The child dies.

It’s not really such a hard choice to have things done professionally and well. I am proud to be a fundraiser.

And just as a caveat - these are my personal opinions and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer, colleagues or friends. 

Image credit: How much does your drivers' chocolate cost you?

Petra's leap

It’s holiday time. The family are bundled into the Humber Hawk – ‘Snodge’. My dad always named his cars, and this big old grey car, with its huge leather seats (no seatbelts), its spacious boot and improvised roof-rack, was the perfect vehicle for transporting the family down the long and winding roads from North London to Devon. Petrol was 73p a gallon – an outrage! One day, my father mused, it would probably be more than a pound a gallon.

There was no M4 in those days, so the A4 was our favoured (and only major) route. The journey was punctuated by visits to different hostelries along the way and I am fairly sure that at the age of about six I could reasonably navigate myself across half of England via the names of different pubs along the way.


Petra, following me up a cliff on the beach



I looked out of the window watching fields spin past, sheep dotting the hillsides like fallen clouds, whilst pigs and cows added extra punctuation to the brown and green countryside. My brother, ignoring the world outside the window and whiling away the journey through immersion in comics (Superman, Batman, The Flash), would stop reading just long enough to argue with me over food, or to steal my comic (Sparky), or to look out the window cursorily at my mother’s insistence that we ‘enjoy the view’. Our dog, Petra, would alternately sit in the front with mother, or in the back with us. If we argued too much, Petra sat in the front and we were deprived of her warm, affectionate companionship.  She was, as my father described her, a ‘black and tan-ex’. A cute mongrel with a lovely temperament and an obliging nature.

One of our favourite stops along the way was the Pig & Whistle. Now for the life of me I can’t remember where this pub is, but I do know that it was by a bridge over a river – and from the road bridge there was a 20 foot drop down to the riverbank below. It was the scene, on one of our travels, for Petra’s spectacular leap. Petra was on the bridge with my brother, and I was below in the field by the river. The field sloped down from the pub to the river and was part of its garden. Though deep rivers and huge drops may be considered dangerous environments for kids today – for us it was nothing to play in such places without adult supervision.

I called to Petra – it was my ‘turn’ for the dog. Assuming that she would trot round the lane route and down into the field, I was aghast to see our lovely pet flying through the air as she took the quick way down – leaping from the bridge to join me below. The strange thing is, I remember this from a third party perspective, as if I am standing by the pub watching both the road and the field below, with me standing there as Petra sailed – perhaps gracefully – down to the ground. Amazingly she was unhurt; perhaps it wasn’t really a huge 20 feet drop – but it did seem incredibly high to a small girl, and probably higher to an even smaller dog.

Writing your childhood

I'm reading a book about going camping in the 70s (The tent, the bucket, and me). The writing is witty, bright and detailed. I'm sure that the author doesn't actually remember the details herself of events from when she was just four years old; there'll be a good dose of imagination as well, I'm sure, as familial interrogation.

So how do you write your childhood? Yes, you were there, but your perspective would be totally different at the time compared to how you may remember things in later life. I know, for example, that a lot of my stories from childhood are based around constructed memories: things that I know happened and have been recounted as stories. So are my memories from the events, or the retelling?

I'm not sure how it works, but I do know that it takes a good writer to make it feel genuine.

I thought, then, about how I might write something from my own childhood. For example, a family holiday, or a particular event. How would I collect the information that goes with the memory? Most of the people of my childhood are no longer around, apart from my mother.  I do need to talk to her more about her life - she has some amazing stories to tell. But I doubt if any of them relating to my childhood are particularly entertaining.

It's taken me a couple of hours, and I've written about 1500 words about my childhood, and I discover that my style is very wordy and not particularly amusing. I am caught up in detail, and one though leads to another so that the narrative is long and not very structured. But it's been an interesting adventure, writing with the thought of being read, rather than just writing for my own pleasure.

As a writer, I still have so much to learn, but I do understand that your own life isn't really interesting to anyone else, and to make it entertaining you have to be creative (not necessarily fictional) and apply your imagination so that whatever you are saying, there is a reason, pace and outcome to the piece. I don't think I've succeeded yet, but at least I understand what is needed. I'll post an excerpt, and then I'll revise it in future.

Direct Musketeers!

In a recent conversation, it was commented that I spoke as a 'direct marketeer'. I took it as a compliment and, in my head, heard 'musketeer' of course.



The Musketeers, Maurice Leloir, 1894

 Direct marketing and the musketeers are not so different. Dear d'Artangnan would never stand aloof from the oncoming army on a battlement throwing out random shot at his enemy, oh no. Our bold musketeer would be in the thick of it - engage one to one, face to face, and adapt his fighting style to his opponent. He would never use a cannon against one man with a sword; that, my dears, would not be honourable.

This may seem like a ramble, but I think it is rather a good analogy. In the past marketing was rather more blunderbuss and boiling oil over the parapet in the hope it would hit the target.  We call that mass marketing. Examples would be TV, print  and radio adverts - no control over who the message is going to reach. Newspapers and magazines undrestand their audience and carry adverts most likely to match their reader, but they don't start with 'Dear Milady de Winter, so glad you are watching/reading this advert...' - it's just not possible (yet).

Returning to my musketeers, when the objective is to kill, perhaps the mass approach is more effective, but when it is to sell - whether that be a government or a product - then the winning of hearts and minds is very much a key campaign objective. And to do that, you have to understand who your audience are and what they want to hear.

Direct marketeers need to approach the audience the way that the musketeers would - approaching the most appropriate opponent with respect, honour and dignity. That's direct marketing, and direct marketeers should 'treat others as we would be treated'. Each of the musketeers has a different appeal and characteristic: the noble and secretive Athos, the honest and extrovert Porthos, the womanising Aramis and the dashing d'Artagnan.  Dumas developed engaging characters that had varied appeal - and marketers do the same. We just call it audience segmentation, which sounds far less romantic.

The motto of the direct marketeers could be similar to that of the musketeers too: 

"All for one and one for one!" 

Marketeers adopt a wide range of techniques to get consumers to buy their products, donate to their charity or to support their political or social cause. But the best sell of all is usually the most personal. Even in our technological age, the adage that 'people buy from people' is still true. We may order goods on line, but if we want to know more about a product or service, or have a question, we like to speak to people.
Real living people. So the more personal you can get in a communication, whether it's a letter, email, phone call or face to face, the better.

Probably best to leave the sword at home, though.

Just a year older than me

Philip Anthony Dwight Sheppard 1920-1974

As I was driving home the other day, a memory came to me. I don't know why, or what prompted it, but it was crystal clear and bitter sweet.

When she was in her early forties, my mother was widowed. She was young, attractive, and had two teenage children. Her husband was a gentleman; he always opened the doors, he was the one who did the driving. He was an actor, a writer, and she probably worked ten times more than he did. But that was circumstance, not choice.

He died at just 53 - that's only a year older than I am now. I never knew him really - only as a little girl who loved her daddy. I think of some of the things we said and did, and they seem like things I can't understand now, as if there was a different language we spoke then.

But the memory which came to me was  from the day of his funeral. We were in Bath, the home town of his family. It was a chilly winter day,  most of the which was a blur, but I remember being very cross at the funeral gathering after his interment (which I did not attend). The vicar was sent in to see me, to try and explain to this immature child why everyone was having a party now her dad was dead. I wasn't having any of it.

My mother, aunt, brother and I must have looked at the flowers and read cards, with the usual condolence and best wishes. But it was this one card's message that suddenly came to mind as I drove home that day, and it's a memory I treasure. It was from our neighbour's child Mary - she was probably only four or five years old.  On the card, in her naieve writing, was written "Have a happy time in heaven Anthony".

A walk around Fowlmere



Tree creeper



What better way to spend a sunny October Sunday than to take a walk round my favourite nature reserve? Fowlmere is run by the RSPB and I go as often as I can. I've seen mink there before but today I spotted a weasel hopping across the path with his dinner in his mouth. Tasty for him, unfortunate for some small creature.



The lazy heron



The reserve was really busy - there were lots of cars and plenty of people. There were very few birds though - the lake was deserted apart from four ducks and a lazy heron. I did have the pleasure of seeing a tree creeper. I tried to photograph it but only got a backside view (my speciality it seems).



Fungus



As I wandered round the reserve, sitting quietly in some of the hides, or wandering slowly along the sun-dappled path, I didn't just keep my eye out for birds. There was a deer, the aforesaid weasel, and lots of bugs. The gnats danced over the water in formation, a cloud of insects that seemed to love the feel of the sun just as much as everyone else.

Being autumn, it's also a wonderful time for fungi and I saw bright orange spongy stuff on rotten wood in the river, mushrooms in little circles and some lovely ones on a tree. I have no idea what kind of fungi they are, but the deep red one was particularly striking.

Old man's beard

There was talk of the kingfisher having been seen (though it has eluded me every visit so far), but I am almost sure that the grey feathers I photographed through the reeds was a water rail (or a pidgeon learning to swim). The long-tailed tits, who I have been trying to photograph without success, put in a quick performance. I managed to get another butt-view, but not very in focus unfortunately. Patience is the key, and I will keep trying until I get my perfect photo of these delightful little birds.

Of course, it's also a great time of year for plants - the changing of the seasons brings out a riot of different colours to the brashness of summer. Deep red berries, ochre-tinted leaves, purple blackberries and the lush greens of watercress, reedbed and evergreen. 



Long tailed tit

The barn owls have nested and there are young too - I took a long-distance photo of the nest box and can see, on close examination, a sleepy owl's head. I need to go back at dusk one day to get a good look at these wonderful ghost owls.

If you've never been, then do take a walk around Fowlmere one day. It's not too long a walk for young and old alike, and there are plenty of benches and hides.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/f/fowlmere/





A life on the wing



Cormorant



The last weekend in September I spent time away from a computer, away from technology and my every day life. I have always enjoyed bird watching, so the opportunity to spend three days in the company of fellow bird enthusiasts in the wilds of Norfolk was delightful.

I won't list birds all the birds or go into detail about walks along hedgerows, patient waiting to see if we could spot the elusive 'yellow browed warbler' (who did not appear); I could mention standing in fields with scopes and binoculars focused on distant soaring buzzards, I will mention my delight at watching the gannets plummet into the ocean. All in all it was a most relaxing and enjoyable time, and I learned a lot.



Godwits and stuff



The other members of the group who were, without exception, lovely people.We were all 'bird nerds' together. I took great delight in learning more about birdsong, in absorbing little snippets that will help me recognise more birds and to know where to look and what to look for. I particularly enjoyed the fact that when someone saw a bird (whether we were driving, walking or standing watching) everyone was interested and keen to see what had been spotted. Chris, our group leader and very knowledgeable guide, would often pull the van over to the side of the road (mostly tiny single track Norfolk byways) and point to something in the field like a grey partridge or a rock dove. It was no inconvenience to be interested in birds - it was our shared passion.





I have often bird watched, but usually on my own, or incidentally when out doing something else. At other times my bird watching has been quite often been a reason to get left behind. But for three whole days we were completely indulged.



Thousands of birds at Snettisham. Knot, dunlin,
oyster catcher, to name but a few



The highlight of the trip was the early morning visit to Snettisham. We saw some forty or fifty thousands birds on the mudflats, waking up from their overnight roost and getting ready to spread out along the coast as the tide receded and the day warmed. The most spectacular point was when something spooked the birds and they would rise in a cloud - the sun catching their wings, creating a golden shimmering cloud.



I had an amazing time and will definintely try and go again one day. Maybe I'll take a friend, if I can find someone else who is as prepared as me (and the other birders) to stop what you are doing and just peer into a hedge for fifteen minutes in the hope that...

For more info, visit Chris's website: http://www.norfolkbirding.com/