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/

The right stranger

I've been doing a lot of train travelling recently and as I sat on the train last night I thought how nice it would be to talk to someone. But instead, opposite me was a huge man who ate noisily and largely (each movement of his mouth, every gesture towards his crisps or drink, was large) and who left crumbs down his shirt and tie and all his rubbish on the seat. Next to me was a woman who was engrossed in telephone calls. The other seat of the four was occupied by Mr Large's detritus.

I would have liked to chat to someone, as I often do. Sometimes talking to a stranger can be the right thing when you have something on your mind. As I sat and pondered these things, wishing I could snooze but unable as one window of the train was faulty and a howling chill breeze kept everyone wiggling in their seats, I remembered an encounter from many years ago.

Pregnant and awaiting the arrival of my daughter, I was in the park with my son, who was only two. It was a brisk, chilly day, but bright and the playground that Alex was enjoying was fairly empty. There was one other woman there, and I can't remember if she had a child with her or not. We got chatting, as women do.

After a very brief time she told me of an extremely distressing personal experience relating to childbirth, and the trauma and difficulties she'd had dealing with it. She also told me that she'd never told anyone this before. So why me? I don't know -sometimes it really is easy to tell the hardest things to a complete stranger. I never saw her again, but I hope that a listening ear was helpful. I hope I was the right stranger.

Photo credits: yatesplaygrounds.co.uk, Ajax46 (Flickr).

The price of music

Playing with 'Beau Jangles' at Hertford Corn Exchange

I'll start with an anecdote that's going round on social media.

"A guy calls the musicians guild to get a quote on a six piece band. The rep says 'Off the top of my head, about $2,000'. The guy says 'What?! For music?!'

'Tell you what', says the rep, 'You call six plumbers, ask them to work from six till midnight. Whatever they quote you we'll charge half'."

It's sadly true. These days pubs will happily put on music to bring in more custom. But most of the time they expect the musicians to play for free or, if they are lucky, for beer. They'll happily host sessions and jams, and not even give the organisers the courtesy of respect for all the organisation and the business it brings them.

Now I know that venues pay PRS fees, and that musicians should be able to log their gigs, the songs they played, and get their royalties. But it's a long process, and also the fees are pennies. You'd have to work thousands of hours to earn a living from royalties that way.

Many pubs in our area put on live music but expect the musicians to play for free because 'It gives them a chance to showcase themselves and sell CDs.' How many CDs would you have to sell to make enough to pay a band their expenses, let alone a fee? And, of course, there's the overheads of the CDs themselves to be taken into account.

I was moved to write this post because I received an email the other day from our local folk club which is urging support. They are booking some good acts, and I understand that they want to build up funds to help pay for the artists that perform. These are the 'lucky few' - those that can make a living out of playing music. But it takes hard work, dedication and the ambition to be a working musician, not a super star.

I won't be going to my local folk club, however.  My email was for the singers' night. Entry £4, performers £3. So they don't just want performers to play for free, they want them to pay for the pleasure! I will be going to Hitchin to see the acts I like in the folk world.

(The reason this particularly annoyed me is that I did support the very first singers' night and did pay as I didn't realise that performers had to pay before I turned up. Whilst I was on stage, two friends of the organiser came in. They offered to pay and he refused. We got to pay to see the audience... That, to put it mildly, peeved me somewhat.)

In the 'good old days' our band used to do gigs and save the money to pay for making our CDs. The music scene is so very different now. If you wanted to self-fund an album, you'd be extremely lucky to do it from gig fees. But it's possible if you didn't want to eat, for example.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the opportunity to play when it's provided - I am not in a working band and our duo doesn't get much chance to get out there and go for gigs. But I do feel that musicians have been devalued by the bookers (not necessarily the audience who will enjoy a good live act whether they are paying to see them or not).
Am I old and embittered and resistant to the new way music is shared and enjoyed these days? No, not at all. But I say a fair pay for a good job, and I'm buggered if I'm going to pay to play.

Music, music and more music!



David's son Stuart (left) and Tony Keys. Rehearsing...

 What a weekend! First of all I played at a private party which was it's own mini-festival! Most of the guests were musicians and from four until late, there was non-stop live music from all sorts of different bands. There was a young lass called Sophie who composed her own songs and sang with a couple of other bands, there were the 'old rockers' and even some young lads playing Shadows' tunes.

The band I played with, the 'Two Tones' (thus named because two of the band are called Tony) was formed through a link with my work. I met the band leader, David, as he is a fundraising champion for our charity. He's done amazing fundraising work in memory of his mother, who had dementia in her later years.

We first got together to do a charity ball gig that David arranged back in June. We had such fun, that a further opportunity to gig could not be missed, hence our performance at 'Lenborock'.  The party was an all day event with a covered stage area, barbecue, marquee for audience and a 'Gladiators' bouncy. The party was in the grounds of a lovely house in the Buckinghamshire countryside - beautiful views and the most lovely house.

We played a couple of sets - one in the afternoon and one in the evening. Even though Sophie and her young friends had done their mashup version of 'Stand by Me' we still did a version with Tony keys singing. It was a really nice gig with really nice people, even though I didn't know most of them.

Rachel Sermanni and friends

Sunday was a whole different kettle of music. I went to Cambridge Folk Festival again. The Friday evening I had popped over and seen the amazing Gretchen Peters, the entertaining Lucy Ward and the great June Tabor and the Oyster Band. On the artists bus I met the Moulettes - lovely ladies. They asked if I was playing and I said yes, on the Sunday, in a duo. I happened to mention that I'd also played in a band, 'Shave the Monkey'. 'Oh,' said Ruth, 'My dad loved them!'. Time to get the zimmerframe...

On the Sunday I went with my musical partner in crime, Shani, and we mooched around the festival catching a bit of Seth Lakeman, a few others and, after our own set, watching Rachel Sermanni and her friends (wonderful!). We stayed to watch Rachel as we had come over on the artists bus with Rachel and the others from the car park. Very glad indeed we watched Rachel and the gang, what a refreshing and entertaining act.

Blair Dunlop

The talented Blair Dunlop played a great set too. Whilst walking along the boardwalk I overheard someone say 'There's all these young people in folk music now...' Well hooray I say! What's the use of a tradition if it dies out? Given what I saw this weekend, there's plenty of life, youth and imagination in the folk world still. Put away your arran jumpers, your tankards and take yer finger out your ear. Folk music is a vibrant and positive force in the music scene.

Our set was short and sweet, but went well. It was a bit of a shame that the brief but noisy thunderstorm (which included hail) created pools of water in the club tent that meant there was lots of mud, but it was still a grand craic.

Though I'd like to have stayed to see Joan Armatrading, I was tired out, so Shani and I headed back to the car park. As we walked past these two huge RVs, my digestive system decided to issue its own comment on the proceedings. With a wheel-trembling trump, I alerted the attention of Ms Armatrading's road manager who gave me 'a right old fashioned look'. Apologies Ms Armatrading for my trumpet involuntary. On our way out the car park we waved madly at the RVs and the road manager waved kindly back.

A good, musical, and varied weekend. Until next year...

This single life - part four

It’s not always easy. Going to a party, for instance. Now I’m not a wallflower and will talk to anyone, but at a party where there is non-stop live music (which was great but quite loud), how do you sit and chat with someone you don’t know? Not possible. Though I went to the party with very nice people, I didn’t want to hang around them like a spare part. They had their socialising to do, people they knew at the party and most certainly I didn’t want them to feel they had to babysit me.

But it made me sad. I didn’t know anyone, and didn’t feel able to chat and make any connections like I usually do. Funny really, at a party where most people were musicians.

I went for a walk in the grounds – watched the horses munching lush rain-sodden grass, watched  the bronze sky darken as the sun set over the Buckinghamshire countryside. 

At times like that I feel terribly lonely, and yet absolutely fine at the same time. What the hell am I doing? Why on earth am I where I am and doing what I'm doing? 

Well, number one reason for being at the party was to play music, which we did and I thoroughly enjoyed. It is strange, though, how my social skills seem to have taken a battering over these last few years. It's not as though I never went anywhere or did anything on my own in the past - I most certainly did and never seemed to have a problem.

There's probably an answer in there somewhere, but for now I will just look back on the day and remember the fun rehearsal, the lovely lunch, and the great musicians I played with. 

The People Who Went Before

Archaeologists still argue and speculate about Stonehenge, about Druids and the purpose of this great stone structure. We know some things about it - like the solstice alignments - but very little about the people who built it and used it.

The Aztecs, Mayans and Egyptians also built amazing structures, but they left us clues as to what their purpose was by having a written or pictorial language. But what about the places like Stonehenge that don't leave any clue?  All we can do is make educated guesses.

Casa Grande. The holes at the top line up with
summer and winter solstice

So think about a different people who built amazing structures, which include solstice alignments and incredible irrigation systems, who then just disappeared. They changed their social habits dramatically and then, without any obvious reason, completely abandoned their communities. They disappeared. They melted into the landscape and their complex society and everything they knew was left behind to crumble.

Who were these people? Who built a society that we can trace back to the beginning of the last millennium, and then in the mid 15th century just ceased to be?

The Hohokam. Native American peoples. They were farmers who built strong houses, huge platform complexes, ball parks, and a canal system that in many places is still used today, nearly a thousand years later. They were successful enough to create 'leisure time' - theirs was more than a subsistence living.

What an enigma! When I think of Native Americans in a historical context, I have to admit that Hollywood has a lot to answer for. Wigwams, teepees - nomadic people; or the corn-growing Virginians who made the mistake of welcoming the British.


Reproduction Hohokam house


Just to add a bit of context, whilst the Hohokam were first building their communities, the British were being invaded by the Romans. When the Hohokam 'disappeared' in around 1450 AD, Henry VIII was on the throne and dismantling the monasteries.

When I went to Arizona this time, my friend and I visited just two of the many prehistoric Hohokam sites - Pueblo Grande and Casa Grande.  The heat was incredible - the desert sun bouncing off the sandy coloured structures. The sense of history was there, but it was 'captured', with neat paths, concrete reinforcement and air-conditioned displays that talked of a people that we really know very little about.

I was captivated. Here, in Casa Grande, was a Native American Stonehenge! In some ways we know more about the Hohokam than we do about the builders of our ancient stone monument (though built for what may be different reasons), because their society surrounded the structures and the archaeological evidence has endured. Their houses, their burial grounds, their sporting arenas and their rubbish, their 'trash heaps' were still there.


Ball park. I wonder what games they played?



The deserts is quite good at preserving things in some ways. The Arizona desert is especially good as it is, as any Arizonan will tell you, 'a dry heat'. So until you want to build in the desert, nothing is touched. But they do want to build in the desert, and from Pueblo Grande (which is within Phoenix) you can feel the nearness of Sky Harbour airport. If you look towards the Papago hills, where a huge glass building stands now, once stood another Casa Grande. There is a wealth of history beneath the skyscrapers and freeways of Phoenix. Thankfully, these days they do archaeological excavation and record whatever may be found before erecting another huge, concrete and glass monstrosity.

Any human remains that are found are returned to the Native American people to re-bury. There is no DNA testing, no putting in a museum and displaying of ancestors. The history of the Native American people belongs to the Native American people. We are very lucky to have a glimpse into this history through the Hohokam and wonder at the coincidence of European influence in the Americas and the dissipation of this once successful civilisation.


Photographs: Mine. (C)