NOW WE KNOW….OR DO WE?

A couple of  ‘newsy’ things this week caught my attention:

We now know why bubbly tastes better in a glass.  Research at both The University of Texas and University College London UK, explains why plastic and polystyrene cups just will not do for your Prosecco, Asti-spumante, or, Champagne. I can feel the regal Marques des Champagne curling their toes and gritting their pearly teeth at the thought of …plastic….polystyrene!!  According to a study, the bubbles behave differently in plastic and polystyrene cups than they would in glass,  The bubbles stick quite strongly to the plastic and polystyrene for longer and as a result grow bigger before they lift off, which, in turn, alters the taste of the drinks. They [the bubbles]   are on their best behaviour drunk from a glass.  Presumably, the small free flowing bubbles maintain the desired taste of the ‘bubbly’

While we are discussing drinking alcohol;  an offence with interesting variations.  An electrical engineer was caught over the drinks-driving limit, on his way to a police station to service their…….breath test machine!  The driver had been seen by police driving erratically on a very bendy stretch of road.  In court he was found guilty, fined and banned from driving for a year. At the trial, the police said the case presented them with a dilemma, because of the unusual circumstances.   It was felt there could be a ‘conflict of interest’,  given that the man serviced most of the intoximeters  in the country.  The prosecutor shared their view.  A urine sample was therefore taken for testing.

In defending his client, the defence lawyer claimed the police had not followed correct procedures in taking the urine sample.

The Sheriff when pronouncing sentence said, that the matter had been handled correctly and by the book.

 

 

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THE POWER OF OUR OWN FREE WILL

I have, at last, finished reading a book which has opened a Pandora’s Box of uncomfortable feelings. It is no overstatement to say the story is, in a perverse way, an engrossing and powerful read.  I took a break from the book just over half way through it to restore my inner self to its familiar, more comfortable state. Though the writer is giving us the power of our own free will to be involved, he is also rendering the reader  to be actively powerless.  Being disempowered is an extremely uncomfortable place to be. And this is the position in which, swathes of the world’s population reside.  Selection Day by Aravind Adiga,  published this year, is not a read for the faint-hearted. It is a very clever writer who can connect a reader to almost participate in the linking destructive events that lead to the final denouement.

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I have  read one other book by the same writer, it was the Man Booker Prizewinner 2008. The White Tiger.  Adiga later admitted that he had had to watch his back after exposing in this book a variety of  cultural norms within a society he knows well.  The White Tiger is a very good, high quality and exciting read with superb pacing.  I found myself being curious about the the effects of the breadths and the depths of the social and economic corruption he unwrapped in his story, and its global reach.

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Coming back to nearer home, I have just started reading Ian Rankin’s very first Rebus book, Knots and Crosses.  I thought it might be a good idea to introduce myself to an Edinburgh writer, a writer who has grown in stature.  I am hoping that introducing myself to his literary characters will create another interesting link with Edinburgh…….we’ll see

 

 

 

 

Shall We Be Nudged?

I do miss the Word Press email notifications of  the replies to comments I used to receive. Consequently, I also often miss the replies that wait on my Word Press site.  Not without reason has this alternative comment system developed.  For one, people with my kind of irregular ‘footfall’ are meant to be nudged more frequently in the direction of the blog site; it ups the traffic onto Word Press, which is a valuable asset

The bloggers I follow are regular contributors.  I reckon the old email notifications nudged me to connect to Word Press much more frequently than I do now.  For me, to quote a lovely quaint apt adage….. out of sight is out of mind.

Does anyone know a way to restore the original individual notifications without receiving all comments?

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Nesting Swan

BEING SMARTER WITH WORDS

© M- Open Gardens

Have I ever come across such incompetence before…..No:  Have I ever seen such a complicated cock-up before…..Almost, but this one pips others to the post.

After five months of chivvying a utility company along and a having a variety of unexpected experiences, with no sign of an agreeable resolution, I have got to end of my tether.

From Monday of last week I had my nose to grindstone. I gathered together five months’ worth of information to make a formal complaint to the Office Of The Ombudsman (Energy).  Once that was more-or-less sorted, the information had to be put into a non-emotive and concise presentation; ‘emotions not allowed‘ the instruction guidance suggests.  If you’ve done anything like this, you will know it can take days to do.  Sifting through the collection of potential attachments, (evidence) is a must.  Also, attachments, “Must be appropriate to the complaint“.

Midweek, I gave myself permission to have time off.  I had few hours’ break, to go out and see what the rest of my world was doing. It was the only way I was going to bring myself back, bleary eyed, to face the next step…….editing.

Editing is a euphemism for making  savings, word [efficiency] savings; being smarter with words, making cuts.  I won’t bore you with the rest of it.   By lunchtime on Friday I had finished work on the presentation of my complaint and had written a succinct-ish email to attach everything to.

It felt so very good to click on the ‘send’ button.  Now we wait.

© M

 

 

Never Heard Of Barak Obama

I promise, I really and truly was not searching for anything.  This nugget popped out of nowhere today.  I originally wrote it nine years ago.   I am not sure if I published it then, but, if I did, please excuse me for being tempted to post it again.  You’ll see why……..

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I have actually found someone who has never heard of Barak Obama.

I found this hard to believe but after some further probing, I realised it was true. This young person, (of voting age) thought I was talking about…

“Some man who was going to do something to Scotland”.

This in the middle of a beauty therapy session, padded up for my most un-favourite therapy of toning up useful muscles while lying in a prone state.

I jerked up in surprise, nearly electrocuting myself in the process, “Do something to Scotland. What?” I queried.

Getting all those people out of their houses and off the land”, she answered.

Obama?” I thought of modern day Highland Clearances and was truly puzzled.

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Her mum had talked to her about it and people were going to fight to stay in their houses.

Realisation dawned…………………

“You mean Donald Trump !“, I exclaimed. “He’s the one that’s just got planning permission to build a golf course and luxury hotel complex on the Aberdeenshire coast.”

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© Chicago by M

The lass looked glumly at me and commented with feeling

I hate politics, all that rudeness, shouting at each other and fighting. I can’t stand it, I really hate politics”.

No doubt about that.

 

 

 

WISHING IN THE WIND

Nothing in particular to report, though there is plenty to occupy my thoughts. There is is just too much.  I don’t imagine for one minute that I am alone in feeling I am on thinking and analysis overload.

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© M-Digital Doodles

Living in such tumultuous and shambolic times it would be easy to behave like an ostrich and bury my head in the sand.  In the Russian equivalent analogy,  the ostrich  is  ‘hiding its head under its wing’.  The Russian Ostrich would have a cosier and warmer hideout, with the ability for an occasional surreptitious glance out to see if worldly things were a little quieter: peaceful would be really good.

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© Photo By M-Wishing-In-The-Wind

Truly Amazing

I was in  the second  bed on the right-hand side of a  medical Nightingale hospital ward.  In the days of yore, (honestly, I am not that ancient, it’s just that where I landed, it was a time on the cusp of change) beds were not moved around too frequently as they were less mobile than the hospital beds you see today.  The patients in the beds nearest to the nursing station and the ward sister’s office,  were deemed to require closer and regular attention, and I was one of them,

As an orthopaedic patient, I felt like squatter in the medical ward.  None of the staff had any of the specialised experience, another reason why I was being kept a close eye on……just in case.   Sister, regularly communicated with ‘the experts’ when, me, with my basic first aid knowledge,  would advise the nurses how I should or shouldn’t be handled.   Sister would come off the phone and quickly have a quiet word with all the nurses who were learning (on me).  There was one time Sister had to run to help get me safely settled, at the same time, instructing the nurses to listen to me.  But hey….I was only the patient.   Orthopaedic doctors seemed happy to neglect me, leaving  my care as advisory – that is, when a Ward Sister phoned up for advice and guidance, (help!)

Meantime the ward Physicians’ frustrations were palpable.  Finally, a Senior Registrar took control and referred me urgently to the first out-patients’ clinic downstairs to see any visiting Orthopaedic Consultant.  I was gingerly taken to my fate in a wheel chair, which was left in the middle of the examination area.  It’s all a bit of a haze now, however, meeting the consultant is not. He soon arranged a bed for me in a side room on the Orthopaedic ward of that hospital and set  the staff to work, to put me back in shape. He visited me daily to check on my progress the first three days, even though, as I discovered, his own work base was many miles away.

After a series of awful professional mishaps in following his instructions – one was unbelievably grim- the worried Consultant arranged for me to be discharged post haste to medical friends of his, in a community his hospital served.  Based in his community, I could be seen by him and treated  under his supervision by his staff.  He followed me right through to final discharge, which was some months later, though by then, I was staying in the bosom of my family, 240 miles away.   I just wish so much I could remember his name after all these years.   (His friends were inordinately kind and caring too).  I promised myself that I would always remember his name and yet, here we are so many years on and I don’t.  I have a great deal to thank him for.  He was such a truly amazing man.

THIS DEFINITELY WAS NOT A STUNT!

The drive home was straightforward till I got to the first little village.  I tootled into the the sharp right hand bend at 30mph, or, a bit less probably.  I was happily minding my own side of the road on this bend, when a little red pretend  racer suddenly came into view at great speed, took the right hand bend far too fast and on my side of the road, forcing me to swerve up onto the kerb out of its way.

Up north in the ‘Wild Outback’, on the last 25 miles stretch,  I was comfortably tucked behind a black 4X4 type vehicle.  It was holding a steady 60mph.  A white car similar to the chunky 4X4 overtook me and moved into the space in front.  Moments after, yet another white car, a sleeker model, moved in behind the first white car.   Those two white vehicles were very fidgety, they  were in a great hurry, (to put it mildly).

The sleeker white car, which was at this point in front of  me, signalled  it was going to  move out and overtake; it zoomed  out and  off at speed, drawing level with the chunky white car.

Chunky white car driver signalled and moved out of lane just as the sleeker white car levelled with it on the offside.  Sleek white car was forced to swerve up a high sharp angled verge, (about 45-50 degrees) it looked like a  fast scary fairground ride.  Soil and dust flew everywhere.

-3-2The sides of the white cars  were close to one another as they sped on their fast forward trajectory.  As I watched this scene with absolute horror, I was aware I had one hand on my steering wheel and the other one over my nose and mouth.

323e2-unicode-9-emojis-_glamour_3jun16_emojipediaTime seemed to stand still and I didn’t dare breath.  The car angled on the verge kept up its speed, as did the other one down on the road!   They remained very close.  Its speed probably kept the sleek white car relatively stable up there.

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Sleek  white car managed to speed forward of the chunkier one, still  at an angle, then it turned its front wheels  down towards the nearside carriageway, placing itself in front of the black 4X4.   White chunky vehicle in its turn moved in behind sleek white car.  Next, there appeared to be a bit of ‘argy bargy’ driving  between the two white cars.

Eventually,  sleek white car drove his car into a layby. The other one followed suit.   As I passed, I saw a very determined male tensely moving towards the driver of  chunky white car.

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Disaster had been close, not just for the occupants of those two cars, but for the people nearest, me and the occupants in the black 4X4 car.  If the white cars had been in reversed position, I doubt I’d be here telling this story.   I arrived home stunned and emotionally drained.

 

 

 

Result!

These cases can go either way.  After eight months, we have a result to our complaint  to The Office Of The Financial Ombudsman about our insurance company’s refusal to agree to a storm damage claim.  The bricks and mortar of our house was comprehensively insured with belt and braces cover, or so we thought.   Some of the communication with the insurance company, when we got it, was minimalist.  In general, communication was one-sided and time pressured to suit the insurance company’s agendas.  We began to wonder what we  bought insurance for……

As you would expect, the Insurance company challenged our claim at every stage.  Luckily, we had one useful photo of our house showing how it was before the storm damage occurred and we were asked for a copy of it.  I’m taking  photos of our house regularly from now on!

We were told by The Ombudsman’s Office whatever the outcome of our complaint, repairs could be done.  In Spring, during a useful weather window, the repair work was  completed. We were, however, still in limbo with the insurance claim.

Last week we got the Ombudsman’s final decision…..in our favour; the insurance company have got to accept our repair costs and  pay our claim.  Yay!!!

…..Naturally, we’ve signed up to the decision.

R E S U L T!

 

 

 

 

DROPPING LOOPS, MAKING HOLES AND STUFFING THINGS

A feature on yet another revival of homely hand knitting reminded me……. At primary school, the girls’ craft classes were the bain of my life. Could I knit as a six year old? Much as I tried, sitting at an old wooden desk, with oversized knitting needles and a well re-used ball of wool, made the whole experience a clumsy affair with little to show for it. There were some loops on the needle and maybe I managed to put some wool through a loop or two, I don’t really remember.

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I do know, that there were some stitches on the needle that did not seem to be very productive.  I was glad when the tortuous efforts came to an end and another lesson began.

Then there was the class where the better little hand-stitchers made bunnies with lovely fluffy cloth already cut to shape, probably by the teacher, a grandmother figure, who taught that girls’ class. Once stitched to the required point, busy little hands had lots of fun stuffing the bodies, arms, legs, hands and ears of their creations, (through a small opening left in the seam) with what I believe was Kapok. Polyester fibres were not in use all those years ago to stuff things. The opening was then closed up by each young  ‘creator’ with even and neat little running stitches.

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We, the ones relegated to the ‘untalented’ corner, (the majority of the class) had a bit of rag each plus a needle and thread to practice with. I cannot say what others may have thought, but it seemed to me, the three or four bunny-makers looked more than a teensy bit smug.  Just a bit of me would have liked to have been with them bathed in their success.

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A couple of years later, I discovered the Grandmother figure really was granny to two of the girls in her ‘better’ group.  Also, another teacher in the school, who was French, was her daughter-in-law.  By then, I was old enough to understand that a big war ended not so many years before, so, it was likely that the girls had no dad.  Mum and granny were supporting each other and the two girls on prescribed lower women’s salaries, much lower than their working male teaching counterparts.

From the amount of time we spent in church and on religious education, I wonder if there wasn’t some hope of recruiting future nuns and priests.

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This primary school was certainly schooling the girls, for at best, domesticity, sweat shops, or, subservient jobs, and the boys, likewise, to be unskilled. We weren’t seen as having much potential.

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Scott Monument Princes St Edinburgh+ Poppy Memorial

When we all divided up to move on to our next secondary stage school experience, it was really surprising how many children started to thrive in a different educational environment, even though the development of domestic/service/cooking skills, was still a theme for girls.  Many of us as schoolchildren, were undervalued. Notwithstanding, many of my school friends, both genders, broke the expected mould.

YaY !!