GRAYLING WRITERIGHT

Moving!

2008-01-22T10:19:00.000Z

I am moving. There are too many problems with this blog provider. I particularly wanted to post pictures but the post editor will not co-operate. Apparently this is a common problem with this site. It is a pity as in all other respects it is a very user-friendly site.

This is where I am going:

http://grayling.blog.co.uk/

See you there.

Do svedanya

Snow - at last!

2008-01-20T12:35:00.000Z

Last night (20th Jan.)it snowed on Moscow. It is still snowing as I write.
Now the city looks as it should in the middle of January.

Straight away teams of snow clearers and clearing machines were busy everywhere. At bus-stops and other strategic points the snow is actually loaded onto lorries and taken away. Scraping it to the side of the road is just not enough.

The driving style does not alter. It is still crazy. The 4x4 owners are in their element!
I put on my thermal long-johns, trucker boots and wooly hat etc. and went out for a walk. Olga says I look like a proper Russian and I think she is correct: I was stopped three times and spoken to. I guess it was to ask directions but I have no way of knowing!

I walked to a major road heading North out of the city, Prospect Mira. It was carved through the old suburbs by Stalin and is bordered by the very distinctive Stalinist style of buildings. It takes one to an extraordinary monument situated outside of an extraordinary park. The monument is to the Russian cosmonauts and is a pleasing sweep of concrete heading up to the sky with a rocket at its pinnacle. (I would post a picture but the Blogger system will not allow me to). The park is the D V N X, usually called 'davenkha', and it is a celebration of Soviet culture, commerce and economic achievement. The old exhibition halls are now a celebration of capitalist enterprise. I hope the old tyrant is feeling sick, spinning in his grave.

Do svedanya,

Graham

Factoid: 'Prospect Mira' means 'View of the World'

Red Square and the Metro

2008-01-19T17:59:00.000Z

Olga and I went in to the city today.
We went on the Metro. The Moscow Metro has an enviable reputation, and rightly so.
The stations are architecturally magnificent and have high vaulted ceilings that take away any claustrophobic effect. The trains arrive every two minutes. Today I saw a young man give his seat up to a blind (white stick) passenger and a young girl kindly offered her seat to me. Manners and respect are evident; even if the young lady implied that I was a frail old git! I declined her offer!

You often see passengers with their heads buried in a book; not just on the trains but on the escalators as well. Some escalators are very long. The handrails move slightly faster than the stairs so you find your hand gradually creeping away from you and your arm round the waist of the person in front (she didn't seem to mind!). Olga remembers this from when she was young. No progress on that little problem then.

The Kremlin is impressive. It is huge and the walls are very high. You see tantalising glimpses of towers and spires within. There are still illuminated red stars on the spire pinnacles. There is the 'Tomb of the unknown soldier' just outside the Kremlin walls. It has an 'eternal' flame and always there are two guards, standing stock still, on either side of the tomb. The guards today were young women. They were in perspex sentry boxes to protect them from the excessive cold.

Red Square has an ice rink built in the centre and the department store opposite the Kremlin, Gum, is outlined in lights. It tried to outshine the Kremlin but it is a frivolous nonentity compared to the ancient, massive presence of this powerful political symbol. St Basil's Cathedral also had an understated magnificence in its floodlights at the far end of the square.

A service was in progress in the little church in a corner of the square. The bell ringer stands amongst the bells in the bell tower and rings out the peals from there. The Russian Quasimodo.

We did not stay long. It was too cold.

Do svedanya,

Graham

More on Moscow traffic

2008-01-18T14:32:00.000Z

Once I get here it takes me a while to get used to the idea of driving. Eventually I climb into the drivers seat and then wonder why it took me so long.
Once you are accustomed to the peculiarities of the Moscow driver, and the 'wrong side of the road', then it is fairly straight forward. Some of the road signs are subtely different; for instance there is no negative indication of turns and when you come to a junction you are directed where you CAN go but not told where you CANNOT go. So when I look for 'no left turn', 'no entry' or 'no U turn' it just ain't there.

On Wednesday I took Olga to run some errands for her parents. When we set out I knew we would be returning in a) darkness and b) rush hour. The darkness is not too much of a problem as the streets are all well lit but the rush hour is terrifying. Most of the problems that occur are down to driver indiscipline: ignoring red lights, ignoring lanes, ignoring speed limits and monumental levels of impatience. If you leave a reasonable distance between your car and the one in front someone will fill it - and they can come at the gap from all and any direction. If another driver thinks you are not quick enough to get out of their way or too slow to take an opportunity then you will get a blast on the horn. Cars move off from lights at the change of the opposing light to red and not at the change of their own light to green. I like anticipation in a driver: it makes for better driving but this is an anticipation too far as it leaves no margin for error.
The major junction outside of the Belorus station is chaos. We had to come through it. Congestion was so bad that the crossing point was never free of traffic, so we had cars blocking our way through and it was just a matter of inching forward and squeezing in when a chance came. On top of this some cars were trying to cross three lanes at the junction because they 'forgot'(!) to get into the correct lane before the junction. 'Why don't they make a box junction?' I hear you say. Well, there would be no point as they would just ignore it. The powers that be also chose to place bus-stops on our exit road from this junction and so three lanes were trying to squeeze into one.

You do not have to commit an offence to be stopped by traffic police. They stand at most major junctions and other random places stopping whatever they fancy as it passes. I have dreaded this happening to me. Today it did! Fortunately we had a pleasant, very smart young man who looked at my European licence and dismissed us instantly. What a relief. Olga's first reaction was, 'I hope we have got enough money on us'. (For the spot fine).

I am getting cynical. I have stopped exclaiming my surprise and annoyance at this bad driving. There is no point.

Do svedanya,

Graham

Fauna and Avia

2008-01-17T17:33:00.000Z

There are no wolves or bears in and around Moscow. Not even in the great forested North East section of the city. This is a bit disappointing.

There are plenty of feral dogs running around the city. They run around the streets and the parks in packs and I have never seen happier dogs. They are very different from the neurotic creaturers that think they are a member of a human family; totally confused when they can't cope. They trot about in happy gangs doing what dogs do naturally and their tails are constantly wagging.

There are plenty of pet dogs; of the neurotic variety. Some are very large and they live in very small 10th floor apartments. They can be seen in the courtyard beneath our window being taken for their toileting by women in long, heavy fur coats and round fur hats.

Dog shit is everywhere. In a normal, freezing, winter it stays around - frozen, like pizza or TV dinners. It builds up over the winter months; never being washed away or decomposing, and by the time the thaw comes it is thick on the streets and decorated by the bright little kopek coins that were dropped by their owners whilst out with them. Come to Moscow in Winter by all means, but get out before the thaw!

In the courtyard can be seen the regular city birds: pigeons, sparrows and crows. The crows are what are known in the UK as 'hooded' crows. These have grey bodies and black wings and can only be found in N W Scotland back home. There are Jackdaws and Rooks amongst them occasionally.
The local residents put food out for the birds and sometimes they hang feeders on their balconies. These feeders attract Great tits and Coal tits but I have never seen Blue tits.
All three of these can be found in the local parks but the Blue tits stay away from the apartment blocks. The Blue tits are much bluer than the UK variety.

Most types of British woodland bird can be found out in the forests in Summer. Plus there are Orioles, Hoopoes and, of course, the Nightingales. The Chaffinches and Blackbirds sing a regional variation of the song we hear in Britain which I had trouble identifying when I heard them at first.

Do svedanya,

Graham

Factoid: The double headed eagle on the Russian national emblem looks East and West and represents Russia's place between the two hemispheres.

Russian Humour

2008-01-16T16:24:00.000Z

One of my favourites is about soup.
Everyone in Russia knows that soup is at its best the day after it is made.
"Would you like some of yesterday's soup?"
"Oh, yes please!"
"Well come back tomorrow. I've just made it."

There is a lot of humour about the trials of life and its misfortunes:

Political candidate making speech - "Whilst in power my rival robbed the people of everything to make himself rich. I implore you to now give me a chance."
*
Politician -"The banking crisis is over and the customers having nothing to lose."
*
'It's as crazy as advertising vodka.'
*
'No matter how much vodka I drink my body is still 80% water. I keep trying though.'

There is a lot of dark humour:

"Oh husband why are you beating me. I've done nothing wrong."
"I know. If you had then I would kill you."

and

"Husband I have a terrible pain in my head."
"Good. I have no need to hit it with the pan."

(n.b. There is no evidence to suggest that Russian men beat their wives. No more than any other nation!)

The language does not allow me to fully appreciate the stand-up comedians on the TV but I see a lot of physical humour in the acts - a lot of clowning.

Communist joke:
A train breaks down in the middle of Siberia.
Leninist: "The noble communist railway engineers will work costantly and diligently until the train moves again."
Stalinist: "The railway engineers are useless. Shoot them and find some more."
Neo communist: "Let's shut the curtains, go chuff-chuff-chuff, and pretend the train is still moving."

A favourite film from 1975 is a story about the uniformity of life in Soviet Russia. A man gets drunk with his friends. He ends up on a 'plane from Moscow to St Petersburg. When he gets there (still drunk) he tells the taxi his address. The taxi takes him to an identical block on an identical street. He enters an identical hallway with the same piles of clutter. He finds a door identical to his own and (eventually) the key fits! He enters and the furniture and layout are identical to his own in Moscow. When the (very pretty) owner arrives he tells her to get out of his house. The love story then gets going.

Russian National Hobby

2008-01-15T09:55:00.000Z

Are you curious?
Well - the Russian National Hobby is 'Ill Health'!

The first suspicion I had was on my first visit to Moscow. There are pharmacies on every street corner, in every supermarket and all available spaces in between. A bit like pubs in England.

If you ask a Russian how they are you will get a full, detailed and comprehensive answer!
Many drugs are uncontrolled. You can go and buy any anti-biotic for instance in the local pharmacy. There is little consideration of which anti-biotic is suitable for which type of infection. The decision is based on non-professional advice and hearsay.

'Ill Health' is a favourite topic of conversation. Olga will chat to her friends for hours on the telephone about various conditions that I might suffer from e.g. a skin rash, a stomach complaint, and the advice will come tumbling in. There is apparently no need to interview, nor examine the patient. Of course the advice you recieve will be different depending on which particular friend was consulted :-)
The amount of common knowledge on health issues is considerable.

There is little faith amongst Russians in the body's ability to heal itself. A medicine is a must and to tolerate a condition patiently, whilst the body does its work, is considered ridiculous. Why suffer when you can take drugs? There is no understanding that the drugs (uncontrolled) might be doing more permanent harm and that the body will be less well prepared when the next outbreak happens. Nature's ability to do the healing is not trusted.

I am not sure of the reasons for this obsession. It could pehaps be the inhospitable climate, the polluted atmosphere of the city, the 24 hour lifestyle or another, particular phenomenon, which I have not heard referred to in the same context: atmospheric conditions and related fluctuations in the earth's magnetic field...
Olga and her family are convinced that these natural phenomena are responsible for changes in health. I cannot speak for other Muscovites. It usually is identified by default -
"I feel a bit 'off colour' today"
"Must be the change in air pressure/magnetic field."
End of discussion.
I will concede that that these phenomena tend to be more dramatically intense in the centre of a large land mass.

The Moscow (Russian) public health system is generally good. You can see a doctor without too much trouble or waiting time. There is one major organisational system that the NHS could learn from: the local surgeries have a selection of specialists on site (ear/nose/throat/, neurologist, gynaecologist etc.) and these can be seen without long winded referrals. In fact, if you know what the problem is, you can more or less go straight to the specialist.

I feel a little unwell. Must have sat on a magnet at some point today.

Do svedanya,

Graham

Factoid:Russians do not steal sink plugs - they have the very healthy habit of always washing under running water and have no need of them.

Who's afraid of the big bad bear?

2008-01-14T11:52:00.000Z

Russia still holds a secure place in Western paranoia and prejudice.
Some of Olga's ex-pat relatives in Canada speak fearfully of returning to their home country; quoting street shootings, bombings by Chechyans and control of Moscow by thugs and criminals. This paranoia is fed by the N American media. US citizens suffer generally from paranoia. It accounts for their foreign policy -"They're all out to get us, so let's get them first".

When Vladimir Putin declared his annoyance and intended intolerance of having vast ranges of US missiles placed in neighbouring countries he was immediately cast as the bad guy by the Western press. You don't have to stand back very far to see that he might have a point!

Five years ago (when things were supposed to be considerably more insecure)I found myself cut adrift in the centre of Moscow (Pushkinploshad!)late in the evening. I did not speak the language and I was on my own. I felt as safe as I have in any town or city anywhere on the planet. It was certainly a lot, lot safer than the centre of Huddersfield on a Friday night at 'chucking out time'. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. There was no boisterous or unruly behaviour and the pavement cafe's were full of happy people. I caught their mood and loved it.

Moscow is not a war zone. So you can safely assume that it is mainly full of ordinary people going about their ordinary business, with no interest in attacking foreigners etc. There is a custom of flagging down passing motorists and requesting a lift (for a small fee). In the UK this would be considered a high risk move because our press persuades us that the streets are swarming with rapists, muggers, child molesters and murderers. In Moscow it hardly gets a second thought.

Before the revolution Russia was part of a greater Eurpopean cultural movement. After the revolution we even let it continue to take part in our wars! It belongs with us historically and should be treated as part of our culture again.

It is a very cuddly bear if you are nice to it.

Do svedanya

Graham

Factoid: Moscow has 6 mosques

Alexander Pushkin

2008-01-13T17:18:00.000Z

Alexander Pushkin is Russia’s Shakespeare.
He holds the unassailable position of the father of Russian literature, raising it to a new height in the early 19th century, and all Russian authors since his time acknowledge his influence and supremacy.
His work is not well known in the West, other than through certain musical interpretations*. The reason for this is that he brought a new subtlety of expression to the Russian language which is very difficult to translate. I have read translations, enjoyed them immensely, and fretted that in not knowing the Russian language I am missing so much of his genius. I particularly enjoyed his humour.

He was born in Moscow (to the pride of this city’s intellectual community) but spent much of his life in what was then the capital: St Petersburg. He was of aristocratic parentage and, interestingly, his great-grandfather was a page in the court of Peter the Great and had been brought to St P. from Cameroon. The African blood can be seen in his dark skin and curly hair. As a radical political thinker he upset the authorities frequently and was sometimes ‘exiled’ from the capital. His greatest work, the play ’Boris Godunov’, was disapproved of by the state and was not produced in its original, uncensored form until 2007!!! We thought the Soviet Communists were repressive but their historical predecessors were just as bad, if not worse.

His memory is celebrated in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow and in Pushkinploshad (square), the second best known square in Moscow after Red Square. There you will find his statue, clean and unspoiled and always honoured with a few bouquets at his feet, left by the adoring Moscow public.

He was killed in 1837, most romantically, in a duel fought over the honour of his wife. He was 37. Just like Mozart, the world lost one of its greatest geniuses before he had hardly started.

Do svedanya,

Graham

ps I had a picture ready to insert but the Blogger won't let me!

*Musical works based on Pushkin:
Ruslan and Ludmilla – Glinka
Queen of Spades, Eugene Onegin – Tchaikovsky
Mozart and Salieri – Rimsky Korsakov (and the play ‘Amadeus’ by Peter Shaffer)

Money

2008-01-12T11:06:00.000Z

There are about 50 Russian Roubles to the pound and 100 kopeks to the rouble. You can't buy much for 1 kopek!
The streets are scattered with low denomination kopeks; once they are dropped they are not worth searching for and no-one seems to bother picking them up. When the snows go in March/April they are even more evident than usual.

There are kiosks and offices all over the city where US dollars and Euros can be exchanged for roubles. These are the 'hard' currency of Russia. Pounds sterling can only be exchanged in a bank.

There has been a steady increase in the number of wealthy and moderately wealthy people in Russia over the past few years. The excesses of the post communist years are almost over and now those that cashed in on the confusion and made billions are comfortably established and almost accepted. Putin has tried to bring some of them to heel, with moderate success. Roman Abramovich, Britains wealthiest ex-pat Russian is a governor of a province in Eastern Siberia. He is rarely seen there, preferring Sussex.

The wealth of the 'Oligarchs' drifts down and many benefit from the opportunities that wealth creates. Rich people enjoy goods and services and others get rich providing them - Little fleas on bigger fleas...and so ad infinitum.

You already know how drunk one can get on a few roubles (If you missed it the answer is - VERY), but what else does the rouble (2 pence) buy:
10 aspirins - 4 roubles
Loaf of bread - 20r
1 kg tomatoes - 100r
1 kg cheese - 195 r
10 Lemsip - 200r

Fruit, vegetables and breakfast cereals are expensive.

Do svedanya

Graham

Factoid: The basic state pension is 1200r per month (24 pound) Other benefits are quite comprehensive,

Olga, my Russian 'head-turner'

2008-01-12T11:00:00.000Z

Russian People

2008-01-11T13:16:00.000Z

We suffered for a long time in the West from anti communist propaganda which caricatured the Russian people. On top of this they got a bad showing when tourists started to visit and could not understand why people who looked like them and lived in smilar cities etc should behave differently. For example, the smile - in Russia strangers do not smile at each other. There is no hostility, just bland indifference. A shop assistant will serve and say please and thank you but generally with a solemn expression. Western insincerity is creeping in though, which is a pity because once you get accustomed to the Russian way you are pleased not be told to 'have a good day' through a clenched smile!
Whilst walking the forest paths near the dacha you can pass a similar being, out for a stroll and, unless they are known to you, pass by without any acknowledgement of each other's presence. This would be unheard of in Yorkshire!
So the Western visitor can feel as if they are being treated in a hostile way. This is simply not true. Smiles and friendly greetings are reserved for friends and people to whom you are already kindly disposed.
If you want to feel a real Russian welcome you must get to know some real Russian people. If you are invited into their homes then the warmth and friendliness is wonderful. They feed you, water you and make your visit into a party. After having had the Western capitalist imperialist portrayed as some sort of aggressive ogre I wonder if this treatment is a display of relief at discovering that we are just like them.

The women!
There is a disproportionately higher number of women than men in Russia. Add to this that many of the women range from moderately attractive to absolutely gorgeous, and that debilitating rampant PC feminism is not well established, then a visit to Russia can be a trip to the sweet shop for the average red blooded hetrosexual male. There are head-turners everywhere and there are not enough Russian men to keep them all happy! I should know I married one these head-turners :-)

The men.
The Russian men I know personally are gentle, well mannered and pleasant. They are also good company and they all drink - some more than others.
The drinking of vodka is something of a curse on Russian manhood. It is cheap and readily available and the culture that surrounds it is dangerous:
Russian man: Why do you sip at your vodka?
Western visitor: I don't want to get drunk.
Russian man: Then why drink vodka at all?
And that sums it up - you drink vodka to get drunk. I like a vodka and there are ways to down it like a real Russian without getting legless; but that's another story.

Do svedanya,
Graham

2008-01-09T10:55:00.000Z

I sat at the computer all day yesterday and worked on my novel. This is the first time I have revealed this on here.
The novel is a romantic fantasy entitled 'The Waterborne'. It is about a married couple who are separated when the wife (Alex) is drowned whilst swimming in the Med. Her husband (Philip) is an angler and after her death his anger at his loss leads him into conflict with an evil bird - a cormorant. Philip is unaware that those who have an affinity with the water become Waterborne spirits after their death. When his loss becomes unbearable he jumps in a river and finds himself as one of the Waterborne and discovers that they can be re-united in this world.
Unfortunately the evil cormorant, who has the power to destroy the Waterborne spirits, knows of their quest to find each other and does all he can to prevent it.
It is a love story, a fight against evil, a fantasy about life after death and an exploration of the world beneath the surface.
One of the driving forces that leads a person to become an angler is the fascination of the mystery of what goes on beneath the surface of the water and angling is about going part way towards unravelling that mystery.
My novel started as an attempt to fully unravel the mystery of what lies beneath.

The dacha

2008-01-08T12:13:00.000Z

The dacha is a country residence.
Whilst the idea of a second home in the country is not unique to Russia the concept of the dacha is.
Only the very poorest of Moscow families do not have a dacha of some sort. If you fly into Moscow during daylight hours you will see patches of development; hundreds of little 'housing estates' in the forests around the city. This where most dachas are.

We used to have a dacha but because we spent so much time in the UK it was neglected and hardly used so it was sold. We spent some happy days there so I have the privelege of being able to tell about dacha life from direct experience.
The Communist government alloted plots of land (a commodity of which there is a great deal in Russia!) on which, for a nominal fee, Moscow residents could build a retreat from the city. The plots were 600 Msq and arranged in chequerboard communities cut into the forest. Access roads, potable water and electricity was delivered and the owners were free to build whatever they could afford, free of planning restrictions. The result is a range of sizes and shapes and varying quality of construction from small wooden huts to grand brick villas.
Ours was brick built with wooden extensions. It was spacious but primitive in it's accommodation. There was a wide enclosed veranda with toilet and shower room off, a large kitchen, a similar sized living area with two small bedrooms off. Upstairs was one big space, as yet undeveloped but with room for two more large bedrooms.
Non-drinking water was pumped from a well in the garden but it was always contaminated with fine sand and a previous attempt to make a plumbed bathing/toilet system just got clogged up. Waste went into a deep cess pit.
There was a brick chimney stack that climbed through the centre of the house with a wood burning stove in the living area. There were mature pine and birches in the garden as well as some apple, plum and currant bushes. Across the lane was the endless forest (although further development had started to erode this outlook.)
Our dacha community was about 200 km from Moscow and was on the site of some old peat diggings. This meant there was a lot of standing water surrounding us and standing water means MOSQUITOES :-( We were plagued with the little blighters but proper precautions made life bearable.
My most enduring memory was arriving there late one day in May and as we settled in to the evening we were treated to the song of a nightingale. I was enthralled. It started as an intermitent trill and occasional resonant piping and gradually developed into a full-throated glorious feast of varing scales, trills and sweet melodies. How poetic and romantic you think. Think again! You cannot switch a nightingale off! That bloody bird sat in the bushes close to our window and let rip at full volume all through the small hours of the night. I could have strangled it! Just as I started to drift off to sleep it would explode into song. It is now a nostalgic memory and I am now glad I experienced it.

Four years ago we went with friends to their dacha in the far North close to the Volga. This was not in a square community but in a straggling old village with straggling old Russian villagers still living there all year round. It was pointed out to me that one of these old wooden village houses could be bought for 500 pounds. I was not tempted!
We were treated to the song of the nightingale again but on this occasion nothing woke me - I was out of it on vodka :-)

Do svedanya,
Graham

Talk Russian!

2008-01-07T16:04:00.000Z

I am no good at foreign languages. I think it is something to do with my creative intelligence ;-) Actually, learning new words is just a drag and I can't be bothered. At odds with this is my fascination with 'language'. I know a lot about the roots and origins of english words and this can be very helpful when trying to decipher foreign languages.
I only spend two months at any one time in Russia and so I have a limited time to aclimatise myself to the language. I have a well established vocabulary now of about 80 words. My finest hour with the Russian language was when I bought and paid for 5 kg of potatoes from a street vendor.
Enough about my stupidity!
As most of us know Russian has its own peculiar alphabet - Cyrillic - named after an Orthodox Saint called Cyril. It has 33 letters, many shared in common with our own alphabet. It is almost consistently phonically regular i.e. with few exceptions each letter keeps its own unique sound no matter where it is found.
Once you have mastered the alphabet it becomes surprisingly easy to decipher many words as there is a significant common vocabulary with english. Words such as computer, menu, telephone, minute, technology etc. are there in their Russian shape.
A car in Russia is feminine!Yes, like a lot of foreign languages it is complicated by the mysterious need to give a gender to inanimate objects. I have not yet worked out why this is necessary, or how it should evolve in one language and not in another. No one seems able to explain it.
English is taught in all Russian schools so if you visit you will be able to get by with english. I was approached by a shop assistant once and replied 'Ya ne gavario pa Ruski'(I don't speak Russian). He replied, 'OK then, we'll speak in English.'
His accent was perfect:-)

Do svedanya,

Graham

Factoid: The word in Russian for man (Moshina) is feminine.

Traffic in Moscow

2008-01-06T12:24:00.000Z

Factoid: there are 7 roundabouts in the whole of Moscow.
Driving in Moscow is traumatic.
The congestion is terrible and most journeys take at least twice as long as they should. Car ownership has expanded faster than the roads have have been able to be developed to cope. Added to this is the bad driving style of the great majority of drivers - there is no lane discipline and there are two speeds: flat out and stop! The consequence of this is that there are bottlenecks and a lot more exhaust fumes than need be.
There is a constant programme of improvements of junctions and carriageways but it is never enough.
Fuel is 40p a litre and fuel economy is not a consideration.
I am not a fan of urban drivers in 4x4s but there is an excuse for the Muscovite: Road surfaces can be very uneven, snow and ice is a problem for 6 months of the year and many people have 'dachas' out in the countryside at the end of long unpaved tracks.
There is though a macho attitude amongst the owners of these vehicles and they 'bully' other car drivers. Many cars and 4x4s have blacked out windows - sad eh?
There is a single fine for speeding of 14 GBP and no 'points' system so there is no incentive to stick to speed limits. I have seen BMW's/Mercs travelling at speeds around 80 mph on the 'Garden Ring, close to the centre. There are no speed cameras.
Cars regularly shoot through red lights and anticipate the change to green. This makes crossing the road at traffic lights quite hazardous. Going through a red light attracts a fine of 12 GBP... so why worry?
There is 'zero tolerance' of drink driving (I am not sure about the penalties).
The public transport system is very good with the Metro, buses, trolley buses and mini-buses abounding. There is an attitude though of 'why should I use public transport if I have the convenience of my own car'.

Car ownership still has a feeling of novelty about it here and they all drive like kids with their first car and the girlfriend in the passenger seat. I don't hold out much hope of the Moscow motorist emerging from his adoloscence in the near future

Do svedanya,
Graham

Factoid: Street parking is free. There are no meters and no ticket machines. There are some roadside parking restrictions.

Drinking in Moscow

2008-01-05T09:24:00.000Z

Vodka - 3 pound a litre!
Yes. It really is that cheap. You can get it even cheaper if you know where to look but I would not recommend drinking the stuff.
A good bottle of beer (500ml) only costs about 30p. Red wine costs from 3 pound upwards. Price is not a good indicator of quality so the best way to go is to find one you like and stick to it. You can pay a lot of money for undrinkable rubbish.
Every supermarket has its stack of vodka on offer; somewhere in the middle of an aisle.
The outcome of this availability of cheap alcohol is that there is a high level of early deaths amongst men due to intemperance. Average male life expectency is about 59 years.

There are some extremely pleasant drinking establishments in and around the city At one time we would have called it 'Continental' style: relaxed, family, cafe type establishments and there is a scattering of English/Irish theme pubs. One of our favourite, uniquely Russian, establishments is called The Rakes. It is spacious, comfortable and the food is good. The newer Russian eating/drinking places are very quirky and original with their decorations. The men's toilet at Rakes is lined with astroturf - walls and ceiling!

Unfortunately drinking on the street is common and there are empty bottles located on various corners throughout the city. There is a step behind a shop that we can look down on from the apartment and it is used as one of these outdoor meeting points. We call it the 'picnic site'. One of the picnicers was lying, sleeping it off on the freezing ground in temperatures well below freezing the other day. Fortunately one of his friends came and took him home.

Do svedanya,

Graham

Factoid: BALTIKA, one of Russia's biggest breweries, is owned by Scottish and Newcastle Breweries - the makers of Newcastle Brown Ale.

Music

2008-01-03T08:00:00.000Z

There is a distinct difference in the way in which 'classical' music is treated in Russia from how we treat it in the West.
Russian artistes are highly revered and well known amongst certain circles (outside of 'popular' culture) so when a concert-goer looks for entertainment they look for the artiste first and the composer second. This is reflected in recorded music in that CD sleeve notes often tell a lot about the performers and very little, or nothing about the composer and the musicology.
Moscow is like any other capital city in that there is always something to go and see or liten to - every day of the year.
My one and only visit to the Bolshoi (the 'Big' theatre)was disappointing. It was a performance of Verdi's Nabucco. The opera was fine but the audience was appalling! They were tourists - only there because a visit to the Bolshoi was 'a must', and they had no idea how to behave: cameras flashing, phones ringing and the French woman next to me started singing along to the chorus of the Hebrew slaves. It was more akin to music hall.
Russian audiences are very well behaved; in fact I think they take a collective pride in knowing how to behave.
I have fond memories of a performance of Don Giovanni which took place in a small theatre close to Red Square: the singing was extraordinary, the production original and exciting whilst the audience was reverential and highly appreciative. This is a normal experience in Moscow concert halls and theatres.

It is -17C out there today. Olga and I are waiting for it to warm up to around -10C before we venture out!

Do Svedanya,
Graham
Factoid: Red Square has always been called that and has nothing to do with Communism.

A Russian New Year

2008-01-01T10:04:00.000Z

It was only in 1922 that the USSR came into line with the West in co-ordinating the calendar. (For this reason the October Revolution of 1917 was always celebrated in November!)
The Orthodox Church remained outside of these changes, as they had remained outside of the changes made by Pope Gregory in the 16th Century (Introduction of the 'Gregorian' calendar). The situation we have today is that the main secular Winter celebration is New Year on 1st January, the Orthodox church celebrates Christmas on 6th January and the New Year on 13th January.
The Russian people are spared the absurdity of early commercial activity, so there are no Christmas greetings to be found in October. The activity from mid December though is feverish and exhilerating and arguably proportionate. The magazines are full of advice and recommendation on how to give a successful party and have fun. The numerous TV channels vie with each other as to who can provide the most outrageous glitter, the most schmaltz and the craziest party.
Poor health prevented me from getting out last night and celebrating with friends but I was still able to enjoy the evening with family. We had a meal and champagne. Tradition is that the more sumptuous the meal, the more prosperous will be your year, so we made the effort: roast chicken, smoked salmon, Georgian cheese pie, three salads, garlic prawns and other tit-bits.
Being on the eighth floor meant that we were able to enjoy everyone elses fireworks :-) I have never seen the point of buying your own when the show is always so public, but then I am a Yorkshireman!

Snovom Godom,
Graham

Moscow - the city

2007-12-30T09:50:00.000Z

Moscow is huge. I do not have the statistics but I will seek them out for later.
At its centre is the Kremlin (which simply means 'fort' - many old towns have their kremlin)
The old part of the city sits around the Kremlin. It is mostly of 18th and 19th century with small corners of much older buildings. One of the reasons that you find so few ancient remains is that the buildings were mostly of wood, and fires and wars kept setting back developments!
There are 4 significant ring roads: the closest to the centre is the 'Boulevard' ring - an 18th19th century tree lined road: then the 'Garden' ring, a wide (8 lane) 20th century road that once skirted round the gardens of the old palaces; then the 'Third' ring, a recently completed outer ring road made up from older sections of road connected by fly-overs and tunnels. Last is the 'Moscow Ring', Moscow's equivalent of the M25!
Within the Moscow Ring the city is well wooded and there are many parks. The Moscow river winds through the city and there many are canals, lakes and one or two smaller rivers. The city is well served by water. The Moscow river is about the size of the Thames at London as it passes the Kremlin and travels on to eventually swell the waters of the Volga..
Most of the population live in apartment tower blocks; there are very few houses. The huge area between the Ring road and the Third ring is filled with row upon row of apartment blocks. They are the most enduring image of the city. Interspersed are industrial areas, parks, woods and lakes.
Geography lesson finished!
We have an 8th floor apartment just outside the Third ring. The windows look down on a spacious, tree dotted 'courtyard' with other blocks surrounding. There is a mixture of scruffy older blocks and post communist smarter blocks - guess which sort we are in :-( There are playgrounds, cars parked and a central services building, with shops on the 'outsides' of the blocks. This typical arrangement is repeated throughout the residential areas.
Today the ground is covered in a sprinkling of fresh snow overlying a treacherous layer of ice from a compacted previous snowfall. The roads though are kept clear. The public services are well prepared for this predictable state of affairs.

Do Svedanya
Graham

Christmas in Moscow

2007-12-29T12:21:00.000Z

Well, I made it to Moscow!
I am still ill with the shingles and the journey,on 23rd, was a strain (to say the least!).
The title here is misleading ~ nothing happens on December 25th. Everyone goes to work and the Russian version of normality continues. Whilst I say nothing happens, my own experience on Christmas day was dramatic. My illness reached a crisis: my temperature soared, I was violently sick and I thought death was imminent! Olga nursed me through it though and I am now back to being normally ill.
I have been here a week now and have only ventured out once. It was -4C and the windchill doubled that, so it was a short journey to the bank and back. The weather does not interrupt routines for the stoic Russians. They are well prepared and it is always warm inside.
I will be living here for a few weeks and will let you know my impressions of life in a January Moscow amongst my Russian friends and family.
It has just started snowing.

Graham

Shingles

2007-12-10T19:02:00.000Z

I have got the shingles!
Bloody Hell!
I had it many years ago and it was not too bad, as far as I can remember. This time it is awful.
For a week I suffered from occasional pains in the chest and back. It felt a bit like indigestion. I had no symptoms that suggested a heart problem so I was not too worried on that score.
Then it started to keep me awake. The pains became more intensive and I felt a bit feverish. It was time to seek medical help.
The doctor homed in on it straight away and told me that I would have a rash in the next day or so. He was correct. I now have pains, fever and an infuriatingly sensitive rash. At least I have the anti-viral drugs as well.

Shingles is a closely related to chicken-pox. It lies dormant in the body and re-appears when the immune system is weakened. Mine was weakened by the stress of caring for my senile father. I can identify the point at which I started to feel the pains and relate it directly to the stressful period. It can last for many weeks and this is worrying. I am in the process of preparing for an extended trip abroad. The thought of travelling for 6 hours is horrifying - two flights, changing at Zurich. I hate it enough when I am well! Then I have to adjust to living in a strange environment.

I have had to stop listening to some of my favourite pieces of classical music. You know the tingle that you get - hairs on the back of the neck, goose pimples etc. Well this effect drives a wave of pain through my shingles rash and detroys the pleasure. If I was a masochist I could enjoy it.

Illness is not on my agenda. I have lived free of it since being a child, no 'flu or colds etc., and it is a sobering experience.

"Struggling Authors"

2007-12-06T11:59:00.000Z

To all writers who feel isolated and unsupported I highly recommend "Struggling Authors". A very young site that is dedicated to helping new writers to get published. The site needs to build up its community, so if you have pages waiting on the word processor and you are not sure what to do with them then have a look, join in and see what others in the same position are doing.
I will let you in through my own little feature (just so you don't miss it!)...................

http://strugglingauthors.co.uk/authorofthemonth.aspx

The price of independence

2007-12-04T15:17:00.000Z

I have just had a few days caring for my 89 year old father. It has been an eye-opener!
Mother (87) needed a break. She is fit, alert and active so I packed her off to Belgium for a stay with my brother. The original intention was that Olga and I stayed with him and cared for him but Olga had a work offer she could not refuse and so I was left on my own.
He can just manage to walk short distances, has had three strokes and is seriously senile. He can dress himself (but needs tidying up afterwards!), eats well but slowly and has all the bathroom lifts and hoists to be able to keep himself clean.
Seems to be OK you think. The physical coping is not the problem - it is the mental onslaught of the loss of short-term memory..
He doesn't know where mother is. He keeps asking and I tell him all day long . He immediately forgets. If you say something it has to be repeated. It is partly deafness but partly senility. He forgets he has just eaten and asks for his dinner 10 minutes after finishing. This goes on all day long and there is just no escape.
I put him in the car and we go for a drive, just to have a change of scene. All through the ride he asks where we are going and I make up a destination just to say something.
There are blessed moments in the evening when he falls asleep in his chair or stares blankly at whatever is on the TV.

It is out of love for the dear old chap that I remain patient but it occurs to me that an employee in a care-home will not have this attitude. I am determined that both parents will keep their independence no matter what it takes. I see myself in him, 30 years on, and know what I would want for myself.

Don't write about the Lottery?

2007-11-10T10:46:00.000Z

If someone says don't do it then I find ways to do it. When an advice column told us that stories about the National Lottery were not a good idea I decided that I would write one.It is an illusion. It looks as if the story is about gambling, losing, winning etc. but it is actually about the relationship between two good friends. Is that cheating? Decide for yourselves:

Winners:

When the National Lottery arrived in 1994 Melvyn was excited along with the rest of the nation. The prospect of never having to worry about money ever again was extremely tempting. So he went along every week and joined the queue to buy his ticket.
“Fourteen million to one chance,” Pete, his best friend, reminded him constantly.
“You’re wasting your money.”

“Someone wins every week and when it’s me you’ll be getting your share, you old cynic,” replied Melvyn.

He never watched the draw. Every Sunday morning he would go and buy his paper and check his numbers. The sense of anticipation was delicious.
On one occasion the first three numbers matched his. He hardly dare look at the next one. He did and was disappointed. The last two were also not on his ticket. Never mind, thought Melvyn, there is always next week, and a tenner is welcome.

On ‘rollover’ draws he would buy extra numbers. Seven lines usually. His simple arithmetic told him that by buying seven lines he reduced the odds from fourteen million to two million to one. This may, or may not, have been the case but it raised his optimism; there is huge difference between fourteen million and a mere two million.

After he had bought his ticket he would drive home dreaming of the things he would do with his fortune………….. A nice big bungalow; five or six bedrooms, a villa in Spain and a cottage in Scotland or Ireland. Plenty for his brother and a few thousands scattered amongst friends and relatives. He would have time to travel and to do all the things that going to work prevented him from doing. Pete would do well, of course, and Melvyn would take great pleasure in constantly reminding him of his cynicism.

When the Wednesday draw was announced in 1997 his hopes soared: now there was twice as much opportunity each week. He now regularly bought four lines on Saturday and four on Wednesday. Then along came the Euro Lottery, with even bigger prizes; two lines on Friday. He spent eleven pounds a week on Lottery tickets; well, he could afford it.
When he told Pete he was attacked with the arithmetic:
“Eleven pounds a week! Just a minute, let me work this out………..that’s five hundred and seventy two pounds a year! That’s a week in Marbella.”

“Don’t forget the occasional scratch card,” Melvyn added. “Let’s call it a round £600. I hate untidy numbers.”

“A week in Tenerife then. Seriously, just think what you could do with that money.”

“Excuse me; Mr Arithmetic. How much do you spend on red wine each week, eh? It’s probably more than my £11.”

“That’s different. Wine is one of life’s necessities.”

“Oh, is it - then how come I can manage without it? Anyone can find an expense that is not essential, but part of the pleasure of living. Mine happens to be my Lottery. Next time a bottle of red hits the jackpot and makes you a millionaire, let me know.”

*

After this exchange every time they met there was a little more playful banter. Pete kept a tally and reminded Melvyn of how much he had spent on tickets:
“£33 since we last met Mel, and £6,000 or so since you started. You don’t seem to be very lucky Melvyn. Why don’t you just give it up?”

“I don’t believe in luck; just random chance. So called ‘lucky’ people have just as much chance as everyone else who buys a ticket. Anyway, I won a tenner two weeks ago. I notice you conveniently leave these little wins out of your calculations: Lies, damn lies and statistics. What’s the wine bill this week, by the way?”

*

Melvyn dreamed on and Pete kept adding up. Year on year they persisted; always friendly – it was their game.
Melvyn looked forward to his retirement. His lottery routine continued and his luck never faltered – the occasional tenner, and once the princely sum of £73. On that occasion Melvyn phoned Pete immediately to tell him.

One Thursday afternoon Pete called round; both were retired now, and he announced, with a raspberry fanfare, that Melvyn had now spent £15,000 on lottery tickets. As he spoke the words his speech faltered:
“Are you OK Mel?”
“Not really. You know what’s funny; your sums are wrong. Twice recently I forgot to buy my tickets! I have not been feeling too good; constant headaches.”
“Get yourself to the docs mate.”

*

When Pete called round the following week Melvyn was in bed.
“Come on lazybones, it’s nearly noon,” he said, as he poked his head around the bedroom door. “Bloody hell you look like death! I’m calling an ambulance.”

*

Melvyn’s brain tumour was very advanced and he was given two months to live. He spent most of his days sitting in the ward lounge, drifting in and out of a drug induced sleep. Pete called to see him every day, and afterwards often cried at the appalling deterioration he saw in his old friend. He started to buy Melvyn’s lottery tickets for him and brought them along to the hospital. They enjoyed a little laugh at this irony.
“If I could escape from this institution I would pop round the ‘offy’ and get you a case of Merlot.”
The effort of this little speech exhausted Melvyn. He closed his eyes for a minute and they both sat in silence. Melvyn broke it:
“I never won those millions did I?”
“So what,” Pete smiled. “Anyway, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”

That Saturday as he bought the lottery ticket on his way to the hospital, Pete found himself wishing that this could be the ‘big one’. He would love to give Melvyn the ticket he always dreamed of. When he arrived the ward sister informed him of Melvyn’s death just two hours earlier.
The ticket never came out of Pete’s wallet and was never checked: not because Pete forgot about it, but because he wanted it to remain in a permanent state of anticipation, never ever checked and therefore always in with a chance; in honour of the only real pleasure the lottery gave to his dear friend.

©G E Wilkinson 10/07

The Waterborne - next bit.

2007-11-05T11:31:00.000Z

Having leapt into the river Philip discovers a new existence outside of his old body. He learns what it is to be one of the Waterborne:

See that body? That is me, or was me. It has left me and floated away – useless, discarded; like the shoe with a hole in it. This is me, here, held still beneath the water; the flow going through and around me like the warm breeze on a hill top in another place and another life. I gaze on the landscape of this new element without the fog of corruptible eyes. The mystery of the fathomless bridge pool is revealed. Down here all is clear. There are rocks, both washed clean and clothed in weed, and quiet silted corners; gravel pockets and sandy spits; each playing its part in directing the water. A few small trout gather close by me but they, unlike me, are still subject to the force of the flow and constantly flick their tails to seek comfort within it. They are not aware of me – good! In the last life I forever wanted to come close to the small, wild things of the earth. A youthful perversity made me want to kill them. It was the simple solution: To stop their constant jittering and flittering and hold them calm and still in my hand. They would then belong to me, without knowing it. My fishing brought them to me and doubled the pleasure as I watched them swim free again on their release. This paradise puts me alongside the quivering life; with no desire or means to take that life. I feel I am part of the water that gives them life. They belong to me again, without knowing it but still living.

Over there is a fine fish, a cock – maybe two pound. He holds prime position, little bits of debris and food passing within a fin’s flick of his great pale gape. See him move with so little effort; his instinct tells him that every morsel must be worth more than the effort needed to take it. There: A small, struggling nymph has been eaten. She was moving to the surface to fulfil her destiny as an imago, and now both the nymph and her destiny have gone.

Can I move? I don’t know. I don’t know how. The water is almost powerless against my formlessness. The sensation of flow is a false physical presence and I have very little resistance on which to push. I have no shape, no limbs, yet I must learn to walk again. Will I be a tottering toddler in this new element of my new life? How can I seek what I wish for if my new being stays put, like a prisoner, or a troll beneath this bridge? Alexandra was a lover of warm, salty waters. I need to seek her in warm seas.

How to move? Relax. Want it. Believe it. Do it. Mr big brown trout I am coming to you………..now the rocks move. He is closer. Success. Believe it. Do it. My vision is filled by his muscular length. Oh what beauty! How can the limp curve of a fish, even newly lifted from the water, compare to this vibrancy in living colour and the ancient, subtle co-ordination of movement. The half-hidden, dark shadow, which the angler views from above, is transformed now that it is viewed from within its natural element. I am so close and he does not know I am here. I have the ultimate in stealth but no need of its power.

What is that? I am being watched. By what: Or whom? Why do I feel it and not see it?

“Welcome Philip. I see that you have learned that the physical world has little influence on your new form.”
“Where are you? Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“I am water and I am everywhere. I carry all such as you within me. You are here because you knew of this existence, as I knew of yours.”
“Will I meet others?”
“You will meet others, particularly those you seek.”
“Can you show me where Alex is?”
“She is within me, that’s all you need to know.”
“I have more questions.”
“Ask.”
“Is this death?”
“There is no death. You are one of the Waterborne because you chose it. The Airborne are above you, most free of all. The Earth-bound are not free, but they are happy in their tight world, as all are who choose their element, and the Flame-bound come and go like the Phoenix.”
“Is there another ending to this existence?”
“Far beyond existence is oblivion: The end of all things. But there is a malign influence in all elements that can send you to oblivion before the end of all things. Beware of those who intrude into an element that is not their own. They do not belong and would destroy out of malice. You will feel pain, as you will feel pleasure.”
“Where are the other Waterborne?”
“They are fully part of me, as you will be. They will come to you when you have learned. Stop now. No more questions. Many answers will come to you as you find the peace of being one with me.
It is time to continue your journey.”

Euphemisms

2007-10-30T09:38:00.000Z

I’m just going for a Euphemism.

Euphemisms were invented to hide unpleasant truths or socially unacceptable vocabulary. By shrouding the telling in a gentle cloak, we disguise that which we feel we must utter but would rather ignore. They also can be useful when trying to hide vulgarity or sexual references, especially for the closet prude or when in mixed company. My favourite is “He told me to have sex and travel.”
One concept which has probably as many euphemisms as sex and bodily functions is death:

Gone for a Burton’s

Hello, How’s whatsisname? Malcolm was it, or Michael, yes, Mike?

Didn’t you know? He bought it.

Oh, that house on Woodhead Road with the wobbly car-port and the damp understory.

No. He’s gone. Gone West.

Liverpool eh? Bought a house in Liverpool. Well I never. He always was a Beatles fan. He did a fair rendition of ‘Yesterday’ when he’d had a few. Didn’t think he’d go that far.

No, Not Liverpool; he’s gone for a Burton; he’s sleeping.

Burton eh? That would be Burton-on Trent? That’s South not West. Make good beer there. Oh I see. Not gone there but had some beer. Now that I understand. I always fall asleep after a few pints.

No. Asleep, as in, ‘gone to a better place’.

There aren’t many better places than Liverpool now are there? Burton-on-Trent is ok. Both are a fair distance, just for a sleep. So where has he actually gone? Which pub sells Burton ales round here?

Oh dear. How shall I put it? He’s gone to the Grim Reaper; kicked the bucket.

I know the Grim Reaper. Do a lovely ploughman’s lunch. The Bucket? Just remind me. Where is it? I thought I knew all the pubs round here. Ah: a bucket of ale. Surely you mean that figuratively. No wonder he’s gone to sleep. Didn’t know the Reaper sold Burton’s.

Poor Mike has gone to his final resting place. Now do you understand?

That is amazing. After a skin full I usually fall asleep where I’m sitting. Good old Mike eh? Took himself straight to bed.

You don’t get it. He’s let go. Cashed in his cheque. Shuffled off etc…

It’s the drink you know. Let himself go. Straight out of the post office with his giro and straight to the pub. Spent it all on drink. Shuffles now does he? I always thought he was in control of himself; always walked tall did good old Mike. Shuffles eh? Plays havoc with the heels of your shoes. Wouldn’t like his shoe repair bill.

You make this very difficult. He……..he…… he died.

I’m not surprised after all that Burton’s Ale. Alcoholic poisoning eh? At least he died happy; and in his own bed.

© GEWilkinson 8/07

The Waterborne - first extract

2007-10-26T15:02:00.000+01:00

This is the opening passage, in which our angling hero stands on a high bridge parapet and reflects on his life and his drowned, lost love, before setting off on his journey to join her:

The Waterborne

I stand up here, parallel with the tree tops, because of an anniversary that plunges me to the depths of sadness, but the view from here is amazing. It is a view brimming with memories of my fishing life.
The river stretches away to a distant curve with the water sparkling between the bank-side leaves and reeds as it flows inevitably towards me and passes far beneath. There is a pool not far along, beside the left bank, where a grayling would eventually rise and let me know that they were all resident and ready to take the fly. I remember a mink once, just a youngster with hungry eyes, locked stock still on the water’s edge opposite, watching me take three grayling from that pool. The pool is quiet and still right now; too early for a hatch of olives. Blue Winged Olives – those delicate, aquatic insects that the fish love to feed on - probably start about two o’clock.
Look, a kingfisher! I have rarely seen this view of his azure back - from above. Such speed. A sapphire bullet. He heads round the bend and disappears. It was just round that bend that I caught my largest trout from this stretch.
There’s that knotweed! Bloody nuisance. I have lost innumerable flies in that patch on the right down there. It is a wicked, foreign weed with the power to absorb fishermen’s flies.
There is some colour in the water, perhaps peat washed off the high moors.

The deep, fathomless pool under the arches has always been a mystery, too deep to wade, never revealed fully, even in the lowest summer flows. So many memories….of here and of home:
So often have I pulled my wadered feet from the water beside this bridge, icy feet in winter, cooled feet in summer, anticipating my welcome home. It was such a joy, such a moment of quiet thrill, starting the journey back from the chilled water to the warm comfort of her safe, domestic domain: a thrill born of a love that stretched back through our older years: now gone. Oh Alex, my dear, I can no longer bear the pain of your absence.

All the tears have dried now, evaporated and dissipated into the cycle of life-giving water. A mere dampness from those tears could have passed through the heavens, fallen back to earth and be part of the flow beneath me right now. How much would the river rise if all the tears for all lost love were to enter the system at one go? Would the river be a more melancholy place? A river of tears would certainly be salty.

She loved the sea as much as I loved the river and the lake. Between us our combined love embraced all the water on the planet. I remember watching her swim from a Mediterranean beach out towards the horizon. She loved to be so far from land with the deep, dense, blue space beneath her. Was it foolish ignorance of the spiteful anger of the sea, or reckless bravery, which allowed her this pleasure? I would join her sometimes – because I feared the deep and therefore feared for her. Her reckless pleasure shone out from her face as we swam side by side, until we turned and looked back at the receded shore. She laughed at my eagerness to return to the security of the shallows with the small yellow fishes. She touched my cheek, clung her body to mine and her laughter and warm limbs dissolved my fear. Her fearless laughter in the face of the sea was the rock upon which I stood, with my head clear above all dangers.

My rock has been gone a full year and the trembling ground constantly threatens to swallow me up, to bury me with my anger. I am here to defeat anger and to choose water, not fear it any longer. The water, our shared love, will take me when I am ready to go to her. This element of air is becoming too thin; suffocating my life. I will go to water, where she has gone, and find love again.
The bridge parapet is now my rock. It is my Alexandra holding me high above the river and offering to me the deep comfort below. The long fall will begin my journey to freedom and back to my lost love.

Wedding

2007-10-25T23:23:00.000+01:00

Well it all went smoothly. In fact it was quite magically wonderful.
My daughter belongs to another man (sob!).
Fortunately he is a sound guy with most honourable intentions and more than adequate means. He paid for the whole lot - no chance I could afford it, I'm a struggling author.

I will start soon to publish extracts from 'The Waterborne'.
The story, briefly, is about two lovers who are seperated when the woman drowns in the Med. A year later the grieving man commits suicide by drowning in a Yorkshire river. They both become 'Waterborne' spirits and the meat of the story is in their adventures as they roam the seas and rivers looking for each other.
Will they meet in the end?
What do you think!

Time off

2007-10-17T17:02:00.000+01:00

After a searing start from the blog-blocks I have ground to a halt. There is a reason. My daughter, the apple of her father's eye, is getting married on Saturday and life is HECTIC. It is not just the amount that needs to be done but also the way it distracts one's attention. If you are not buying bits of clothing you are thinking about it: even if your house guests haven't arrived they need planning for etc.
The only bit of writing I have managed this week is an article for BBC wildlife and my wedding speech!

The anglergeek analogy

2007-10-09T18:37:00.000+01:00

How to fly fish on rivers.
First the anglergeek's or 'tackletart's' version:
Hardware -
For small streams a 2.3 ATFM 4 or 5 rod with a tip action for tight situations, or for larger waters a 2.8 ATFM 7 or 8 with a mid action for distance casting.
A large arbour reel with disc drag.
A matching double taper line for delicate presentation.
A tapered, 3m copolymer of flurocarbon leader with a 6x point.
A selection of artificial duns, spinners, nymphs and bugs.

Civilian version:
Equipment -
For small streams a short, light rod that allows you to cast short distances amongst restricting, bankside vegetation. For larger rivers a longer rod with the strength to cast further.
A fly reel to keep the line on.
A line with a reference number matching that on the rod handle. The line needs to have a gentle, gradual taper so that the fly will land on the water gently and not scare the fish.
A nylon type line attachment of 10ft, gradually stepping down from 8lb to 3lb breaking strain.
Some dry flies to imitate surface hatching insects or egg-laying insects and some wet flies to imitate sub-surface insects.

Yes, the second version uses more words - but why not?
The weird thing is; as I wrote the first version it all made perfect sense to me! But, you see, I'm on the INSIDE.
Software writers - know your audience.

2007-10-09T18:04:00.000+01:00

Blogs are a problem.

Yes - they are a place where you can write anything that takes your fancy.

Yes - they allow you to 'publish' instantly and have satisfaction from that fact.

But:

Who reads it?

How do you reach your intended audience?

How much cyberspeak do you need to learn before you can make the best of the potential readership.

The last two/three postings disappear once you have posted your latest offering and only a dedicated fan would search back in case they have missed anything.

I have just appeared here, re-directed from 'Struggling Authors' and I am quite pleased with the site. I have another blog with 'Writelink' and it is just plain bloody awful! This site takes you through the setting up process with clear instructions and plain english prompts; the Writelink Blog is stuffed with software jargon and strange options. I call it Bloggledegook.

My theory is that blogs are, even still, in their infancy. They are having a long childhood, but that is the nature of cybergeekdom. There will come a time when all postings are made in a simple front end slot and links, photo posting etc. is direct and straight forward. If I was of another generation my aim in life would be to make blogs more user friendly and less exclusive.

This is the first blogsite/forum where I can post pictures directly from my computer, without having to go through a 'host'.

I still do not know what is a ping or a pingback. I don't even know if it is useful. Worst is the assumption that I do know and therefore no explanation is given or I don't understand the explanation because it is written in the same mysterious register..

There are other examples of assumptions of this kind, e.g. backlinks.

My next post will be an analogy, with flyfishing as the example.

Grayling

2007-10-09T10:32:00.000+01:00

picture: Rod Calbrade,
The Grayling Society

This is a grayling. They are of course, most beautiful when seen in their natural element, but this is the next best thing. The angler has brought the fish to hand and is about to release it; surprised but unharmed.

I forgot to mention that a Grayling is also a butterfly.

Coincidences

2007-10-09T09:52:00.000+01:00

Everywhere I go on the web I give the name 'Grayling': it is my 'username'. It is also the name of a fish and that is why I chose it.
For the civilians* out there I will describe the grayling:
It is a fish of clear streams and sparkling rivers, a member of the salmon family and a native to Yorkshire. It is a shoal fish. It is silvery in appearance and has a huge sail of a dorsal fin, which has purple and pinkish hues. It is a beautiful fish and is called 'The lady of the stream'. It shares the water with the brown trout and the chub. Anglers love to see it because it is an indicator of water quality - the grayling is intolerant of even the slightest pollution and will quickly migrate upstream if any appears. It rises readily to the dry fly.

*civilians - those who do not belong to the community of anglers.

Grayling also happens to be the family name of one of the owners of the 'Struggling Authors' website: Richard Grayling lives in York, which was the home city of my birth. I was in fact born in Riccall, a village outside York, and a place where Richard once lived for a short time. I would like to have had the family name Grayling, but Graham Grayling would have been a bit music hall; but then, I am sure my parents would have called me something more sensible like Richard. Now that would have been an extraordinary co-incidence!