Christmas Greetings

DECEMBER must have been a busy month, as I look back and see I've managed no posts at all so far. Wrist slapped, will endeavour to do better. I was dreaming of the traditional white Christmas, but as it failed to appear, here's a picture of the park near my house, taken in February 2005.

I'm even late with the festive good wishes, though it's hard to be overly joyous when so much of what we'd come to take for granted seems to be crumbling around us. With the collapse of Woolworths, Whittards, Zavvi and so many other casualties of this economic 'downturn', thoughts must turn to the casualties of other institutions' reckless lust for profit.

I hope the new year brings better news, but I'm not holding my breath. I wonder if there are any bankers or hedge fund managers donating any of their holiday time to working in the soup kitchens this Christmas. No, probably not.

Dambusters Anniversary

THIS WAS the view above the Derwent Dam in Derbyshire on Friday 16 May, 2008, as an Avro Lancaster from the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight swept over the dam wall to commemorate the 65th anniversary of the 'Dambusters' mission.

The main access to the dam was closed for the ceremony, with only veterans and other ticket-holding guests allowed in. However, those of us prepared to walk over the hills were rewarded with this view of the flypast. Squeezing every ounce of occasion out of the morning, the Lancaster took five passes of the dam before being succeeded by two Tornados, a Dakota DC3 and the Memorial Flight's fighting double act, the Hurricane and Spitfire.

It was a wonderful experience, the sort that gets the hair standing on the back of your neck and brings a tear to the eye.

Cross or What?

I'VE BEEN doing a lot of waving recently, mostly from the side of the road. It's the traffic, you see, and it just won't stop.

There's a zebra crossing near our house, taking us to the park where the children play and the dog does some serious cavorting. It's a proper zebra crossing: flashing Belisha beacons, none of this Pelican traffic light nonsense.

But that's the trouble; no-one takes the slightest bit of notice anymore. Unless it's a red light forcing drivers to stop, nothing happens. We've waited at the side of the road and watched car after car sweep past us in blissful ignorance. Or perhaps wilful disregard, it's difficult to tell when they go that fast.

Once, we thought we were in luck - cars approaching from both directions stopped to let us cross. All would have been well had an impatient woman in the queue not decided that she'd waited too long and pulled out of the line, onto the other side of the road, and roared past the queue, missing us by a hair's breadth.

So now I stand at the zebra crossing, waving in exaggerated greeting to the people who whizz past. Some of them even wave back.

Money Grabbing Tightwads!

I'VE JUST been charged a fee for retrieving my own money!

When I signed up for a cashback credit card with the Halifax, my understanding of the deal was that a (very) small percentage of the value of my purchases would be credited back to me each year. As expected, my card statement last month showed that I had received the grand sum of £30 in cashback payments. Now, as the balance on my card was zero, this showed up as £30 in credit.

Ha ha, I thought, I'm in the money! And so I hastened to the nearest Halifax ATM, withdrew my £30 and sallied forth to spend it on good, wholesome, tasty beer.

And now I've discovered that, for the privilege of recovering my own money, Halifax have charged me £3! Now that's a pretty mean trick. I can understand them charging a fee when you borrow their money on a card, but my own money? I think not, matey. Especially when I can draw cash out from my Halifax bank account, using the same ATM, and it costs me not a single penny.

I'm going to start a bank. After all, how hard can it be? You give me all your money, and I'll look after it for you. Then I'll lend it to you, as long as you pay it back, together with a large amount of interest. And when you finally want to take your original money out, I'll charge you for that as well. That is, assuming I haven't lost it all after gambling every penny on the stock market for huge profits.

In that case, you'll just have to wait for the government to give it to me so I can pass it on to you.

For a nominal fee.

Update 20 November: Those kind people at the Halifax have refunded my £3 'as a gesture of goodwill'. They seemed to understand I might be a bit miffed, but hastened to point out that their terms and conditions clearly state their intention to charge for cash withdrawn on a credit card whether it's your money or not. Hmm.

Squadron Leader 'Gandi' Drobinski DFC

THIS is my Dad, the photograph taken in the early 1940s, somewhere in England. He'd followed his country's orders: to leave his native Poland when the Germans invaded and to find his way to England to make himself useful to the war effort. He'd been caught and interned in Romania, escaped and made his way to England via false documents, passports and a kindly guard at the French border. Although he survived the war, this Remembrance Day seems a good time to say a few words about him.

Dad flew planes. A young officer in the Polish Air Force, he came to England a trained fighter pilot. He flew Hurricanes and then Spitfires, fighting in the Battle of Britain with 65 Squadron. He went on to become Squadron Leader of 303 Polish Squadron, was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross and was classed as an 'Ace'. He flew alongside V1 flying bombs to tip their wings, confusing their gyros and sending them back where they came from. He flew fighter escort for bombers on their historic raid on Hitler's 'Eagle's Nest' at Berchtesgaden. In later life, he was one of the technical advisers for the 1969 film, Battle of Britain. He is one of the 24 pilots featured in '...So Few', a beautifully and painstakingly prepared limited edition book produced to raise money for the RAF Benevolent Fund.

But that really isn't what I wanted to say. That went on well before I was born, and formed the man before I got to him.

The Dad I remember was the one who used to drive me six miles to school in our red Mini in the 1960s, making me laugh by pretending the oncoming traffic were enemy aircraft and shouting 'Dakakakakaka' while firing imaginary tracers at them. He'd let me sit on the rear wheel arch of our tractor while we towed the hay-baler up and down our farm's meadows, making me feel so grown up.

My Dad was the man full of alleged Polish proverbs and sayings which, like the fictional Banacek, he'd quote at you. 'He's lying like a cheap watch' was one of his favourites.

While driving, he was someone who would approach roundabouts cautiously, and then, when he felt he'd waited an appropriate amount of time, drive into the melee, regardless of whether he had right of way or not. I think he just lost patience.

But of all these memories, the strongest one I have is this: the two of us sitting on the floor in front of the telly, watching Rowan and Martin's Laugh In, laughing like drains at Arte Johnson, playing the German soldier, with traditional tin helmet, whose running gag was to appear from behind a pot plant and say: 'Very interesting. But stupid.'

An American playing a German, and my Dad laughing at the joke. And me sitting next to him.

Seal Stones

THESE BEAUTIFUL, weather-worn stones are to be found on Seal Edge, on the rim of Kinder Scout. There's something wonderful about the way that the wind and rain, swirling small pieces of dust and grit around, can make such unique testaments to the capricious nature of, well, Nature.

Unlikely as it seems, this was a warm day in November 2007, when my friend Neil and I had become fearless enough to venture onto the famous Kinder Scout, the high and expansive plateau that, for us at least, is the heart of the Peak District.

From a layby near the Snake Inn, we ventured across the river and up alongside Fair Brook to Fairbrook Naze, an imposing peak that juts out from Kinder like an upturned battleship, presenting its seemingly forbidding ascent to travellers on the Snake Road.

From the top of Fairbrook, the edge walk takes us past several crops of weathered stones, each cluster an attraction to best the last, until reaching the Seal Stones themselves, unmistakeably seal-like, yet formed by the random whiles of time.

We did this walk on a weekday, and met no-one else on the journey. To look around such a vast expanse of space, and feel as if we were the only ones there, made us feel so privileged to live where we do.

A Verdict On Which You Are All Agreed?

JURIES HAVE come in for quite a bashing in recent years; certainly in the UK, there have been calls for a revision of the jury system, replacing the traditional jury with a group of relevant experts. Who better to judge, say, complex financial crimes, the argument goes, than a jury of finance professionals. After all, they go on to say, the barristers don't have to waste valuable time explaining the basics of whatever process has been flouted for the benefit of the alleged criminal.

Oh but yes they do, and that's the point. Explaining your case to someone completely ignorant of the subject forces you back to basics; it makes you start at the beginning and build your argument from scratch. No flim-flam, no short cuts. And no taking anything for granted. That's the way it should be: a strong argument, with solid foundations, built from the bottom up.

Critics of the conventional system also claim that many jurors don't pull their weight; they're along for the ride, they say. A columnist in a popular tabloid newspaper claimed that those who got involved in jury duty were either too stupid or too idle to avoid it.

Some years ago, I was called for jury duty, and my experience was quite different. While the usual commitment is for a ten day period, a number of longer trials were scheduled for around that time, and I was selected as a juror for one estimated to last for three or four months.

In the end, I spent five months attending court with eleven other people, most of whom I would otherwise have had little in common with. We turned up every day, sometimes to spend a full day listening to evidence, other days to be sent away as legal argument took place. I took a lot of notes, as did a few of the others. Sometimes I wondered about an 'imbalance of attention', as I saw some of us staring into the courtroom distractedly during much of the proceedings.

And yet, when the time came for us as a jury to deliberate and reach a verdict, every single member of the jury had something important to contribute. Those of us that took notes could recall what had been said, but those who seemed to be paying less attention during the trial were in fact the keenest observers of body language, of intonation and of how witnesses and defendants came across. While we had our heads in our notes, they were studying the people in front of them and forming opinions which later proved to be invaluable.

So, does the jury system need replacing? No it does not.

Bamford Edge

BAMFORD EDGE casts an imposing eye over the small village of Bamford in Derbyshire's Peak District. Far below it lies the Ladybower Dam and reservoir, with the Derwent reservoir in the distance, the other side of the road bridge, heading up towards the top right of the picture.

In September 2007, I started walking seriously in the Peaks. Despite having lived in Sheffield since 1999, raising young children had provided a paltry excuse for not venturing out into my local countryside until then. I am still in kindergarten when it comes to knowledge of my surroundings, but twelve months have taken me a very long way. I'm not just talking about the 300 miles I've walked, but also about the fact that I can now drive along the Snake Pass, or into the beautiful Edale or Hope valleys, and be able to name many of the notable features of the landscape.

And what a passport that is amongst the people of Sheffield! You have only to mention walking, and you'll find yourself engaged in friendly banter, even with a complete stranger, about where you've been, what you've seen and how you approached the walk. And then you'll be treated to some suggestions for other walks, other routes, other sights that might take your fancy. Walking is one of the keys that unlocks the romance of Sheffield, and I'm so glad to have happened upon it.

The walk that includes the view pictured here started in Bamford itself, took us around the village and up past the Bamford water filters. We gained the edge above the filters and walked the length of it, bringing us down to the wonderfully named Cutthroat Bridge. From there we walked back to Bamford along the road. The view from the Edge, as you can see, is spectacular.

Parking Problems

MY FATHER had a dry sense of humour.

While out driving with him one day, we rounded the corner of a country lane and happened upon a small car which clearly hadn't made the bend. It had careered off the road, jumped a ditch, and was lying on its side against a wire fence.

'Hmm,' mused Dad. 'I don't suppose he meant to park there.'

As Flat as a Millpond

I'M NOT the world's best photographer but, when I finally take a decent one, I become inordinately proud and want everyone to see it. Consequently, it's my desktop picture and now I've put it on here.

This was taken on a beautifully still day in February 2008, and is a view of the Ladybower Dam and Reservoir in the Peak District, near my home in Sheffield. The Ladybower is the lowest of three interconnecting reservoirs, the Howden and the Derwent being the other two. The Derwent Dam is probably best known as the training ground for No. 617 "Dambusters" Squadron during WWII, but more of that in another post.

Many people unfamiliar with Sheffield are surprised when I tell them that although I live half an hour's walk from the city centre, I am also barely ten minutes' drive from this place. It's a wonderful place to go hiking, so look out for pictures and posts from my walks!

If you're interested, this photo was taken with a Pentax K10D, standard zoom lens as supplied, but with a polarising filter attached. In fact, it was my first day out with the new filter. I'm not sure I've taken a better shot since.

Doctoring the Challenge?

I LOVE 'University Challenge'. It has become a fine British institution, with teams from two universities each week pitting themselves not only against each other, but also against the prospect of being found wanting before the witheringly unforgiving gaze of inquisitor Jeremy Paxman.

Surely I can't be alone in thrilling to the prospect of an Oxbridge college being trounced by one of the 'new' universities, or relishing the depth of disdain that flavours one of Paxman's put-downs as a student gets an answer so terribly wrong? That's part of the programme's charm, along with its 'split screen' format that places one team above the other during the 'starter for ten' questions. As young teenager, I used to think they really were on top of each other, and thought how wonderful it was to be the 'top' team, like getting the top bunk bed.

The Challenge has been going for over forty years, and I've always thought of it as a game for undergraduates, most likely in the second or third year of their studies, anxious to show their parents and the rest of the country that they knew not only stuff, but pretty clever stuff too. They could answer questions on physics, literature, mathematics and art. They knew the name of Bill Sykes' dog and how many Champagne bottles make a Jeroboam, but they were also pretty adept at Boyle's Law and all things biological, and they were probably only just out of their teens.

But now it's all changed, and not for the better in my view. The playing field, such as it is, is no longer level. More often than not, the line up of four team members will include one or more postgraduate students, studying for PhDs in any number of esoteric topics. Some of them even look old enough to be, well, if not my Dad, then at least my older brother. And they don't just know how many bottles make a Jeroboam, they've lived long enough to drink several more of them than the undergraduates they replace.

What next? In an effort to gain victory at all costs, will the team selectors bypass the undergraduates altogether and just get their professors in?

The lights are on, and somebody's home...

WELCOME to the new place! Can you smell the fresh paint? I know eggshell finish stinks for a while, but it's harder wearing than your usual emulsion, and it has a touch of classical elegance to it, don't you think? It's a memory of times past, of stately homes and school corridors, redecorated over the summer holidays, waiting to be filled with the clamour of fresh-faced pupils, scrubbed clean by their parents and sporting razor sharp creases in their regulation grey trousers.

Tomorrow is my 50th birthday. What started sometime in February 1958, possibly even with the words, 'Oh, go on then, if you're quick', has now managed a half century on the planet. So, to commemorate the occasion, I am starting this blog. It's my first venture into web publishing, so please be gentle with me.

Becoming fifty has made me aware of two things: that I'm realistic enough to know that no-one will have the slightest interest in anything I've got to say, and that I'm curmudgeonly enough to say them anyway and hang the consequences. I've also realised that 50 years is plenty of time to accumulate a vast array of things I don't understand, or don't like, or make me laugh in public at inappropriate moments. And, I suppose, that's what I feel like sharing with what will surely become, given time, a readership numbering just slightly less than one.

I'm guessing it will be a mixed bag, so if you do happen to stumble upon this by mistake, please feel free to have a look around, and check back from time to time - you may find something to amuse or annoy you!

In the meantime, though, I have a birthday celebration to go to.