150. When The News is Not Enough

I’ve written before about how dreadful is "Look East", our regional news programme.  

Lately, two aspects of the BBC national news bulletins have been irritating me.  One of these issues is the compulsive need that the programme directors have to show visual puns whenever they can.  None of them cause any harm but they sometimes detract from the importance of the story.  

I was first aware of this practice more than a year ago.  An early report on negotiations with the EU ended with the words,“Brussels is waiting to negotiate. The two-year clock is ticking.”  On screen was Theresa May at her desk with a large wall clock behind her.

Theresa May’s leadership of the Conservative Party is under question.  A report on it ended with the words, “The hold on her party could soon be swept away.”  As this was said, the screen was filled with a shot of a road sweeper clearing fallen leaves from the gutter outside Number 10.

The images became less discreet.  A reporter, holding an Ireland football shirt in one hand and a Northern Ireland shirt in the other, said,  “It's the relationship between these two sides (the two sides of the Irish border) that is continuing to defy Brexit.” That visual pun was rather spoilt as both shirts were predominantly green.

An entirely positive Brexit report ended with sealed, cardboard boxes being loaded into a van as the voiceover said, “The Brexit deal is packed up and ready for delivery,” but as those cardboard boxes had virtually nothing to do with the story, it was all a bit strained.

The BBC sent a news team to Cammell Laird shipyard in Birkenhead.  It seemed to me that the sole reason for that location was so that while the reporter said, "For more than 40 years the UK has been one of the key links in the EU supply chain,” the huge links in the chains used during the launching of ships could be shown on screen.  The report was nothing to do directly with shipbuilding.

Some images are laughably silly.  As a correspondent finished saying, “The government won’t say if EU rules will still apply after Brexit.  We’ll have to see what pops up,” a piece of toast was seen popping out of a toaster.  Well, that certainly made things clearer and I really wish I’d seen that before I voted.

Ramble 1:  The toaster was in a café where the news crew had gone to ask people in cafés what they thought about Brexit.  

I really don’t care at all about what the random, ill informed “man in the café” thinks about anything.  What that usually ignorant and inarticulate person thinks is always immaterial.

Ill-informed people, commenting on any specific topic about which they have never given any serious thought, is of no value or of any interest at all to anyone.  Why do all news channels give them airtime?  It’s boring and it’s pointless.

Sometimes, the visual puns are quite subtle.  There was a report on the conflict within the world of Rugby Union to do with the different interpretation of the laws in the northern and southern hemispheres.  It ended with a shot of an international rugby player and the words, "Right now, Rugby Union’s north-south divide seems wider than ever.”  

The player pictured was George North, the Welsh player but I suspect that most viewers wouldn’t have known that.

A somewhat subtle and understated example of a visual pun was in a report from the USA on the troubles Trump is having concerning his alleged links with Russia.  

“No one was in the least bit concerned that Team Trump might be lying about his contacts with Russian figures,” said John Sopel, the BBC North America Correspondent.  

As he said that, the screen was filled with a shot of piglets in a sty on a US farm.

Readers outside the UK need to know that in England a "porkie" is a lie because in rhyming slang, "pork pie" is a lie.  Someone might say, “Stop telling porkies.”
If someone says that they think you are telling porkies, it's an almost polite way of saying they don't believe you.

Ramble 2:  BBC News at Ten lasts for 30 minutes. Recently, there has been a tendency for five or more of those minutes to be devoted to a mini documentary that is not news.  It may be informative and important but it isn’t news.

The Radio 4 radio news bulletin at midnight, always fills 25 - 30 minutes with solid news stories but two hours earlier, the television news viewers see something like a commentary suggesting that women who experienced trauma while giving birth are often left without support.

That is important but it is not the latest national news.

Some years ago, I mentioned to a friend who spent most of her working life in front of the television camera, that many news correspondents aren’t actually where they appear to be when they make their reports.  She dismissed that suggestion out of hand.

Twice, I’ve seen news crews in action here, in Milton Keynes and just the lights that they use are enough to attract anyone’s immediate attention, never mind the possibly famous face and the attendant crew.  

Last December, I remember watching television and seeing a reporter standing in the middle of the pavement in Oxford Street addressing the camera.  

It was the last Saturday afternoon before Christmas and the pavement was teeming with pedestrians.  Scores of shoppers walked either side of this stationary figure without any of them even glancing at the camera or at him. 

I cannot believe that those crowds of shoppers could walk by, oblivious to his presence - where was he really?

I could be wrong about all that follows but look at this screenshot:

There’s a man who wants to be noticed.  Do you think he’d miss a chance to be on television? When he left home this morning, he could only dream that he would be appearing on television with a chance to promulgate his ideas.  

He appears to be walking very close to and just behind the reporter.  He’s obviously in camera shot but I don't think it's  the same camera that is covering the reporter because if it were, he would have noticed the lights and reacted to them.  He isn’t anywhere near the reporter.  

On most days, a brightly lit Norman Smith, reports for the BBC  from parliament.  I believe he’s there as the caption says but I doubt very much that he’s where he appears to be.

The man walking behind him hasn’t noticed the bright lights and amazingly, the party of school children haven’t either and we’ve all seen how children tend to react when they see a television camera. 

This Look East reporter is on the pavement outside The Old Bailey, reporting on the trial of the Peterborough MP, Fiona Onasanya, for perverting the course of justice.

The man, approaching just a couple of yards away, hasn’t noticed him and he isn’t even looking anywhere near him.  I hope he didn’t bump into him but I don’t think that he could have done because the reporter was probably 120 miles away in Norwich at the time.

I only believe that these reporters really are where they appear to be when I can see their feet.  

Of course, there is just a remote possibility that I’m wrong about all this. 

I am glad to have got all this off my chest.  It means that I’ll actually be able to listen to what’s being said in future news bulletins and not just study the pictures to confirm my theories.

What was the referendum result?

149. Well, I thought it was interesting

Do you take any notice of “Sell by” or “Best before” dates when it comes to buying food?  I do, but only when it comes to buying bread and pastries - not for much else.

My opinion is that those labels should read something like, “Best before August 1st  - but it will still be OK for a few months after that”.

I made scrambled eggs on toast last week. Before I cracked open the eggs, the last four in the carton, I noticed that the “best before” date was, June 27th, more than four months ago.  I cracked every one into a cup and sniffed it first before putting them into the bowl for scrambling.  Each one was fine but just in case, I threw away the carton before Caroline saw it.

As I said in a post on this blog nearly nine years ago, in “Toast - The Proper Way” (click to see), it’s the “Baked on” day that I want to know with bread.  I’ll decide when bread is still good to eat, thank you very much, not anyone else and it has nothing to do with the likelihood of bacterial contamination.  It’s because two-day-old bread doesn’t have anything like the wonderful, pleasant taste of a freshly baked loaf.

Those of you who know me will be surprised to learn that there is an aspect of my behaviour that can sometimes irritate Caroline:  I tend to count things and record the start of events. 

I once told her that I’d been studying a sample of 30 Waitrose’s Grand Rustic loaves that I had bought over a period of nine weeks; the average weight was 271 grams; the heaviest had been 309 grams and the lightest was 243 grams.  She didn’t appear to be at all interested although I was certain that really, she was. 

Even after I’d told her that the median weight was 271.5 grams and the modal was 277, she still seemed indifferent. Unbelievable!  And, she tells me that she’s a maths graduate.  I’m beginning to have doubts.

At breakfast one morning, in an attempt to brighten her day, I asked Caroline if she was aware of the significance of the date, November 6th 2017.

It didn’t seem to me that she gave had given it much serious thought before she almost immediately answered, “No.”

“Really?”  I was surprised and taken aback.  “Think!  I clearly remember telling you on that day that something was starting.  You can’t have forgotten what it was?”  

“For God’s sake!  That was a year ago.  Of course, I’ve forgotten.”

I didn’t want to start the day with a spat or an argument and so I kept quiet. 

Two minutes later, the silence was broken.  “Oh, go on, then.  Tell me what happened on November 6th last year.”

“Hah, I knew you’d be interested.”  

I held up a 500g Marmite jar.  “On November 6th last year, I opened this jar for the first time. I told you I was going to see how long it lasted and it’s nearly all gone.  Today or tomorrow, almost a year later, it will be empty.  Remember now?”

“No …. I don’t.”  

Those traces of Marmite still remaining in my 500g jar, are still as they were a year ago.  It tastes the same, looks the same and has the same texture as it did on the day it was first opened.  How can that be?  

It has sat in a kitchen cupboard for a year, in temperatures that have ranged from 16°C during the winter months to 34°C on many occasions during the summer and there has been no effect on its texture or taste whatsoever. There are no signs of mould or deterioration at all.  The “Best before” date is not until the end of March 2019 and so its stable, durable qualities must be well known.

Marmite has had the marketing catchphrase: "Love it or Hate it," but I can never remember meeting anyone who actually hated it.  I do know of people who wouldn’t mind much if they never ate it again but none of them actually hate it.

I suppose, “Take it or Leave it,“ wouldn’t be much of an advertising slogan, would it? 

Because no mould has appeared on it, I also wonder if Marmite has antiseptic qualities and could be applied to wounds in place of products like Savlon?

That would be a good slogan: “Marmite - spread it on bread, on toast or on gaping wounds”. 

I was talking to Sandy the other day who, while visiting someone, was offered a snack that mostly consisted of thinly sliced, smoked salmon.  The salmon had been left for several days, opened in its pack, in a kitchen cupboard and was a dull green colour around the edges and in parts.  Sandy declined the offer.

“Great, all the more for me,” said her host, who then devoured the whole lot.  That woman is still alive and well, several months later.  I wonder how many foods have unrealistic “Best before” dates?

My obsession with recording start dates was another source of tension recently.  This autumn, I lit our wood burning stove for the first time on October 27th.  I thought that Caroline would be really interested to know this was the latest date for the first fire of the autumn/winter since 2012.  That year it wasn’t lit until the 30th of October.  

I also thought that while she was digesting that fascinating fact, she might be interested in knowing the earliest date our fire had been lit was September 10th, in 2014.  

You must be as astonished as I was to learn she displayed no interest at all in that information and certainly no excitement at hearing any of those significant facts.  

Indeed, she was so indifferent and unconcerned about it, that this morning, when I discovered that after 19 shaves I had to replace the old razor blade with a new one, I didn’t even bother telling her.  Now, you know an interesting fact and she doesn’t.

Her loss!

148. This Could be the Last Time ……. I Don’t Know

The first time that you do something is occasionally memorable.  

I once told a woman that I had a memory of watching a steam train passing by our house in Durham when I was less than two years old.  I told her that I particularly remember the vivid red of the buffer plate as it passed, going from right to left and that I must have been less than two years old as my parents had left Durham before my second birthday.

She immediately informed me that she has a degree in psychology.  Then, she stated, emphatically, that I was mistaken because no one has memories from before they are two.  She informed me that my recollection was an example of “false memory”. 

She was so insistent that the next day, I spent hours on Google.  I discovered a 1949 Ordnance Survey map of Carrville, the village in County Durham where we had lived.  I found 19 New Grange Road and there, at the back of the row of miners’ cottages, was a railway line.  Hah!  

I can remember the first time I ever saw a television programme.  It was on the morning of June 2^nd 1953 and I was taken to a nearby house by my mother and left there to watch the Coronation.  I assume that it was the house of someone with whom I had just started school.

Also, I can remember the walk home.  There are two reasons why: it was absolutely pouring with rain and when my Mum came to collect me, the man whose house it was told me that my sister had come for me.  The flirt!

All the activities we do in life, from every breath we take to the cups of coffee we drink, has a finite number.  Every time we complete any activity is one fewer from that total in life’s countdown. 

In my entire lifetime, I will take x steps while walking, a finite number.  

The number of steps I have already taken in my life is y. 

That means that x - y = z

And so, z = the number of steps I am yet to take.

Every day, z is getting closer to zero and according to the app on my phone, z has decreased by 4562 since this time yesterday.  Substitute “cleaning my teeth” for “steps” and every night I find that I am engaging in a slightly depressing activity.  

I wonder, apart from having a bath, what other things I have done regularly and frequently in the past but will never do again. 

When was the last time you had a bath?  I’m not suggesting for a moment that you need one but I’m mildly curious because I haven’t had a bath for 13 years.

The last time I had a bath was on Thursday October 27^th 2005 at about 10 p.m.  The following morning Caroline and I were in a taxi at 6.00 a.m. on our way to Heathrow airport to fly to Grand Cayman.  Our house in Cayman, where we lived for the next 5 years, only had a shower.

By the time we came back to the UK, I was fairly seriously incapacitated because of arthritis and consequentially, incapable of getting in and out of a bath.  That remains the state of affairs today.

I can only think of one thing I have ever done just once and then thought, “I will never do that again.”  That was the time in Cayman when I tasted the fruit of the papaya or pawpaw tree.  I thought to myself, “Never again.”  Pawpaw fruit is disgusting.

It’s probably because of my age but I frequently wonder, “What else will I never do again?”  

I know that the last time I ever had alcohol was on August 7^th 2010 but I didn’t know that it had been the last time until two days later when I was told so by a doctor in Barnet hospital.

I haven’t cried because of pain or frustration since I was about 8 but I can’t remember exactly when that last time was, or why I cried.  

I remember the last cricket match I ever played was in September 2004 against Brondesbury.  I vividly remember the last delivery I ever faced while batting.  I pushed the ball gently to mid-off, set off for a single and was run out for 0.  

The last ever class I ever taught was 9X on Friday October 21^st 2005 and they achieved virtually nothing in that lesson because I was retiring in 40 minutes time.

The last time I ever ran as fast as I could was in Cyprus in the summer 2005, when I ran down a hill that was steeper than I realised and I found that I couldn’t stop running.  I had to walk back about 120 metres uphill to the bar I was heading to.  Caroline had watched me rush past and thought I’d gone bonkers.

Most times that I do or experience something nice or pleasurable, a little voice in the back of my head says, “Was that the last time?” or, “How many more times will you do that?”

When you are young, the idea that something will stop happening and you will never do it again doesn’t ever occur to you.  For probably six years, from the age of 11 during school holidays and at weekends, I would ride my bike to where two of my friends, Eddie and Roger, lived opposite each other.  Then, the three of us would cycle somewhere.  In the summer it was mostly to Oulton Broad and in the winter, it was usually to Normanston Park.

One day, we were cycling along Fir Lane as we always did on our way home when I said, “There will be a last time we ever do this together.”  They both took a bit of convincing but eventually, they both agreed with me that there would be a last time.  

I wish I could remember the last time we did do that ride together, having done it hundreds of times before.  Of course, I can’t because, at the time I would have thought that it was bound to happen again.

I have nothing important scheduled for tomorrow.  It should be an ordinary, mundane day.  However, I will be making the most of everything I do and be interested in everyone I meet. 

I won’t know that it’s happening at the time but tomorrow may be the last time that I ever do something or meet a particular person. 

Carpe diem!

147. A Lifelong Reticence

I think that I have a somewhat reserved and almost introvert personality.  Some people who know me may disagree but that’s because I am quite good at appearing to be enthusiastic when the need arises.  

As soon as that need has gone, I am very relieved and happy to go back to my usual, withdrawn nature.  I don't like to be the centre of attention.

Maybe it’s my age, but I find the urgent need that some people have to be noticed and widely known, to be inexplicable.  Those people who have a pressing desire to accumulate as large a following as they can on Twitter and Instagram and to entice thousands of subscribers on YouTube all the while screaming, “Look at me!  Look at me!” are people with whom I can feel no empathy at all.  

I’m not suggesting for a moment that they shouldn’t follow those paths if it brings them pleasure and happiness.  It is usually harmless and they obviously enjoy it but what drives them?

I feel almost the same way about people who want to sing or to act in public.  I am very glad that they have that desire as it brings enormous pleasure to millions of people, including me, but I shudder at the thought of ever being on a stage and performing myself.  I just couldn’t do it.  

When I was at school, I was forced to perform a couple of times and I hated every moment of it.  I can still remember the terror I felt and the lack of sleep I had, the night before I made my theatrical debut.

I was eight and my class had to make papier-mâché puppets during Arts and Crafts lessons. We could choose to make a water rat, a mole, a badger or a toad.  Do you see where this is going?

When they were finished, we were informed that those who had made the best puppet of each character would perform, with their creation, in a puppet show enacting a scene from “The Wind in The Willows” at the school concert.

Only two of us made moles.  Apparently, my Mole was the better one.  

Then, we had to learn our lines.  I only had one line and it consisted of just two words.  Mole, Ratty and Toad were in Ratty’s living room.  There would be a “knock on the door”; Mole would answer it and announce, “Mister Badger”.  

After a week or so, I was word-perfect but dreading the occasion even though I wouldn’t actually be seen by the audience as I would be behind a low curtain with the other three performers.

The big night came and my Mum and Dad were in the audience.  They knew how much I was dreading it but they had been very encouraging, rehearsing my line with me several times.

The knock on the door came.  I glided Mole across the space.  I opened the door and announced, “Badger!” 

I had missed out 50% of my line. 

Luckily, the only audience members to notice were my parents and Mr Sandford, my teacher and as he told me the next day, “It must be the first time ever that an actor has left out half his part and had no impact on the play whatsoever.”

The other time I performed was in the Nativity Play when I was 10.  I refused all inducements to have a role until I grudgingly accepted the non-speaking role of Second Wise Man.  I think I may have rather stolen the show.

I’ve been thinking about my reticence to perform this week because Caroline and I have been on holiday in France with Timo, our nephew and his family.  

Timo’s father is German and Timo and his brother are bi-lingual and have no idea that for some people, learning a language can be difficult.  

Timo doesn’t seem to understand that there is such a thing as self-doubt or uncertainty.  I was first aware of this five years ago when he was six. 

He had only had about 20 French lessons at school when Timo and I first went to the boulangerie in the village to buy croissants and baguettes.  I was rehearsing my ‘O’ level French but I didn’t need to have bothered. As soon as we entered the shop, Timo began jabbering in what seemed to me, to be fluent French.

“When did you learn all that?” I asked as we walked back.  “Dunno,” he said. “it just seemed right.”

At about that time, I played him at chess and won.  That was unsurprising as he’d only just learnt to play.  Instead of being upset or disappointed - or even throwing a tantrum as some children might do - he was just surprised to have lost.  He knew the moves and the rules and so he assumed that he would win.

He’s 11 now and last year, he and four school friends formed a band called “PINKY SQUEAK”.  Timo is the lead singer and does all the introductions. I wasn’t there but I have seen a video of them performing to an audience of about 200 at the end-of-year concert. Timo handled the audience like a seasoned professional.  I could never do anything like that.

As a teacher, I had to put on a bit of a show occasionally, particularly in an assembly but I hated it and when I ceased to be a Head of Year, it was a wonderful release never to have to do it again.

My reluctance to perform may possibly be traced back to the Lowestoft Schools’ Country Dance Festival, held in the Co-operative Wholesale Society Hall in my final year at Junior School.  For what seemed like weeks, we had rehearsed all the dances that there were to be.  

On the day of the event, all the boys had to wear white shirts and grey trousers.  When we got off the coach, we were all given a bright blue sash to wear over our right shoulder.  Mrs Cook came up to me and without saying a word, put some Brylcreem in my hair and combed it so that I looked like a 10-year-old Adolf Hitler.

Things were going pretty well.  I remembered all the steps and was keeping up with the tempo.  Then came “Pop Goes the Weasel”.

“You all know the words,” said the MC through his microphone, “but don’t sing them.  Dance as you’ve practised and when we get to ‘POP’, I want you all to shout it as loud as you can at the tops of your voices. I want it really loud.  There are 350 of you here and I want to be deafened.”

He went on, just in case the more stupid among us hadn’t understood.  “So, it will be: 

la di da di diddely da,

la di da di da da,

la di da di diddely da,

POP la di da da.”

The music started and I was ready.  

la di da di diddely da,

There would never have been a shout as loud as the one I was ready to unleash.

la di da di da da, 

“POP!”

I had “popped” a line too early and all on my own.  349 kids carried on dancing and all "popped" at the right time, but thirty seconds later, when the dance was finished, I was being pointed at by hundreds of sniggering, jeering children.

That was it and I vowed that it could never happen again.  It hasn’t and it won’t.

146. It's a Matter of Perception

In the months leading up to my hip replacement and for some time afterwards, I spent time in a wheelchair.  

I am no expert on wheelchairs but it appears to me that, aside from those driven by an electric motor, there are two types.  There are those that have circular handrims attached to the rear wheels so that the person in the chair may propel themselves and there are also those without a handrim, such as the type found at airports.  They have to be pushed by someone.  That’s the kind I like!  

I know that it’s a dreadful thing to admit but I have a happy memory of being in Kingston, Jamaica , with the temperature in the mid-eighties and being pushed in a wheelchair, over rough, uneven pavements by Caroline, who was sweating heavily perspiring freely while cursing loudly as she stumbled over every lump and bump.  "Travels with a Wheelchair in Jamaica" (Click to see)

People treat users of wheelchairs differently.  We become invisible and almost non-human.  The first time I became aware of this was at Broward Hospital in Fort Lauderdale shortly before I had the hip replacement in 2009.  I had to have my blood tested.

Caroline stood behind me as I “drove” myself to the Receptionist’s counter.  Seated, my head was just above counter level.

“Name?”  She was looking at Caroline.

“My last name’s Wilton,” I said.

“What’s his name?” she asked, ignoring me and looking at Caroline.

“Terry Wilton,” Caroline told her.

“I just told you that,” I said, a little petulantly.

“Date of birth?” the Receptionist asked Caroline again, still completely disregarding me.

I had become completely non-existent.  It was if Caroline had left me parked somewhere and gone to register me on her own.  It was a frustrating and a slightly humiliating experience. 

It got worse.  After registering, we were sitting side by side in the waiting area waiting for my number to be called.  A nurse came over, walked past me and stood next to Caroline.

“Is he good with needles?” she asked.

“Ask him.”

The nurse sighed, turned and grudgingly asked me.

Nowadays, back in the UK, I never need a wheelchair except at airports. I can walk quite long distances before I feel any pain but what I can’t do very well, is just stand and wait and we seem to be expected to do a lot of that at airports.

The only real drawback is that on arrival anywhere, I have to wait and be the last to leave the plane.  However, that is a price worth paying, as on departure, I am whisked through, past all the queues to my own designated security checking station and then, straight on to the plane.  As she is accompanying me, Caroline enjoys that privilege too.

At some airports, Caroline isn’t allowed to be my Pusher.  At Heathrow and Miami, only trained and qualified people are entrusted to push. Once, on arriving at Heathrow from Cayman, we had to wait for more than an hour and a half for someone to push my chair.  I had a bit of a moan and was upgraded to Business Class on the way back, so that worked out quite nicely.

Like people working in hospitals, I am invisible to airport staff too.  

“Is he able to climb the steps to the aircraft?” Caroline was asked by someone at Jersey airport last week, as I sat in a wheelchair next to her.

“Yes, I am,” I shouted up at the woman who, possibly didn’t hear me or was being deliberately rude.  Either way, she didn’t make eye contact with me.

“There’ll be someone there to assist, just in case,” she told Caroline, as I realised that I was not only invisible but mute too.

After a forty-minute flight to Luton, there was further indignity to come.  A wheelchair was waiting at the bottom of the steps.  I sat in it and Caroline began to push.

An attendant in a high-vis vest came running over.

“Hi madam.  Leave it to me.  I’ll take it off your hands.”

It!!!   I hope he meant the chair.  

I’m certain he did because I was invisible at the time.

145. Up-to-Date

I asked Caroline what she remembered about Thursday June 25th 1987.

“It was my birthday,” she said.

I told her that, of course, I knew that but what about the day itself?

“I’d just finished my first year at university.  I probably had a present or two and I must have had a few drinks in the evening.  I can’t think of anything else.”

“So, there’s nothing you can remember about the day itself?  Nothing memorable?”

“Nothing.  Why?”

“Because it was more than just a memorable day, it was a remarkable day and not just for you but for everyone.”

Recently, the Today programme’s feature, “Puzzle for Today” asked: 

“In the standard d₁d₂.m₁m₂.y₁y₂y₃y₄ date format, when is the next date on which every digit will be different?”

After about five minutes, I thought I had the answer to the Today question.  That got me wondering when the last one had been.

I found that it had been on Caroline’s birthday, Thursday June 25th 1987 (25.06.1987), which was the last date when every digit written in the dd.mm.yyyy format, was different. 

Caroline has had six non-repetitive-digit date birthdays: 1973, 1974, 1978, 1983, 1984 and 1987.  She never will have another one.  I could never have one because my birthday is 08.02 

Think about that for a moment and then think about this: a non-repetitive-digit date won’t happen again until June 17th 2345 (17.06.2345), a gap of 358 years.  Neither you, nor I and probably, not even our great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandchildren, will ever experience  one.

(If you would like to see why there is such a gap, you may find a “proof” at the end.) 

I wanted to see if the unique characteristic of 25.06.1987 was mentioned or celebrated anywhere and so I looked at the Wikipedia entry for “June 25th^”.

I was very surprised to find a wide range of obscure facts about June 25th. For example, on the 25th of June 1741, Maria Theresa of Austria was crowned Queen of Hungary and on the 25th of June 1935, the Soviet Union and Colombia established diplomatic relations.  However, the interesting, distinctive characteristic of that date in 1987 wasn’t mentioned at all.

I added it:     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/June_25

Before the 21st century, these non-repetitive-digit dates came around quite often.  In March 1947, the month after I was born, there were three of them in four days: March 25th, March 26th and March 28th (25.03.1947, 26.03.1947 and 28.03.1947). Talk about London buses!  
There were nine such dates in 1947 and in the whole of the 20th century, there were 360 days that had non-repetitive-digit dates. 

The earliest non-repetitive-digit date that I can think of is Tuesday July 26th 1345 (26.07.1345) and although I haven’t the proof, I don’t think an earlier AD date is possible.  Please let me know if you can think of one.

How can anyone ever find numbers boring?

Why there won’t be a non-repetitive-digit date for 358 years:

There won’t be any non-repetitive-digit dates in this century, the twenty second or twenty third centuries.  There can’t be, because any date from 2000 to 2099 will have y₁ = 2 and y₂ = 0. Therefore, m₁ cannot be 0 and so m₁ could only be 1.

But, it can't be because since there are only 12 months, m₂ can be only 0, 1 or 2, but any of these values (10, 11, 12) leads to repetitions because of the year digits.

The same reasoning applies to the years 2100 to 2199 and 2200 to 2299 and the first possible date is in 2345.

144. The secret of a good memory is to forget the trivial

Shortly after we moved from North London to Wavendon, I drove, for the first time, along a country lane about a quarter of a mile from our house.  I was in a bit of a hurry but as the lane is narrow and bumpy, I was only doing about 15 miles an hour.

As I rounded a bend, I saw a pretty cottage on the left but what grabbed my attention was the sight of an owl perched on the roof.  I stopped and stared.  This was not the kind of thing one ever saw in London.  

The owl just stared back at me while I took out my phone and took a photo through the rain-spattered windscreen.  

I would have liked to have stayed longer and watch as it flew off but I was late, and so I drove on.  A month later, I drove down that lane again but this time, with Caroline.  

“Do you remember that photo of an owl I showed you?  It was along here somewhere that I saw it.  Just round this bend, I think.”  I slowed down.

“Oh……. It’s there again.  It must have a nest nearby.”

After a short time, Caroline started laughing and suddenly, I was feeling a bit silly.  

“Stop it,” I said.  “But you’ve got to admit it looks very realistic, doesn’t it?”   

“No, not really,” she sniggered.  “I think you may be starting to lose it.”

*******

Caroline’s car seems to have a leaky tyre valve or a slow puncture.  She has had to add air to the same tyre three times in the past month.  The warning symbol was showing as we pulled into a garage this morning to get petrol.

“I know what will save time,” I said.  “You fill it up with petrol while I go and check the air pressure…….”

*******

We bought an ‘intelligent heating control system’ recently.  When it is first installed, it learns your temperature preferences and requirements over the course of a few days as it memorises how the thermostat was set and when the heating was on or off.  The boiler is then left on constant and the house will be at the temperature you need 24/7.

Ramble:

24/7!  I hate that expression and I’m irritated by people who use it instead of “continuously” or “always” almost as much as I scorn those who talk about “back in the day” instead of “in the past” or “once”.  As for those people who preface almost every remark with “Yes, but at the end of the day…,” words fail me.

 I heard this wonderful exchange during a news broadcast in November 2013.  The BBC had sent a reporter and a camera crew to the HQ of the British Red Cross, to cover the collection and organisation of materials to send to The Philippines where Typhoon Haiyan had caused widespread destruction.

Interviewer: Long hours, difficult job?

John Cunningham (Red Cross manager): Yes, we’re doing about 18 hours a day, 24/7.

Something that really got on my nerves was the reporting of the results of the local elections.  Seats no longer just changed hands and parties did not seem to win or lose seats.  

Today, it seems, a party will “sweep to power” if seats are gained or they are “wiped out” if seats are lost.  When and why did politics become so aggressive, unpleasant and antagonistic?  Every issue appears to bring about an extreme polarisation of opinion.  

Anyway, back to our new heating system: What makes our new heating control system different from an ordinary thermostat is that I can alter the setting when I am away by using an app on my phone. 

We spent some time in Yorkshire in March.  Before we left home to drive up the M1, I had set the temperature to only 5°C which meant that even though the boiler was on constant, it would not fire up and so the heating would stay off unless the temperature fell below five.

A few days later, driving home in a blizzard, I checked the app on my phone and saw that the ambient temperature in our house was 11°C.  I turned the thermostat up to 22°C using the app and so, when we arrived two hours later, we walked into a warm, cosy home. (In case you are wondering or even outraged, Caroline was driving.)

The weekend of April 21st and 22nd was hot and the house temperature never dropped below 20°C.  Consequently, I dropped the thermostat setting by ten degrees and hoped that was the last time we would need the central heating until October.

But I was wrong.  On the following Thursday afternoon, I was cold and I reached for my phone to access the app but I couldn’t.  The phone was dead.  I wasn’t too surprised because it is more than three years old and recently, the battery has been losing charge very rapidly.  It had finally died.

I’ve been receiving text messages from Carphone Warehouse for several months telling me that I’m due a phone update and it seemed that this was the right time to do it.

I walked into the store, put the phone on to the counter and told the assistant why I was there.  He disappeared into the back and when he reappeared, he brought a new phone and went through the paperwork with me.  

“Would you like me to transfer all the data for you,” he asked.  

“Yes, but you’ll need to plug it in please because as I told you, it’s dead.”

He got a cable and connected it to the phone.  Ten seconds later, he looked at me and said,

“You know it’s turned off?”  

I realised instantly what had happened.  The previous night, I had been woken at three in the morning by my phone vibrating when an email came through.  To stop that happening again, I had switched it off and then I forgot to turn it on again in the morning.

I’m reminded of the time about six years ago when a friend rang and asked if I had read the email he sent.  

“I’m not sure,” I said.  “I may have done.  What was it about?”

“It was a test to see if you are likely to get Alzheimer’s.”

Do both dementia and Alzheimer’s disease arrive so slowly, surreptitiously and stealthily that, when someone is eventually told that they have one or the other, that information fails to register with them because they are so far gone?  

Or, is there a time when people who suffer from early stage dementia or Alzheimer’s realise that they are in the early stages of that condition and are able to react accordingly?  

I have no idea what the appropriate response to that news would be and so I hope that I’m just a bit forgetful at times.