Light and shade

Noise and silence. Movement and stillness. Drinking and sleep. We humans need contrast, some measure of daily chiaroscuro, to keep us alive and alert. Knowing this, I don't overly resent having to leave the quiet tranquility of my study to travel down to London from time to time. It can be all bustle and business, scampering to keep to time and being hassled by surly train staff, free newspaper distributors and scallies after some change, but the experienced traveller will so arrange his or her affairs as to leave some interludes during which the spiritual batteries can be recharged.

Exempli gratia, this delightfully peaceful scene was photographed this afternoon, not a minute's walk away from the junction of Euston Road and Tottenham Court Road. Tucked away behind vertiginous glass-walled financiers' offices, one can sit with a good pint of Young's, hear virtually none of the traffic and enjoy the sight of a mature horse chestnut surrounded by rowans. How nice is that? Oh, and in case you were wondering, it's the offices that are vertiginous and glass-walled, not the financiers. Some of them are pretty tall, admittedly. The financiers, some of them are tall. Anyway, moving on.

Meandering back to St Pancras - as a Nottingham Observer must if keen to get home - the ants-nest hecticity of the Euston area can be mitigated by a couple of minutes walk down one of the sidestreets to the Somerstown Coffee House. Now coffee is available here, and good coffee at that, but pour moi the attraction of this place is that it's run by French types. They know about good food and wine, and seem to be pretty well up to speed on English beer, too. Charles Wells Bombardier and Eagle IPA are well kept here.
























It's a very pleasant place to pass an hour before the train home. Or two hours, if you've been sensible enough to arrange things that way. The only trouble is that one can get so settled that the train home may not be the one you originally intended.

















And once safely back in the old home town, another good way of winding down from the buzz of the capital is to walk along the river and back home across the Hook in the late evening sunshine - although as you can see the shadows are already pretty long at 6.30 at this time of year. I might also point out that the Hook is actually level, but your photographer had perhaps been a little too tranquil in the places of rest mentioned above. You won't be able to see her clearly, but somewhere in the pixellated foliage is Mrs QO, foraging for blackberries and elderberries. She has a cunning plan for the fruits of the field thus garnered, of which more anon, perhaps.

It's not often I do this...

'This' being passing on stuff that arrives in my inbox, but my darkly exquisite sister-in-law sent something to me today that - particularly being short of blogspiration at the moment - I thought I'd share with y'all. OK, it's a bit trite, but it appealed to my old-fashioned values. Such as they are...

An Obituary printed in The Times
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair; and
- Maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his four stepbrothers:

I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realised he was gone.

Must do better, chaps

Headline from the Evening Post:

Notts Police still missing targets for house burglaries

I find that quite reassuring really. It's bad enough having burglars doing house burglaries without the police joining in.

And with that thought, farewell for another few days, as Mrs QO and I depart to another folk festival. Yes, Super-Disreputable Friend will be there, so there will be much crass and regrettable behaviour, too much drinking, probably a deal of mud and some blurry mornings. Still, nothing that a bacon buttie won't solve.

Some odd decisions

Superintendent Helen Chamberlain of Nottinghamshire Police (the cool blonde pictured left) was clocked by a fellow officer allegedly doing 79mph on the Epperstone bypass. Story here.

She has pleaded not guilty on the basis that she challenges the accuracy of the speed-gun, and the quality of the signage on the road. Her solicitor has also mentioned the decision to review the case after the event. The story is made more intriguing by the fact that the officer who clocked her and stopped her at the time felt able to deal it with by way of a caution, but an unnamed senior officer disagreed with this, and asked the Crown Prosecution Service to review the decision. They duly charged.

Doing nearly 30mph over the speed limit should see you summonsed to court. At the very least a fixed penalty should have been issued. So there's a questionable decision. But what I find most surprising is that she's now going to run a technical defence - something that frustrates the police when civilian punters try it on. She must surely have known she was driving over the limit. Even if the signage wasn't up to scratch (though I've driven that road plenty of times and have never been in any doubt it's a 50 limit), the limit on two-lane roads is only ever 60 at maximum. Unless the speed-gun was hopelessly inaccurate, it's hard to accept that a competent driver would not have been aware of going over the odds. And we note that there's no suggestion she disputed the roadside caution at the time.

Man up, Superintendent (if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am) and hold your hand up. The honest course of action would have been to enter a guilty plea but then argue that the speed wasn't as high as charged. "OK, I done it, but I didn't do it as bad as what they say", sort of thing. The court would then tailor its sentence depending on the outcome of a 'Newton' hearing to decide whether or not the alleged speed was correct. That would have been fair enough, albeit that a senior police officer would effectively be establishing her own force's technical incompetence, but as things stand it leaves a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth.

Let's see if some beer will help.

Permit me...

... to apologise (again) for the lack of activity hereabouts. Busy times continue: more enjoyable social engagements and a bit of a work crisis brought on by too much laziness a few weeks ago and a batch of long weekends. And more of the same in the pipeline. Ah well, I hate being bored.

Now, talking of 'permits', one subject on our minds here in Lady Bay is the proposed residents' parking scheme. The County Council sent through some proposals, claiming that in an earlier survey the majority of residents were in favour. I don't recall that earlier survey, and I think I would have, but let that pass. At any rate, they want to bring parking restrictions, Monday to Saturday, 8am to 8pm, with only those cars showing residents' or visitors' permits allowed to park in the parts of our suburban village concerned.

I've lived here for nigh on 20 years, I work from home, and wander round to the shops or the Post Office (or, indeed, the pub) most days, so I venture to suggest that I'm better acquainted with the general state of things than the wonks up at County Hall. Apart from match days - and with all due respect to the Magpies, we only really mean Forest match days - there is no significant parking problem. Everyone round here knows that every other Saturday during the football season, it will be a bit chaotic. But neighbourly arrangements are made; next door knows that if the road is full, they can block in our car, because we know where they live, and they know that if they don't move their car when things have quietened down, then I will torch it, dance up and down outside their window screaming, and stuff the burning remains of their car through their letterbox. Fair enough, everyone happy.

During the week, no problem at all. The Council say that during the week, too many cars from "nearby office workers" use the area. The only "nearby offices" of any size whatsoever are the Council's own offices at Trent Bridge House and County Hall.

To solve this barely-existing problem, which the Council itself is responsible for (to the extent it's a problem at all, which it isn't, and anyway they seem to be getting ready to sack nearly everyone they employ) the Council proposal is that every household (it's not clear what they mean to do about the many multi-tenanted properties hereabouts) will be eligible for a resident's permit, at the cost of £25.

[We interrupt this tirade to award the previous sentence the Worst Sentence Ever Written in a Blog Award. Tickets for the awards ceremony available from all good alcohol rehabilitation clinics.]

Should you be such a social gadabout as to invite a visitor who needs a car to get there, or should you wish a tradesman to be able to park his van outside to work on your house, you will have to purchase a visitor's permit, also at £25. Both kinds of permits will be £25 each year, naturally. If you lose one, or need a new one as you've changed your car, or if a visitor or tradesman forgetfully goes off with yours, it will be... you guessed it... another £25. Ker-ching!

One fellow whinger has worked out that the income for the Council will be of the order of £50,000 per year. Obviously there would be legitimate start-up costs - we'd have to have all kinds of signage, lines painted on the roads, etc etc (all good reasons in themselves to object) but would it amount to £50,000? Would it buggery. And every year after that, it would just be a nice little earner for the Council - and doubtless on top of that there would be goodly revenues from parking infringements.

We are not happy. Mrs QO and I have registered our complaint, and conversations with other local malcontents suggests that a fair number of others have too. We wait to see the outcome.

Well, that was cathartic. If you've read all the way to the end, I thank you for your patience, and reward you with a glimpse of some superb parking technique.

Lo, my children...

... I am come among you once again. I am sorely conscious of the hiatus or lacuna in my postings over the last week or ten days, but the salve is helping nicely, thanks so much, and I can therefore turn with refreshed intellectual vigour to providing the Observations without which your lives are bereft and hollow, as I'm sure you'd agree if you were sufficiently self-aware.

Life has been full of late. Various friends have invited themselves to stay, and you will doubtless appreciate that anyone calling themselves our friends will require more than the usual provision of food and drink. Especially drink, yes. I am palsied and trembling with the effort of heaving beer, wine and spirits up from the dank cellars of the Observatory to the habitable levels, while the good Mrs QO has been slaving away in the shambles and at the firepit to keep sufficient baked meats arriving at the humble board.

Over and above our self-sacrificing hospitality, we have jointly and severally created a 'princess dress' for a miniature person of our acquaintance, delivered a couple of guitar lessons, baked a birthday cake for the abovesaid miniature person, attended the party at which the cake was presented (I was strictly forbidden to drink or smoke in the presence of the younglings so sat in sullen silence throughout), Quarked a monthly magazine, brewed some ten gallons of beer, visited the excellent Riverside Festival:



and have also done a little breathing and sleeping. And this is meant to be the quiet time of the year...

But this is all good. Some of it was even lucrative, if only just. Catching up with friends is important, and so easily left out of life's hectic schedule if you're not careful.

OK, you'll have gathered by now that I don't have anything of real value to say, but I thought I'd just check in so you know I'm still alive. I know you were worried, bless you.

How camping works

Following on from our previous instalment, I thought it might be helpful for those who aren't experienced campers - or, indeed, folk festival attendees - to sit at the feet of the master and glean some scraps of wisdom. Mrs QO and I have refined the process over many years and although I cannot pass on certain of the higher arcana in this public forum, it may help the novitiate to have a few discreet pointers.

Packing the car
QO: "Is your bag ready to go? Because it has to go in the middle of the back seat and that's where I'm up to."
Mrs QO: "Nearly, dear. Now, what do you want in your sandwiches?"
QO: "What? Oh... er... ham and mustard, please."
Mrs QO: "We've got some cheese, you know."
QO: "Yes, I know. But you know I always have ham and mustard."
Mrs QO: "If we have ham, yes."
QO: "Erm... yes, so about your bag... because if I can't pack your bag, I can't pack the bedding."
Mrs QO: "Why ever not? The bedding's all ready."
QO: "Yeah, but... the bedding always goes on your bag. You know what? I'll finish the sandwiches if you finish packing your bag."
Mrs QO: "Oh, you can take it if you like. I'll put the other stuff in a carrier bag."
QO: "You're taking two bags? Oh, for... how the hell can I pack the car properly if you take two bags? You never take two bags, we haven't allowed for two bags... I might have to move the washing-up bowl... but that would mean the inner tent going in the boot... and then... oh, God, we'll never get there..."
Mrs QO: "Oh, look... we've run out of mustard. Ooops."

Pitching the tent
QO: "OK, we'll drive round the campsite three or four times just to make sure of getting the right pitch."
Mrs QO: "That's fine, dear. Let me out here, would you? Oh, and pop the tailgate..."
QO: "Let's see. I have my compass here... OK, so that's north. The Met Office say prevailing wind for the weekend will be nor-nor-west, and obviously we want the back of the tent towards the wind."
Mrs QO hums a snatch of Aida to herself as she empties the tent poles onto the ground.
QO: "But of course before making a final decision, we need to check the slope of the ground. Fortunately I have my spirit level with me..."
Mrs QO assembles the frame poles and opens out the canvas.
QO: "And then there's the question of shade... let's see where the trees are, and I'd better check on the BlackBerry to see when sunrise is..."
Mrs QO, with a deft flick, drops the canvas onto the frame.
QO: "I wonder whether we might usefully dowse for any artesian springs that might lead to excessive dampness under the tent?"
Mrs QO, now humming a tune from Gilbert & Sullivan, taps the final pegs into place and rigs the guylines.
QO: "And I'll just Google the local mole population density..."
Mrs QO unfolds her camping chair, sits down, and opens the first of many beers.
QO: "Damn. I meant to look up where the ley lines are round here. Oh well, we'll just have to manage."
Mrs QO: "Want a sandwich, lovey? I think you packed them under the sundial. Ooh, isn't it nice here?"

---

That's enough classified material for one post, I feel. Moving swiftly on... you may recall I once wrote a post about a new kind of Barbie doll. I can now exclusively reveal yet another variant - surely one that will do superlatively well in the current zeitgeist. (That's French for 'these days', by the way.)

Among our extended camp family - by which I mean the group of friends camping together rather than anything smutty, thank you so much - was a miniature person of indeterminate age (though Mrs QO assures me the young lady in question is nearly four), among whose dearest possessions is a Barbie doll with very long hair.

Super-Disreputable Friend and I could not help noticing that it didn't seem possible to put the doll in question down without its legs splaying. Now, I grant you this is distinctly puerile, and we did get serious Extreme Aunt looks from the womenfolk, but we decided that new Slapper Barbie would be a market winner. See what you think.