Several days' worth of nothing important

The thing is, if you allow yourself one day off from posting on your blog, you sort of slip into a non-blogging area where it no longer matters, and suddenly several days have passed. Well, it's true, it doesn't matter at all, and hardly anybody reads these words of wisdom anyway, but still, it's a sort of discipline thing and it should be good for the soul or something.

So, dear readers, you must be gasping, by now, to know what I've been doing that has taken me away from the . . . er . . . blogosphere. (Can't decide whether that's an appallingly horrible word or not, yet. I'd better try using it for a bit and see how I feel about it.)

The coffee I drank at Friday's class left me with a headache on Saturday, which turned out to be a completely wasted day, so nothing to write about there. Sunday was the usual round of dog-walking in the muddy old cowfield, visiting Sainsbury's and Steve's dad, and trying to catch up on some boring work later, which was interrupted by the welcome distraction of a phonecall from Chris. So . . . nothing to write about there, either.

Monday was back to Carlisle for Class Number Two, which probably was worth writing about, actually. What I am learning is how to say, "no," to the wrong sort of customers, and how to identify the right sort, and offer them something that we do better than any of our competitors. We do lots of things pretty well, and this is our problem, really. We're spread too thinly. If we can identify the things we do better than anyone else - (not necessarily the things we do best, as others may do them equally well) - then we have a competitive edge, and we can concentrate on these, become specialists, and build up a reputation for being the very best at those things, so that when people want those particular things done, we will be the obvious choice to do them. I came away filled with ideas. We go back again next Monday for more. What fun!

The only problem is getting up early. I spent Sunday night packing up parcels for mail order customers, meaning I didn't get to bed until after 1am, but had to get up again about 6am. Not enough sleep. (Hence the coffee!) Fortunately DP is such an interesting tutor that I managed not to doze off at all. Oh, and I won another bottle of wine! (We never had incentives like this at school.)

Had to stop on the way into Carlisle at a small post office to despatch my parcels, and then dash to the bank at lunchtime. It's hard work trying to keep things operating while being incarcerated in a classroom all day. Before I could go home I had to make a trip to pick up a monitor for Steve that we'd found on Freecycle: he's put a W98 computer together to play old games on but had no monitor for it. (Apparently they don't run on WXP.) Then a dash to the other end of town to get catfood.
We need a photo here, don't we? It can get very boring without illustrations. Let's see . . . Here's Mr Fire and Brimstone, proclaiming the wrath of God upon the sinners of Carlisle,(and there are many), doing his rather second-rate best to imitate The Rev Ian Paisley. He stood beneath the statue of a long-deceased mayor of the city, ranting away diligently, with his minder standing quietly by, but nobody stopped to listen. I'm afraid I didn't feel any more doomed than I had before I saw him, and having grown up in the shadow of Pastor Jack Glass in Edinburgh, I'm fairly immune by now.

Down Bank Street I came across yet another Eastern European-looking busker playing accordion - this time a pretty young woman with gappy teeth. (She obviously hasn't come across the other European immigrants to our shores yet - the Polish dentists.) Anyhoo . . . I approached her, smiling, in the same way I'd approached the guys on Friday who had grinned and posed so nicely for me, but she waved me away with a look of alarm on her face. I tried to show her that I'd pay for the privilege of photographing her, pointing to my handbag and purse, but she kept shaking her head and waving my camera away. I have no intention of taking photos of people who want to remain anonymous, so I left her in peace. I suspect, though, that she may be here illegally, or is trying to hide from someone. It would be fascinating to hear her story.

While writing captions for some of my other Carlisle photos on Flickr I had to do a bit of research and discovered the interesting fact that the famous factory chimney (Carlisle's main landmark, really), known as Dixon's Chimney, was the 8th highest factory chimney in the world at 305 feet. I've yet to get a really good photo of it - it always looks wonderful as you drive past, but I've not found the best viewpoint for it yet.

And today? Getting back to normal working again, which means I finished a cane chair at 11.30pm. I hope to deliver it to its owners on Saturday. While working I watched a programme where these two young doctors - identical twins and both completely mad - go around the world finding out about how other cultures deal with sickness and pain. Today they were in Asia, and as an experiment joined in one of these ceremonies where participants get metal skewers pushed through their faces and tongues. One brother went through all the rituals beforehand, which were supposed to make him immune to pain, while the other acted as a control. Didn't seem to work. They both found it excrutiating. However, later on, one of them seemed to find the secret. You still feel the pain, you just no longer let it bother you. It's a state of mind. Fascinating stuff.

Carlisle

There's funding from somewhere for strange training sessions and courses, and once the funding has been secured, the organisers need participants. I'm on the mailing list, and if it sounds interesting, I go along. This time there's the carrot of a £100 bursary at the end of it too.

It's a thing run by one David Parrish, and based on his book, T-Shirts and Suits, aimed at creative people (the T-shirts) who run businesses, things that are generally run with more efficiency by entrepreneurs (the suits). There are pencils, stripy pencil sharpeners, folders of info, and little piles of coloured origami paper on the desks. I say to the guy next to me, "Oh - are we going to be doing some origami?" but he just shrugs as though it's a silly question.

(Interestingly enough I win a small bottle of sparkling wine later on for making an origami fortune teller.)

There are several women in the group, and only one man - well, two if you count Andy Mackay, the organiser. We spend a pleasant day getting to know one another and thinking about how to run our businesses better. There are 4 more sessions to go. I think I might end up with some useful knowledge so it's well worth the effort.

At lunch time I dash (we've only half an hour) from the Viaduct across the street (no proper crossing place!) and up the pedestrian precinct to the post office, in order to despatch the Partnership Tax Return by Special Delivery. That's it - the last one is gone. Hurrah!

Carlisle's full of interesting buskers. I make the mistake of not photographing them on the way to the post office, and at least 2 of them had sloped off by the time I was on my return journey, meaning I missed the opportunity to capture for posterity the brass quartet playing Handel's Water Music and the double bass/flute duo. I did, however, manage to capture the Eastern European guys with their glorious moustaches playing folk tunes from - where? Bulgaria maybe? - on sax and accordion. As soon as they saw me approach with my camera they started to pose for me. Wish I'd had time to chat to them - I'd like to know where they were from.

When I returned after class finished, and visted Holland and Barratt, I asked one of the staff about the buskers. She groaned, saying, "They've been there since 12 o'clock and they've been playing the same song the whole time. We're sick of it!" I guess the poor lass was tone deaf, as I heard at least 10 different tunes in the time I was there, and there was lots of variety.

I also managed to capture photos of a trumpeter and another rather foreign-looking fellow playing another accordion. Had he been a bit closer to home I'd have been tempted to invite him to come and learn some morris tunes or join our ceilidh band.

The Tragically Hip
Have you heard of these guys? Unless you've been in Canada you probably haven't. They are, apparently, Canada's most popular band, and having listened to a some of the free downloads on their website, I have to admit they're rather good. What other musical gems are lurking in the Canadian wilds, I wonder? There's also Great Big Sea who are a sort of Canadian Runrig, complete with swaying thousands in big stadiums. How come these bands never get heard anywhere else?

Taxing matters

Finally all the relevant info has arrived from the tax office - a variety of security codes, PINs, IDs and so on - so at last I took a deep breath and logged on the to Government Gateway website.

Last year I took my 3 tax returns to my local office, only to be refused a receipt for them. They wouldn't even tell me their surnames so that I could take a note of the people who accepted them from me. For a department who have twice in 10 years managed to mislay one or more of my returns in their capacious offices, they're not doing a lot to instill confidence in their users.

The one thing they kept insisting on, last year, was that for my peace of mind I really ought to be filing my returns online. Soon, they told me, it won't be possible to hand them in personally at all. We were a little worried about the security issues, but with all those codes and PINs I feel a lot safer than handing them into an office with no way of knowing whether they'll ever reach the right person.

So. The two personal returns worked fairly smoothly. Now for the Partnership return. After going through the same security rigmarole as the others, I found there was no dedicated software available with which to file it. I was presented with a list of 3rd party software companies, approved by the Revenue, and with a vague piece of advice stating that neither could they recommend one package over another, nor could they tell us which one was free, although it seemed there was at least one. I've yet to find it. I went through them all, and all of them seemed to cost money, as well as being a lot more complex than what I required.

Sighing heavily, I phoned the helpline. A nice Weegie lassie replied, and with a helpful tone of voice attempted to answer my question. In the end she had to agree that there didn't seem to be a way of filing a Partnership return online without paying for the privilege, and suggested either taking it in person or posting it Special Delivery. I could have done this a week ago, had they not tantalized me with offerings of PINs and easy online filing. Aaarghh!

So. I guess the Special Delivery option is the safest bet. At least I'll get a receipt from the Post Office, and it's guaranteed next day delivery. Costs a bit, but cheaper than buying a complete software package that I only need for a single, very small job.

Carlisle

I'm off on a free course in Carlisle tomorrow. ALL DAY. I'm not used to this sort of thing. How shall I keep awake? It sounds really interesting and useful, but it's an awfully early start - 9.30am. I just hope they have copious supplies of black coffee.

The sax doctor and other stuff

Today Steve wore his Sax Doctor hat, so we had to get up early (on a Sunday!) in order to get to the venue in Carlisle by the back of 10. Roz holds these Sax Days from time to time, mainly to give her own students (of whom there are many) a chance to play together in ensemble, and stretch themselves a bit, but it's also open to other sax players, and a good crowd usually turns up. There are various playing sessions throughout the day, and at lunchtime and tea break times The Sax Doctor is available for free consultations.

The majority of those who arrive at his surgery are, of course, people who are already customers of ours - most woodwind & brass players in this area gravitate to Marshall McGurk sooner or later (there's nowhere else to go if your instrument breaks down, and after all, we are very good). Big overhauls can't be done, but odd little leaks and bits of missing cork can be dealt with, advice can be asked for and given, and a nice chatty atmosphere fills the room.

I, of course, benefit from all this by being allowed to sit in on the playing sessions, simply by virtue of being The Sax Doctor's trusty chauffeuse, and let's face it, I could really do with some help in the sort of sax playing Roz specializes in. I've been sight-reading music almost as long as I've been reading words, and I'm also good at memorizing a tune, but the one thing I still haven't learned is the gentle art of improvisation.

Even after a lot of well-explained theory (Roz is an excellent teacher!) it's still very stressful having to do a solo, however simple, in front of a group of other, equally stressed, people. I don't think I was the worst in the room, so at least I didn't go home feeling embarrassed, but some of the others were very good indeed. I feel keen to keep working at this now, so watch this space.

We were also treated to one of Peter Gardner's fascinating talks on great sax players of the past: on this occasion his subject was Johnny Hodges (1907-1970), an alto saxophonist of whom I was only vaguely aware. He played with Duke Ellington's band for 38 years and had a beautifully clear tone. As someone who is a folkie first and a classicist second, I love listening to Peter's enthusiastic descriptions of people like this, superb musicians who played in a field quite different from my own. I come away full of new knowledge and understanding and a desire to find out more.

BLOODY FLICKR, though . . .
is still not working, despite messages on the Flickr blog to the contrary. At sometime after 7.30 PST (which stands for what? Er. . . Pacific Standard Time or something? How many hours behind us are they in San Francisco anyway?) they claimed to have fixed everything, but all I get is stupid messages about Flickr having a massage.

Phew!
At last . . . nearly 2230 GMT (no idea what that would be in PST terms) and Flickr's working again. I don't quite understand how one can become addicted to a photo-sharing website, but of course, as we Flickrites know, there's a lot more to it than that.

There's always something to say

If you're so busy doing boring work all day that nothing worth blogging about happens, what do you do? If you've been paying attention to the outside world you can comment on current affairs or politics, or the neighbours' affairs, but apart from dog- and cat-watching I've not seen anything worth commenting on.

Well, you could try picking a photo at random from your 2018 pics on Flickr and commenting on that. (Two thousand and eighteen photos? Can this be true? And the ones on Flickr are only about 10% of my actual stash of photos taken since I got my first digital camera, which can't be more than about 5 years ago. And then there are the boxes and boxes of slides and prints and dageurrotypes and hand-tinted sepia-toned Victorian photos, and the little black & white snaps taken by my mother on her Voigtlander during her Indian travels, and the hundreds of prints made by my father while cooped up in his smoke-filled darkroom, and my grandfather's collection of prints of engineering works in India, taken on a home-made camera on hand-made film, and the pictures of various ancestors, posed formally in a succession of professional photographers' studios from Blairgowrie to Darjeeling, and the stereoscopic pairs, also created by my grandfather, showing views across fragile rope bridges spanning precipitous Indian gorges, and many many others.)

OK - random photo coming up. Well, not completely random - it had to be something vaguely interesting.



So, what's this about? I took this photo on 15th December last year, just after I'd parked my car in the big car park in Carlisle, just under the castle. Glanced into the cab of a white van as I passed it, and realised the smiling old man was only the face of a smiling old man.

Is it a mask? Did someone wear it while committing a crime? Was it for a fancy-dress party? Is it a copy of the actual face of an actual person, or is it an invented face? (It does look sort of like a real person, doesn't it? Even in its hollowed-out state.)

Why did the owner leave it so conspicuously on the headrest? Is it to deter car thieves? Is it to provoke controversy?

Or . . . was it a real man, whose insides and torso have been sucked out and consumed by hungry aliens/vampires/monsters? You know, the sort of hungry aliens/vampires/monsters that can eat anything and everything apart from elderly people's faces? They know from experience that this sort of thing is likely to make them sick. (Well, would you want to eat an old man's face? You can't blame them really, now, can you?)

Now, if you happen to be the owner of that van and that face, and you're reading this PLEASE talk to me!