Big Bang - not the Television series.

The thing is that as human beings we cannot contemplate the insignificance of our existence in relation to the vast reaches of what we call The Universe. The enormity of the numbers in our terms, such as 13.7 billion years, or even a few millions when our planet was developing, or the struggle to understand what happened before we were born. To add to our confusion we have to wrestle with distances that cannot be named because there are not enough words to describe a number with so many zeros tagged on. We have to resort to giving the numbers indices that run out of sensible sizes even before we reach Alpha Centaurii.

Our forbears, in various areas of our world came up with tales to explain the inexplicable reason for our existence, often also incorporating a beginning story, and they often came up with Gods or a Supreme being to solve the dilemma. There are evidently many creation stories much like the biblical Adam and Eve tale often giving a time in the past that most people could comprehend. Putting aside crank timelines for the creation of the Earth many of them successfully gave an explanation most people could cope with. 

My problem with the creation stories and the idea of God as a supreme being is the need to have faith in the idea and accept it as the truth. 

Likewise, my problem with the Big Bang Theory is the same. 

I cannot comprehend the vastness of space and like our forbears struggle with the thought that in comparison to the Universe my existence is a mere blink in the time line, and the longest journey I can make on this Earth is so short in comparison to the vast distances of space as to seem as if I have not moved. 

When I was a young man I sometimes staggered back from the Robin Hood and Little John pub on Bluebell Hill with my mate and we would gaze at the stars (you could see the buggers then) and imagine travelling to the furthest star to stand on a planet similar to Earth and imagine doing the same there. The exercise bemused our already befuddled minds, yet if taken to a logical end was terrifying because you could not imagine reaching an end. 

And then we are told we have the beginning. Not God's six days and rest on the seventh, nor the sudden creation of fully formed creatures but an explosion, a chemical and gaseous fart that spewed galaxies of stars into space. We are told that this might possibly be (a theory) the start of something big which is beyond our full understanding, and an event we hope we can actually detect. 

 When an Astronomer suggested that there was a glow behind the Big Bang a Christian Leader (bless him) made the comment that what the Astronomer saw was the Holy Light of God. 

My thought at the time was quite simply that this man of God had yet to evolve, and that perhaps the Astronomer's equipment had reached its limit of perception. It was this that prompted me to consider that perhaps we have yet to discover the real reason for the Big Bang. What if the Universe we live in is much bigger than we thought it was. 

In most religions the idea that we have a beginning and an end in all things bears out the reality of our mortality and the "mortality" of planets, stars and galaxies, replacing cold, natural indifference with something we can understand, or at least deal with. 

The Big Bang theory gives us an conceivable beginning and allows us to cope with the vastness of our Universe. 

Naturally most of us are just managing to cope with paying the rent, finding out what's on the telly, trying to cope with illnesses and relationships and all the normalities of human life. We fight our wars, complain about governments, raise our children and mourn our dead. 

Most of us say "Sod the Big Bang" and get on with our own organic and chemical explosions. But to me the thought of what went before the Big Bang occupies my thoughts, and I hope that on reading this short piece you also start speculation. 

I may be wrong but after all it is only a theory. 

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Where do all the spare gloves come from?

Walking with a friend around the Ightham Mote estate on a warm January day we realised we were overdressed for the day. I kept my hat on to stop the cool breeze freezing my bald head but soon discarded my gloves to pop them in my coat pocket.

The trek on the 'blue' trail led from the car park to the hill leading down to Mote Road and from there on past the hop picker's huts to the top of Wilmot's hill. The ground was frosty in the shade but in the sunshine it was warm with vibrant colours lit by moderately filtered sunlight. It was a beautiful day and putting aside excuses about being too fat after Christmas we rested on occasion to take in the glorious views of the North Downs.

Walking under the trees the ground was frozen but were warm.

A short stop to sit on a bench and put the world to rights was much like a Spring halt. If it was not for the frost and the sun being low in the sky it was such a day. However, with gloves tucked in my pocket, hat warming my head and coat partly undone we upped and staggered on.

Walking the route anti-clockwise so to speak meant that we reached the top of the hill gradually and was presented with a stunning view of the downward pathway under the huge trees, and the magnificent vista of the Downs and the farmland below.

We walked down the track and on to where Wilmot's Cottage nestles on the shoulder of the Downs and the track itself then leads back past Mote Farm to the House and gardens of Ightham Mote

On a fence post somebody had set a black woolen glove on top of a white one. Lovers perhaps? Perhaps they chopped a hand off each and no longer needed the gloves? Whatever the explanation there they were, abandoned and sitting like a pair of birds on the fence, their incomprehensible message as mysterious as bird song.

And I wondered why somebody would leave one single glove on a fence let alone two. It was an unusual sight.

Yet, the mystery deepens when in Paddock Wood, just exploring the town, my Sister and I came upon yet another abandoned single glove!

What is going on?

Coincidence?

And yet, like the mysterious single sock that was dropped in the street near my home, it was there.

And if that was not enough on the way back into town on Paddock Wood's Commercial Road, there was a child's gloves resting on the pavement adorned by an animal faeces.

Where do these waifs come from?

Who abandons them and why?

At least the incidents add extra interest to the walks.

The new Queen of the Realm

Mixie

So, I went to Ireland for a pre-booked holiday, did drink Guiness, saw much of Ireland having lost my Sophie puss. I returned to an empty house but with the promise of a rescued cat from the RSPCA. I was presented with a scruffy little female who liked her tummy tickled and was on the way to recovery after some il treatment by her former owners. Because of her colour I named her Mixie, a name she totally ignores, and prepared for a long period of "getting to know you".

That was July 4th and now in November she is looking good, plays happily, is well fed and ruling the roost. Sucker.

But the thing is that I have given a home to a three year old cat who may not have lasted much longer. She is, like most cats, a good companion, demanding of attention and cranky. She fights me, attacking my proffered hand with sharp claws which she remembers to sheath now and then, demands treats and does all the things that a cat will do.

That she will not replace Sophie as "my kitten" is a point that I can argue is as true as the fact that Sophie did not replace Toots in the same way - Toots was the semi-feral cat I had as a familiar in New Zealand - but she will make her own impact on me.

She already has.

The sudden excited rush to roll over for a tummy tickle and the tenacious adherence to my lap is witness to that. The preening and grooming she does is a sign that she is content; the result being a cute looking fluffy cat with a pleased look that turns to begging for treats.

But mostly it is the way she now follows me around much of the time and loves to play at throw and fetch when a bunched up newspaper sheet is thrown for her to chase.

I like that.

She is helping to ease the memory of Sophie who lived with me for eighteen and a half years, years I can hardly forget. But welcome Mixie - come take your place.

Goodbye to a loving companion - how do you cope with losing a pet?

Toots

I have to say I lost my kitten - the one cat of my adult life that was truly mine from when she was a kitten. There was Toots whose companionship and intimacy was so intense that when she went I was a mass of tears.  (A bloke doesn't normally admit to that) My flatmate, unable to stand the sight of me wandering around with long face and lost look, found a kitten and declared her as a Christmas present. This was in 1998 and Sophie, as she became named, came with me from New Zealand and lived with me here in the UK.

So what happens when the creature who shares your life, takes up space on your bed, your lap, demands, and gets love, play and care is no longer there?

If you are like me then you sob, or shed tears every time you see her picture - I have one  on my desk - and remember the purring, the claws of play fighting, the fussy food fads, and the welcome purr-meow when I come home.

Sophie

Poor Sophie suffered old age but was comfortable, active and happy although as she aged she became quite deaf but always loved the place on my lap, the cuddle in bed and small treats, fresh meat for tea as well as her biscuits and cat-food.  She loved the play with a piece of string and scratched at her post but as she got older she could not keep up with the growth of her claws and placidly allowed me to clip them neatly.

But, sadly she developed a growth in her tummy that grew quickly and so we had to end her life. I was there at the end, managed to hold it in long enough to take her to be cremated and bring her ashes back to lay near my workspace.

Right, so now what?

The owner of my local cattery is a member of the Cats Protection Society and has always had association with the RSPCA.

I had booked  a holiday in Ireland for the first week in June, and poor Sophie was supposed to be looked after in the cattery whilst I wandered around Ireland drinking Guiness. So I had to wait and that was the key.

The waiting helped.

I could not replace Sophie.  Like Toots before her she had taken her place in my life as a intently as any other relationship and there is no way another animal/person can take the place of a creature you love as intensely as I did Sophie.

I was introduced to a three year old tortoiseshell female named Roxy, whose start in life was not good. She was scruffy, showing the signs of ill treatment but was responsive to being fussed. I was hooked and so agreed to take her on.

I re-named her Mixie because of her markings and at first she hid up but soon she responded to feeding and care. Her skin lost its scars and marks; her fur is thickening up and looking bright and healthy and she is putting on weight.

Mixie will not remove the memory of Sophie, as Sophie did not of Toots, but she is taking her place in my life and already after only six weeks or so is settling in to the household and helping me cope with losing a pet.

Mixie is helping me say goodbye to my loving companion Sophie, but I shall never forget her.

Mostly it is that sudden break, the fact that you can do very little but watch your pets grow old, nurture them from kitten to cat and hope that what you do makes their lives happy in return for the pleasure and companionship they give you.

Mixie

Although I could see my Sophie growing old, watch her fail and knew that she was needing more and more medical attention, I was still not prepared for her passing.

I know that living without a cat is not what I want and so I was prepared to find another one. Sophie was my kitten and I could do things like clipping her claws, cleaning her ears (gently) and being her servant, as you do with cats.

I suppose what you have to do is remember the best times, savour the fun you have with the departed pet and treat the newcomer as lovingly as its predecessor.  I hope I can give of myself to Mixie as much as I did to Sophie and to
Toots before her.

We shall see.

I am not an artist....

But: I paint pictures.
When I started painting a few years ago, remembering my efforts as a lad, I began with water colours, took to acrylics and eventually took up oils. I discovered water mixable oil paints and started off with them rather timorously treating the water part of them like water colours and acrylic paint. The result was, shall we say "Okay" but a bit weak. I tended to work as apologetically, as if I was encroaching on the areas real artists work in and my work was dull.

That was, dull until I went to Amsterdam and visited the Van Gogh museum and gallery.

I returned from that experience with confidence and began to work again. I talked with my now departed friend, Bob Collins, who nodded and smiled, and gave me some ideas and encouragement. 'Slap it on but be positive and paint what is in your mind. What you see and what others see is different but the same,' he said to me. I understood that because he was the best water colour artist I have ever met, and was not inclined to butter me up.

The result was that I painted some local views and let my feelings for the mood of the day influence my paintings. Okay, so I just painted what I saw and then I learned how to use the oil paint. The painting, The Bridleway, has the elements of Van Gogh's wheat field painting, a touch of Provence in the format and the bold extravagance of his brushwork.

As you can see the painting has the elements of Van Gogh's style and I make no apologies for the similarities.

The technique was, first outline the scene in light colours such as the sky area, the track and the wheat fields.  This was done by mixing the basic colour, yellow ochre for the fields, light blue for the sky and a grey blue for the track using water to thin the paint as well as the linseed oil and medium. Let it touch dry and then start, first with the sky using only the oil and medium, adding the fields with red, yellow and white. Detail was added as the heavy paint was drying to allow it to key into the main painting.

The next painting was much bolder. The basic colour was washed on using water as the thinner, again allowed to dry and then using medium and oil with the colour lay it on thick. This time I had drawn the flower on to a sheet of paper, traced it on clear tracing paper and transferred the image to the painting surface, fixed it with a spray. Initially I painted the the outline with thinned colour, added the   the trellis work plus the background foliage and the snail.

Next it was a matter of concentrating on the flower and that was done with oil and medium, and afterwards the when dry the whole was covered with three coats of clear varnish.

The third painting is a recent picture, not yet completed which I have first overpainted with an acrylic coat of white, used a heavy oil and medium coat of colour using bold brush strokes in greens as a base on which to paint a drawn and traced Dahlia bloom.

This is a work in progress and will need some more work on it when the base is dry.

What have I learned from the exercises?

Firstly not to rely too much on the water thinning but to use it when I need to help the paint to flow but mostly to paint the base colours on which to paint the main picture.

Next, to treat the paint the same as regular oil paint and be glad of its versatility.

To take care to draw the main scene and fix it, bearing in mind that if I use charcoal I can blend the dark lines in with the paint and use them as guides for the eye that will show the contrasts. I also found that working the colour by placing colour on colour and letting them blend is most satisfactory.

And lastly, not to care much what others do and think unless I can learn to use their skills.

Using water mixable oil paints is worth the effort although the colours offered are limited, but if you select the paints you need for your preferred palette you can do all that you wish. You should be prepared to buy the appropriate oil, medium and of course be aware that true oil paints will not mix, but otherwise there is no difference in response to true oil paint.

I am glad to say that I am enjoying the medium.

Charity - it seems is big business.

I like to give to charities I agree with but I do not like being coerced into giving.  That, I believe is what many of us will agree with. The annual Poppy appeal, the Macmillan Coffee mornings, the Red Cross and other deserving charities.  Each of these and many others compete for my equivalent of the "widow's mite", and I will give what I can when I feel like it.  I also believe many of us also like to do that too without having to commit to regular amount, unless of course you choose to do so.

Chuggers on the streets seem to attack you with a similar spiel to the telephone sales techniques of the double glazing companies of the past, and become persistent in their pursuit of a monthly sum.  There are other organisations, equally as worthy of funding as any other, dealing with Birds, Asthma , Dementia, Cats, Dogs and Cancers that are all worth a penny or two asking for money.  Some I would give to, others I will not; my choice and my prerogative to refuse.

Also it is my choice to give one sum when and if I wish without being asked again.

The days of the rattling collection box seem to be numbered, although there are many retail outlets that have marked collection boxes on their counters to collect coins.  These are limited to a fairly narrow range of charities which means that if I wish to give I have to make on-line or postal contact.

If I send a cheque as a donation once, I expect that to be the end of it but what happens?

You guessed it, a mail drop, continuous bombardments of raffle tickets, rubbish gifts and cards fit only for the bin, literature including exhortations to fill in a form to send a regular amount.  At first you think that the "letter" is a one off until you receive more at intervals throughout the year at a cost to the charity that more than likely has eaten into the cheque sent.

The pattern is similar in most of them. The literature and the promotion complete with identified named labels "for your convenience" to save you writing your information on the butts of the raffle tickets you are expected to buy. I note that the number of books is now three with ten tickets each adding up to a sum of £30.00 in total - I reserve that amount for my weekly groceries.

I received telephone calls, and I emphasise calls, from the RSPB asking me to increase my small monthly amount each month, and spent some time on the telephone during the first call explaining that as I also have a monthly amount with another charity I would not increase the amount. All to no avail. I received another similar call from two more charities asking the same with similar persistence;  same pattern, same steady grind to squeeze more money.

The result was that I assumed the charities were now taking on business style hard sell and so I cancelled my subscriptions. Now I get literature from some which I open but usually, once I have salvaged the free pens, throw in the re-cycling bin.

I want to give to charities of my choice but I am getting fed up with the amount of money wasted on sending out oodles of envelopes to try and persuade me to give.

I will give when I want to and how I want to. I do not want to be bombarded with postal rubbish.

I would like to know what others think.

A Story of a City Down Under - And Darkly Glows the City

And Darkly Glows the City

This tale is one that was in my mind for a long time, and eventually after a number of attempts to find a format that would not only tell the tale but be readable, balancing out the dark side with a sense of hope and humour, I eventually managed a satisfying story.

If that last sounds a little pretentious then please bear with me. In the 1980's in Auckland there was a largish number of Street Kids living rough in the city. They were considered to be a nuisance to shoppers, tourists and shop keepers who called for a solution to the problem. The general opinion was to just get them off the streets, perhaps lock them up or return them to their homes. Some Councillors, Police Officers, Child Protection Groups and the Auckland Trade Unions set up refuges for them with a view to solving the problem by helping the youngsters more or less on their terms. The authorities were horrified and deeply concerned when there were rumours that some children were disappearing off the streets unaccounted for; the suggestion was that some were abducted into the child slave trade.  Whether it was true or not investigations discovered some nasty men preying on the more vulnerable rough sleepers.

I wanted to write about this dreadful "trade" and so turned it into a thriller using the Street Kid story as a background.  I always like the idea of humour even when telling a tale that is redolent with horrific scenes, and so when my investigating officers Detective Inspector Conrad O'Grady meets his new working partner Detective Constable Roy Rogers it is inevitable that there will some corny jokes. Rogers is of course named "Tex" and as the case develops so too does their friendship which gave me a chance to offset the horror of their antagonists story with some normal, romantic and family interactions.

Set in the city of Auckland the action takes O'Grady and Rogers South to Manukau city, and North to the township of Wellsford and the sandy east coast near Mangawhai Heads, and Te Aria Point which were all fascinating places to me.

Darkly Glows the City

When Detective Inspector Conrad O’Grady is called in to investigate a gruesome murder in one of Auckland’s richest suburbs he is not aware of the corruption and horror his investigation will uncover.  Assisted by rookie detective, Roy ‘Tex’ Rogers, O’Grady steadily discovers the answers to the riddle in his own rough and ready way.  

His progress is followed closely by the evil Fat Man who is determined to stop him finding out what is going on in the exclusive Downtown Athena Club.  

Facing opposition from his superiors, and having to come to terms with the dreadful series of killing linked by the book Macabre Verses and a threat to his life O’Grady finds himself in a race against time to save those he loves from a terrible death.  

O’Grady’s story is not just the tale of a detective doing his job, but a story of compassion, strong emotions, powerful love stories and that of ordinary people caught up in unbelievable horror that could shatter their lives. 

It is also the story of two remarkable young people who reconcile their cultural differences. 

The tale has a theme of Satanic Possession which challenges Fr Brien's faith in the power of the Church and threatens to wreck O'Grady's career. The forces against the pair and Rogers are overwhelming and I have to admit that balancing out that part of the tale with story of Sam, the Street Kid involved was tricky. I hope I have managed it.

This is not a tale for the squeamish but those who have read it have said they could not put it down wanting to know what was happening next. I tried to capture that sense of urgency and hopefully create and entertaining story.

In this short piece I hope that I have given an insight into the way I have developed the story and that people will want to read it. I enjoyed writing it. And finally, below, let the back cover sum up the story.