O.S.M. Ind. Protective Headgear.

How many times have you strolled through a public space or seated yourself on public transport, minding your own business, getting along, only to find yourself accosted by people you have never been introduced to wanting to share their trivial life-concerns with you?

This happens to me more often than I would like so, I have developed a stratagem to protect myself and out-wit buffoons who would waste my precious time.

O.S.M. Ind. Protective Headgear System

You will need:

01) A Sleeve from one of your partners long-sleeved t-shirts:

The length can vary but I generally cut from where the sleeve meets the body straight across thus leaving the t-shirt with a fashionable 'cap' sleeve. I then cut off the cuff.

02) A Red Elastic Band:

Not generally available to buy but, here in the U.K., magic pixies litter our streets with them.

Method:

Gather, or 'scrunch' up one end of the sleeve like so:

Keeping tight hold wrap the elastic band round and round the 'scrunch' (N.B. It is important to keep a firm grip of the fabric thus avoiding finger entanglement during this process).
Once finished it should look something like this:

The Finished Item:

I guarantee that wearing this hat in public will give you at least 6 feet (2m) of clear personal space.

Update:
I have found that applying spray starch helps to keep my protective head-gear pointy and perky.

As I Strode Out One August Morning.

On maps of the area, there is very little distance between Pagham Spit and Selsey:

View Larger Map
Except for that awkward gap between the spit and the Church Norton sand bar.
Unless you take a boat it means a long walk right around Pagham Harbour.

So, off I go.

7 a.m. is a good time to start a walk as everywhere seems deserted (except for the joggers and dog walkers) and anyone you do meet gives a cheery 'hello' or 'good morning'. I think the cut-off point for acknowledging fellow humans is around 9 a.m.

The stroll along the prom toward Aldwick is pleasant and gives me the opportunity to walk through Marine Gardens and admire my favourite shelter:

and the human sundial:

Which I can't use because of the lack of sunshine.

From the gardens to Pagham Spit is an energy sapping trudge along the shingle beach where I spot some feral shoes:

Feral shoes have been a bit thin on the ground this season but this is obviously a newly escaped and possibly breeding pair.

Just down the beach from the shoes there laid the body of a man surrounded by empty beer cans.
I have spared him his dignity by not photographing him. I do hope he wasn't dead.

I walk along the beach past the ferocious warning signs that tell me to keep out of the private enclaves of The Craigwell and Aldwick Bay.
Robert Smith (out of The Cure) lives on Alwick Bay but I didn't see any sign of him. Perhaps he's a late riser.
It takes me 2 hours to stumble to the shanty-town area of Pagham.

I like this area though it's full of holiday homes and people engaged in tearing down the shanties and building the dream homes that will eventually get washed into the sea.

Now begins the long walk around Pagham habour.
I stop at the north wall.  At first I was attracted by the swans gliding back and forth, then I notice a sort of 'boiling' nearby that must have been, judging by all the fins breaking the surface, a school of fish.
I spotted a twitcher and began to worry that I may be disturbing whatever he had his sights trained on.

I moved on.

All the benches dotted around the harbour seem to be dedicated to dead twitchers which didn't put me off having a sit-down-stare-into-space.  Something I find myself doing with alarming regularity of late.
The tide-line around the harbour is filled with the ghosts of tiny crabs:

I wanted to take this dead crab home but as soon as I tried to put in my pocket it turned to dust and blew away.

Although I'd taken plenty of water with me I'd drunk it all by the time I was on the outskirts of East Beach and found very difficult not to take advantage of this opportunity to refresh myself:

It was outside my 'dream home':

I finished my walk in the Lifeboat pub (miserable barmaid). It had taken me just over 4 hours to reach Selsey and half way down a pint of Timothy Taylor's bitter I made the decision to get the bus home.

Bikes And Bike People No. 2 Jean And Her Raleigh Twenty

I met Jean wheeling her trusty Raleigh Twenty along the shingle near Aldwick Bay.
Jean bought her bike at a car boot sale for £20 three years ago and uses it as her everyday transport.

Car Boot Book Fest.

I went to Fontwell Car Boot Sale today.
I had £2.50 in my pocket and intended getting as many things as I could carry back to the car.
On arriving and wandering down the first row I passed a stack of real rubbish owned by a guy loudly encouraging people to take anything they wanted for free.

I wrestled myself through to the stack of stuff and found these books:

Flights Into The Future was published in 1948.
It's a mix of speculative discussions about the possibility of manned space flight and S/F fiction stories of the time.
It's hilarious and I intend serialising a couple of the stories with illustration here very soon.

Hobbies New Annual must date from around the same period.
Here are some of the stand-out projects:

VII:      Transparent Mysteries
XI:       A Home Cinema Projector
XVII:   Chemical Amusements
XIX:    X-Ray Photographs At Home
XXIII: Home-made Fireworks

I'll be posting all the above here in the coming weeks.

Auction News.

The above is a picture of a 1949 Delahaye Type 175 Roadster that once belonged to Diana Dors.
Only 51 of these cars were ever made.
It's up for auction on August 15th here

If anyone reading this buys it would there be any chance of taking me for a spin in it?

The Big Round Rusty Metal Thing.

Linda and I have a way of admitting to one another that we may have spent money we could use to buy things we need on something that we don't need.
We say 'I've done a bad thing' then detail the impulse spending.

It was Linda's turn today.

She's bought a big round rusty metal thing.
Now ask yourself,  could you be miffed at someone who spent part of the house-keeping cash on such a wonderful item?

The guy she bought it from thinks it was intended for use as a drain cover.
As it's around 3 feet across it must have been a very big drain!

Linda thinks it could be used to cover a fire-pit which, in turn, means I have to dig through 18 inches of concrete to make her dream come true.

I think I'd rather make it into a table.

Bikes And Bike People: No. 1 err... Didn't Catch His Name.

As I wander about the local area I notice certain bicycles.
Not the over-engineered uber-machines but the everyday examples of human transport.
Rusty, (usually) hand re-painted, slow, steady and reliable.
Their condition tends to reflect their owners.

Here's my first example:

Seen in London Road Bognor is 90 year old errr,
I'm kicking myself for not asking him his name, unforgivably rude of me.
The bicycle is a Raleigh Superbe probably a 1970's model going by the lighting and brakes. Hand painted the same green as his shed.

I'm now off in search of the other 'out-sider' cyclists that haunt the by-ways of Bognor Regis.
Especially the guy that rides the metallic green Raleigh Twenty.

The 'Dobson' Sit-Up-On. (Updated)

Much as my behind loves the enormous bouncy Lepper saddle I fitted to the 'Dobson' it must be said/has been pointed out that it is very heavy (approx 2.2 Kg).

I decided to invest, and invest is the correct word, in a Brooks B17 saddle.

It's as hard as a rock and just about perfect.
During a short test ride I noticed that all the squeaks and creaks have disappeared and the whole machine has a more 'positive' feel about it.

In my opinion it's improved the look of the bike no end.

 Now all I have to do is ride it for about 20,000 miles and it should begin to 'break-in' nicely.

Update:

Having ridden around 12 miles on the new saddle it has become obvious to me that I'm going to have to reinforce my gusset.

Cheering Myself Up.

When ever I find myself down in the dumps I turn to Eric and Ernie.



and,



I feel much better now.

Televisual Simulacrumating Device: Update

Although most of my recent activity has been of an out-door related nature I haven't entirely abandoned my important experimental work in the lab.

The original tube of the T.S.D. (black and white) gave up the ghost so, after a bit of skip dipping, I have replaced it with a modern colour version.

The whole assembly has been mounted on a cabinet I found in the loft. I've attached a fetching lamp, a plasma ball and am planning to incorporate a dvd player (or not).

The reason I'm not sure about the dvd player boils down to the fact that, as can be seen here, my iPod provides a perfectly respectable image for most general viewing.

It still looks, and is, incredibly dangerous.

What The Hell Is That? No.1: Zumba.

We have some neighbours who spend part of the year in Florida and the rest of the year here in Felpham.
Every year Mrs. Neighbour returns and enthuses about a new way of keeping fit.
This years biggy is 'Zumba'.
All well and good but, somehow, Linda gets dragged into these enthusiasms.
While her and Mrs. Neighbour went off 'Zumbaring' I goggled and found this:


Good grief!
I think I'll stick with my Canadian Airforce Exercise manual.

Adventures In Modern Cycling No. 13: Arundel.

I know the signs and the signs are obvious I've got another nasty attack of bicycles.
I didn't set off to visit Arundel. My plan was to bypass it and head for the top of Bury hill just to prove to myself I could do the long climb to the top but, as I approached the town, I thought I'd just pop in to Peglers outdoor pursuit equipment shop and have a look for a new pair of walking shoes (although most of them look like 'trainers' nowadays).

I followed the South Coast Cycleway from Felpham to just beyond Yapton then did a left toward the village of Ford where the majority part of the population resides at her majesty's pleasure.

Ford is an 'open' prison, which seems to mean that one can come and go as one pleases, filled with naughty professional type crims.
BTW Drinking the water here is a sure fire cure for Alzheimer's  disease as evidenced by the miraculous recovery of one Ernest Saunders.
Top tip here, should you find yourself penniless and in need of alcohol, drugs or mobile phones have a poke around in the bushes between the prison and Ford railway station where these items are carelessly dropped on a daily basis.

Past the level crossing at Ford railway station is where I decide to make a bit of an effort, slip into top gear and pick off the other cyclists on the road ahead of me. It all goes well and my lungs stay in my chest.

Arundel is a cute little town made out of money, antique shops and a big castle non of which holds any interest for me as I enter Peglers.  I tell the polite youth behind the counter what my requirements are knowing full well that even if they have the type of shoe I'm after they won't have it in my size.
The polite youth returns with exactly what I've asked for in my size and tells me that they've been reduced to £40 in the sale.

I now recommend Peglers for all your outdoor equipment needs.

My new shoes only just fit into my bag and I decide not to ride to the top of Bury hill. Instead I head back the way I came and visit the Ship and Anchor pub.
I've never been to this pub before and to be honest it looks unprepossessing (next door to a campsite).
On entering I'm surprised at the range of real ales and even more surprised to find my favourite beer, Betty Stoggs bitter, not only that but they do bowls of cheesy chips. Result!

Whist eating, drinking and batting wasps away I notice an example of the type of building I like.

Probably made entirely from asbestos.

The rest of the ride home is uneventful and ends with a large pot of tea and chocolate biscuits.
Tonight's BBC 4 schedule has 3 bicycle related programmes listed.
This is as near to a perfect day as I've had all year.

Feelings (Mixed).

When I read, on the Retro To Go website, that the Trinity Square Car Park in Gateshead is about to be demolished (by a division of Tescos) I didn't know if I should feel happy or sad.

I then considered that the only reason for any sadness was that the car park was the scene of a (pretend) brutal murder in the film Get Carter and therefore has 'iconic' status.

So, happy-ish it is then.

p.s. Linda looked at the above picture and decided that the horse was probably dead now.

Intimitdating Birds: The Seagull.

I'd never noticed how truly malevolent, cold and alien the eyes of seagull are until today.
This gull watched me eat a sausage roll.
It paced menacingly back and forth never letting the ever diminishing food out of it's steely glare.
Once I half-heartedly shouted 'shooo' at it but it took absolutely no notice of me at all and continued pacing.

Round the corner from where I live the residents, widows who, having fed their husbands to death, replaced them with small dogs and started the process all over again,  have banded together to eradicate the 'Seagull Menace' (© Bognor Regis Observer) from their guano encrusted enclave demanding that the local council sends some poor sod round to shoot them all.
Now it occurs to me that if one chooses to retire to the seaside one should accept that the seagull is part of the whole experience.

I wonder what seagull tastes like?

This Other Eden.

The view from my shed is deeply pleasing this year.
All the hard work I put in during Jan/Feb/Mar has paid off in spades.

The only slight problem has been the bay tree which, like most others in the area, became blighted by an infestation of a scale insect.

My honeysuckle is the best it's ever been and smells wonderful.

And I've managed to grow strawberries!

O.K. So I've not managed to grow very many strawberries and woodlice ate one or two of them but, considering the fact that I don't remember planting strawberries, they've been a pleasant and tasty surprise.

Indicators. No. 1: Of Ageing.

You know you are getting old when the National Health Service is your drug dealer.

Another Song: This Small Stone.

This is one of those songs that came into my head, more or less, fully written.
I wanted to say something about causality and how there can be no action without consequence.

There are one or two 'clunks' to write out of it but it works as it is for the moment.
I'll post an audio link when I finally get a recorded version I'm happy with (which may take some years).

This small stone
Chipped from the rock of ages
Worn smooth
In a torrent that still rages
It's sharp corners
Washed into the stream.

This small stone
Skimmed across the surface
Touching lightly
Then sinks to find it's own place
Among the others
In the depths below

But the ripples that it caused
Within that fleeting moment
Pushed the edges away
And started the waves
That made the rushes sway

This small stone
Abandoned and forsaken
Of no matter or importance
It's measure never taken
A footnote in
The greater scheme of things

These few scribbled words
Hidden in long forgotten pages
A record of a time
Of dignity exchanged for wages
Spent on things
That sank away in time

Le Tour Effect.

The Tour highlights programme  airs between 7 & 8 p.m. on ITV 4.
As soon as it's over I get the 'Dobson' out of the shed and, along with every other cyclist in the local area it seems, go for a spin.

I've noticed that this year's most popular replica jersey is that of H.T.C. Columbia (Mark Cavandish's team).
I spotted the odd polka-dot jersey around.
I wouldn't have the gall to wear any of the Tour jerseys and certainly not the polka-dot one.
Pull that on and you're making a serious statement about your climbing ability.

I'm not entirely free of cycling outfit vanity and have bought myself a racy tweed cap:

I've not noticed it having any significant effect on my cycling performance.

I stopped on my way home to take a few snaps of the 'Dobson' against the deep blue sea:

I'm starting to think I could ride this bike from Lands End to John O'Groats.
No, really.

Interesting.

I was waiting in an uninteresting corridor.
I was waiting for Linda to arrive.
I wondered how much of my life I'd spent in uninteresting places waiting for something to happen.
Must run into years by now.
I wondered why designated waiting places are, usually, uninteresting.
After waiting for 15 minutes I noticed something on the floor:

Now that's what I call interesting!

An Uncomfortable Situation.

I was doing some portable appliance testing for a local charity shop the other day.
I stopped to have a cup of coffee.
I began to get the feeling I was being watched.
Turns out I was being watched.

We stood looking at one another.
I decided to take a picture all the time convinced that the moment I moved the bird would startle and fly away.
I went through the complicated camera selection rigmarole on my mobile phone, aimed and snapped.
The bird just kept staring at me.
I began to feel slightly uncomfortable.
After a while I began to feel intimidated.
By the time I'd managed to tear myself away from the bird's ambiguous penetrating gaze my coffee had gone cold.
I looked back but the bird had gone.
This sort of thing happens to me on a frequent basis.
I blame Hooting Yard.

Up The City Folk Club.

I M.C. the City Folk Club in Chichester.
Any given Friday evening one can experience an eclectic mix of acoustic musical performance art.
Here's the star turn from last night:

Groovy.

Le Tour.

For the first time in many years I have been able to watch every stage of the Le Tour de France.
I love it!
This year's shaping up to be a classic.

The end of today's stage saw a bit of 'argy-bargy' between Mark Cavendish's lead out man, Mark Renshaw, and Julian Dean for which, at the time of typing, Mark Renshaw has been thrown off the tour.
I can't comment because I'm not an expert.
Cycle sprinting always looks like a bear pit to me and I'm always surprised there aren't more serious accidents.
I was reminded of this horror from the final stage of the 1991 tour:



Ouch!

An Offer You Can't Refuse.

I've watched 'The Godfather' film and know that receiving a horse's head is not a good thing.
Recently West Sussex received a horse's head which was placed, temporarily, atop the downs on the Trundle.

It's very impressive and will eventually be sited on the Goodwood race course.
(I've included Linda in the picture to give an idea of just how big it really is but, trust me, it's even bigger.)

Linda was more interested in looking at the sun through her binoculars.

Doing The Funky Chicken.

A member of our folk club plays a fiddle tune called 'The Hen's March To The Midden' which is usually accompanied by the tune 'The Four Poster Bed'.

The tune title has fascinated me since first I heard it.
I did a bit of digging in Interwebshire and found this:



This is what can happen if one takes folk-music to seriously.

How To Squeeze A Rubber Chicken.

Sick.

This Saturday saw the tragic deaths of a mother and daughter.

I saw them only last week to say good morning to.
Their parents/grandparents live next door to Linda and me.
It's all terribly sad.

On their way to church on Sunday the grandparents, despite requests from the police, were ambushed by a reporter from the Daily Mirror.

If you want my definition of 'revolting' that's it.

Update:
A Daily Mail reporter caught them on their way out of church.

Blue... Hmmm....

We had to give the house a lick of paint.
Madge lives in the flat down stairs and her son picked the colour.
He's an artist and is very sensitive about colour.

The flat used to be a Wedgewood Blue.
Understated and very 'coastal pastely' I used to think.

There were a great many cracks to fill:

Then the new paint was applied:

I took the above picture in the  early morning sun.
When the sun's shining on it I find it difficult to look at.

I'm not an artist.
What do I know.

Linda likes it.

Wartime Housewife (sigh...)

I have become entranced by the thoroughly sensible Wartime Housewife and her splendid blog here
So much so that I have made up a poster, in the current popular style, featuring some of her wisdom:



There now, that should make the world a better place and no mistake.

The Moon, A Song To The Sea and Some Naked People (Not Pictured).

In my excitement about my trip to London I almost forgot about the events of Saturday night.
Linda and I had spent the afternoon and evening at a garden party in Chichester.
As we drove home we marveled at the enormous full moon which seemed to float about two feet above the horizon.
On arriving home we went down to the beach to take the photo seen above.
We returned to our flat and settled down for the night, Linda snoozing on our comfy settee whist I finished washing the dishes left over from lunch.

I gazed out through the kitchen window at the moon and became transfixed.
An idea entered my head.
I quietly unpacked my banjo and tip-toed from the flat down to the ocean shore, plonked myself cross-legged on the shingle and began to sing and play.
I sang a song to the moon, I sang a song to the sea, I sang a song to all the fishes in the sea and I sang a song to my adopted lobster, Bobnit Tivol, in his home off the Cornish coast.
I made the lyric up as I went along.
If I got stuck I made up words stretching out the vowels trying to make the kind of sounds throat singers make.
Sometimes I hummed, sometimes I yodeled...

'Excuse me, are you going to be doing that much longer?'
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
The voice came from the sea.
'Excuse me, we'd like to get out now if you wouldn't mind'.
I followed the sound of the voice and could just make out two heads bobbing about down by the breakwater near the launch ramp.
'Oh, Hello, do you want your towels?' I shouted, 'If you let me know where they are I'll pass them to you'.
'Errr, actually, would you mind f*%kin' off so we can get out?'
'We've got no clothes on'.
 
I stood up, brushed off the pieces of shattered dream and trudged back to the flat.

An Evening Of Death, Taxes And Basking In The Glow Of Literary Giants.

So, off to London to attend the launch of the new quarterly surrealist magazine Polarity.
Strikes me that producing an actual physical magazine is a bold move in this digital age and I for one salute the brave young people behind this venture.
The event might have passed me by but for the very sensible inclusion in the magazine of material from Hooting Yard's Mr. Frank Key.
The fact that Mr. Key was to make an extremely rare public appearance to read some of his prose made it inevitable that I would attend.
At 9 a.m. Linda loaded me in to the travel cannon, set the coordinates for the Slaughtered Lamb Pub in Great Sutton Street, lit the slow burning fuse and went off to work.
 (Please spare a thought for Linda as she works in a greenhouse and the temperatures outside are in the upper 20's at the moment. I fear she may melt and I don't want a puddle for a girlfriend.)

Deep in the barrel of the cannon I passed the time till launch (6 hours away) mumbling the Hooting Yard Chant:

Hooting Yard!

Hooting Yard!

Haa Haa and Gasebo.

We will conquer all our foes.

Hooting, Hooting Yard!

At the appointed hour there was a loud bang and I was launched toward the capital.
My journey was uneventful.
I crashed though the doors of the pub and, using my face as a brake, came to a halt at the bar.
I must have become slightly more aerodynamic of late as I'd arrived 20 minutes early so I ordered a pint of foaming brown beer and was charged £14:28 for it. I didn't bat an eyelid as I know, this being London, even the air I was breathing was ludicrously expensive.
I asked the cheery barkeep where the magazine launch room was, his demeanour instantly changed to one of abject terror as, with a trembling finger, he pointed toward the cellar doors.
I noticed he had several more fingers on his hand than the norm but this is London and people have more of everything here.
I drained my glass, spat out the frogspawn and strode manfully toward the doors
Grasping the two gigantic brass handles firmly I swung the doors open with a florish, stepped forward and tumbled 20 feet to the concrete floor.
When I regained consciousness I found myself been ministered to by a couple of personable young men who were carefully counting the remaining money from my wallet.
They did tell me their names but, using a technique it's taken a lifetime to master, I instantly forgot them.
'Has Mr. Key arrived yet?' I asked. 'No' said one of the personable young men, 'but, listen, he's close by'.
Straining my ears to hear I could just make out the distinctive low rumbling of the Hooting Yard 'Transport of Delight'.

I shinned up the exit rope and ran out into the street just in time to see 57 motorcycle outriders streak past followed by the moaning sisters of WoohooWoodieWoo on their ceremonial elephants then came the jugglers with their antelopes and flaming tally sticks, the plumed monkeys on stilts, a flat bed truck featuring a tableau of 'The Vanquishment Of Anaxgrotax', then hens and pigs and cows and goats in numbers the human mind is incapable of conceiving.

I gazed awestruck.

Then, with a mighty crash, the Transport of Delight rounded the corner crushing the buildings on either side of the street with it's gigantic steel legs and atop of this behemoth, sat upon a golden throne upholstered with the woven hair of the widows of the men he had slain in battle I saw Mr. Key.
I averted my eyes, as is the custom, and fell to my knees in abasement as Mr. Key's personal bodyguards lifted him, throne and all, to the ground.
Oh, lucky man was I as Mr. Key, noticing my wretched form trembling in the gutter, shouted in his stentorian boom 'SpaceMan, come forth!'
I began to stand up, big mistake, I was pounced on by the burly bodyguards, had my belt and shoe laces taken from me, my shirt buttons were ripped off and I was then hurled to the ground in front of the throne. Mr. Key stepped down and walked along my body. As soon as he'd stepped off my head I was picked up and thrown in front of him again.
Thus Mr. Key's majestic progress to the performance space was made.
I was overcome by the rapture afforded to those chosen to be of service to the earth's foremost author.

At this point my life could have ended and I would have left this world a happy man but...
Without having to strain my ears this time I heard an even greater sound that shook the very ground I laid upon. Huge chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling, the glass in the windows cracked and cascaded in glittering shards to the floor.
I lifted my head fully believing that these were to be my last moments on earth and fixed my gaze upon Mr. Key. I was shocked to see his face contorted with fear, his bodyguards cowering under whatever shelter they could find and, as I looked on, the roof of the building was torn away by a huge set of iron pincers protruding from the bottom of the biggest flying saucer I've ever seen.
Mr. Peter Blegvad had arrived.

Once again I lost, or had torn from me, the consciousness I'd so recently regained.
When I recovered I found myself lying in a dismal alleyway, my shoes had been taken from me by a couple of ragged beggers  who were in the process of cooking and eating them.
They looked at me and laughed saying 'they've all gone, all your heroes have deserted you and left you to the mercy of the gutter'.

I can't wait to tell Linda about my adventures and I shall sing of this day with joy as I walk the 74 miles back to Bognor Regis.

Linda's Birthday.

It's mid-summer's day, so it must be Linda's birthday.
This means frantic last minute style activity.

I made a card:

I made a cake:

This is my first attempt at cake making.

I used a silicon mould that's supposed to produce a cake that looks like a rose.
(Yes, I am aware that it looks like a cow pat.) 
My chocolate icing needs work but it really does taste better than it looks.
Linda is happy and, I believe, quietly impressed.

A Solution To A Problem That Didn't Exist Until I Invented It.

Due to Linda's love of soap operas I spend a good deal of my time sat in my lab/workshop twiddling my thumbs while my muse is off somewhere musing someone else.
Should I want to entertain myself with sound I have, in the past, happily plugged my pod into the old valve radio set up which, to be fair, involves a bit of a sound quality trade off if I want to listen to anything other than mp3 files of 78 rpm records.
(There is a deeper problem but more of that in a later post.)
I've hit upon a solution.
No, not headphones or, as they are described in the manual, ear-buds.
The AUX input on my Roland Micro Cube.
I stuck my pod cradle to the back of it and plugged in.
Compact, portable and mono.
Perfect.

Here is a list of the pod-casts that fill up the blank spaces in my life:

• Hooting Yard On The Air.
• The H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast.
• Hollingsville.
• Right Where You Are Sitting Now!
• The Skeptics' Guide to the Universe.
• Welcome to Mars.

The great thing about this set up being that I can plug in a microphone and join the conversations.
Sort of chit-chat-karaoke.
Bases covered.

Hallucinations of Bognor Regis.

Once again I must extend my gratitude to Mr. G. Webster for hitting a nail on the head.
He has provided me with art work for the failed collection of sound beds and backdrops I recorded.

I look out of the window and yes, that looks like the Bognor Regis I know.

Cleaning Out The Demos And Experiments Cupboard.

Prior to recording the tracks that appear on the album, I recorded several test tracks which can be downloaded here.

• Track Listing:
• Surf's Up
• Joy Joy
• Ghost Riders In The Sky
• Play That Funky Music White Boy
• R.U. Receiving Me?
• White Rabbit

So, that's sorted that lot out then.

Feral Shoe Pre-History.

I am grateful to Mr. Marrock for bringing this artifact to my attention.
It turns out that the feral shoe phenomenon is not a new one.

 I'm fascinated by the experts conjecture about this size 4 ladies lace up:

'Archaeologists say it probably belonged to a woman who deliberately buried it in the cave during a mysterious ritual. The cave also contained three pots, each containing a child's skull, along with containers of barley, wheat and apricot'. 

Sounds like my kind of girl.

Read more here.

Film Sound Track (Rejected).

I was approached by a local amateur(ish) film maker to provide a sound track for a film he was producing about Bognor Regis.
I was given a brief outline of the locations that were to be included in the film along with the proposed dialogue.
If I'm honest about it I didn't really put much effort into it.
I went to the places in the locations list and tried to absorb the 'atmosphere' making a few notes along the way.
I got home and set to work producing around 30 minutes worth of sound-beds and sonic back-drops.
They were rejected for being 'to gloomy' and might give the impression that Bognor Regis was a 'desolate waste-land'.
I loaded the tracks into my pod and walked around the locations whilst listening to the tracks I'd created.
He was right.
I'm now going to make my own film about Bognor Regis based on the sound track I made.
I'm considering adding the happy-go-lucky dialogue I was given.

The sound track can be downloaded here

Origami.

An aged aunt once gave me a book on origami to 'keep me out of trouble'.
I couldn't make head nor tail of it and decided that origami was no substitute for getting into trouble.
Times have changed.
Since becoming Hooting Yard's Podcast Maestro I have to find or, more usually, create pictures to illustrate the postings.
To cut a long story short I needed a picture of a distressed pig in a boat which is not something one sees everyday.
Origami to the rescue!

Since then I've become paper folding mad and am a stranger to trouble.

Things To Come.

I've just watched another movie from the Internet Archive.
I remember being very impressed by 'Things To Come' when I saw it in my childhood.
This time round though I laughed so much I snorted my coffee out of my nose.