This is the end

So sang Adele at the beginning of Skyfall, the theme to the Bond movie of the same name. But I’m going to up the culture stakes, leave Scotland and hop over to Paris with:

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done”.

I’m aware that it isn’t proportionate to compare my current predicament with that of Sydney Carton in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. For one thing,  Carton's cities are London and Paris. Mine are Littlecote and Weare. Nevertheless, I’m running with Dickens alongside Adele, for no other reason than, as I’ve said before, it’s my blo-og and I’ll write what I want to.

Not for much longer.

It, Robot

According to a recent article in the Economist, humanoid robots are getting close to reality. They can now fix you with a stare, cameras for eyes, trying to recognise faces and deciding who’s paying attention or making eye contact during conversations. 

By the way, I’m feeling a bit lazy today, so the informative, well-written bits in this blog are lifted almost verbatim from the Economist - ta very much hope you don't mind the plagiarism - and the flippant waffle is mine.

Roboticists (which sounds like a skin complaint) are trying to teach their robots manners, even though that would make them very unhuman: “Currently, it’s the worst ever party guest,” says one creator. “It butts in on every conversation and never shuts up.” 

The wind beneath my wings

Funny old blog this one. I had the urge to write and started several anecdotes to see which one appealed enough for me to elaborate further. I couldn’t choose between them so you’ve got the lot. Sorry.

The Living Years
I’m still sorting through Mum and Dad’s belongings, trying to decide what to keep, what to chuck and what to give to the hospice charity shop. Today I was tackling the last of their scrapbooks and photo albums. Most stuff I’m happy not to keep; a few items I’ve placed on the to-be-decided pile. I know I won’t look at most of it again, but I can’t yet bring myself to part with everything. One such item is a letter I wrote to Dad when I was five and he was away from home. Where he was isn’t important, neither was what I wrote (although the spelling, grammar and punctuation are impressive for such a wee bairn). It was the fact that he’d kept it, in his ‘special’ scrapbook. I never knew that. He died 14th March 2015, as undemonstrative as ever, apart from when he squeezed my arm on the 13th.

Enoch was right

In Mum and Dad’s library, I recently found Reflections, a book containing some of Enoch Powell’s speeches, interviews and essays. It was sandwiched between several books by or about Maggie on one side and Confessions of a Political Maverick by Austin Mitchell, a friend of Arthur Scargill’s, on the other. I’m wondering whether my Sis bought them this book as a joke. Can’t imagine why else they’d have a copy. Anyway, I commandeered Powell and Maggie while sorting stuff to go to the local hospice charity shop. Much to Hubby’s Horror, it was one box of books for the hospice, and one for me; one for the hospice, and two for me, etc.

A strange man grabbed my butt

‘Strange man’ as in I didn’t know him, rather than ‘strange’ as in weird. Somehow I don’t think that makes it any better.

A couple of weekends ago, I did something that was more stupid than strange. I paid good money to investigate ancient limestone caves in the Forest of Dean (that’s in Gloucestershire, for those who are geographically challenged and even fail to negotiate Milton Keynes’ roundabouts). They had been mined for iron and ochre (clay deposits containing ferric oxide) for centuries if not millennia. Small amounts of coal continue to be mined locally – don’t tell the eco-nuts or they’ll glue themselves to the mine shafts … actually, DO tell the eco-nuts and leave them there.

Beware racists in liberal clothing

I recently read the most racist, divisive, insulting execration that I have ever seen in a mainstream newspaper. I’m no fan of the Guardian, but I’ve always felt that its content was civilised and intriguing, not barbaric and upsetting. Even the Daily Mail would raise an eyebrow before publishing anything as racist as this ‘opinion piece’ (here), the villainous writer of which is someone called Pankaj Mishra. He needs a mega-dose of Christian love before being allowed near a keyboard again. (He doesn’t deserve the courtesy of my going to the trouble of finding out what his actual religion is.)

Another Guardian commentary here by Nesrine Malik appeared on Halloween, aptly enough, which was equally as eye-rolling but at least the language was more measured. In the interests of (comparative) brevity, I'll focus my ire on Mishra, although both writers are undermining the goal of social cohesion for the sake of a punitive, regressive ideology.