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Simple Minded

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 13 October 2026 at 12:55

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Opinion

Vote for a supreme-being and string

[ 3 minute read ]

In the modern world of digital communication where messages travel at close to the speed of light (c=300,000 km/s or 186,000 miles/second - almost) I am disappointed that my prayers are still sent by second-class snail-mail. During the summer I hoped for rain and now in October it rains. Hey, cancel my request! 'Who ordered this rain', I ask my neighbours. 'I am not paying for it.' I tell them.

Whoever is in charge of the weather is plainly overworked and has no time to adjust it in real-time. With a billion hopes and desires flowing into an over-run system every minute I think it may be time for an update or perhaps more pertinently a change of staff. Yet, my neighbours with tumble-dryers don't give a rat's tail about the weather; they have long ago given up on the poor doddering fool that God delegated the climate to. I feel a riot coming on; 'Bring back God. We keep voting for God but the elections seemed rigged, and we never get God!'

I suppose if I was more litigious I might try to sue God as I believe others have tried to do. According to Wikipedia, in 1969, an Arizonian lawyer acting on behalf of Betty Penrose sought $100,000 in damages because God supposedly owned the property that Penrose lived in and struck it with lightning. The argument rested on a singer, Lou Gottlieb, leaving the deed to the property to God only a week before. The deed was ruled invalid because God was unable to take possession of the property, and so the argument failed.

In 1969? Good Crikeyness! There was some good LSD around in those days though. I think the federal government should have sued the Grateful Dead sound engineer Owsley Stanley for making such ultra-pure acid in the mid to late nineteen-sixties, and helping to egregiously mix the world of weirdness (people's imagination) with the real world of logic (the legal system and argument). But, when he started producing his acid in 1965 it was perfectly legal.

Now, I have always thought that the spirit world reacts fairy quickly but never instantaneously. It seems to me that every incidence in the world is carefully considered and a measured response is implemented. If I curse my neighbour this morning he will not have bad skin this afternoon. It takes time. Perhaps things shouldn't be too obvious. I mean witches were killed not so long ago and no doubt it has been decided that they need time to get away from the scenes of their nefarious activities before change occurs.

I have also always thought that taking hallucinogenics is a clumsy way to tear the veil that separates the real world from the spirit world. Jack Nicholson as Colonel Nathan R. Jessep, USMC, shouts in a courtroom in the 1992 film, 'A Few Good Men', 'You can't handle the truth!' That outburst could be directed towards the clumsy buffoons who pull the spirit-curtain to the side and idiotically peer in. Just like opening Pandora's Box they release chaos. But, unlike the controlled release of spiritual effect that is afforded to witches who have been patient in their studies and gained an understanding of the world, both physical and spiritual, and understand where liminal spaces are, the leering tripper is subjected to a life-long affliction; they will make mistakes that seem normal to them. Suing God is a good idea because they believe they have, over time, become familiar with the spirit world. I suggest, if they don't pack up those kind of thoughts quickly they can expect a rubber room and some injections every now and again.

I am fairly sure, these days, there are a lot of people praying for a new partner or for fame or something else that clogs up the route to the spirit world, and soon it will get worse while billions of people begin their prayers for material goods; those optional and discretionary goods that clutter and confuse the world. I should like to see shoes made from used African car tyres on the fashion catwalks in place of strappy high-heels. That is not to say I don't like a strappy high heel shoe on a woman's foot; I do, but it could be made with the string in the garden that is no longer used to tie the runner bean plants to the stakes.

 

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You found me

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 12 October 2026 at 17:58

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Opinion

Tacit consent by way of the back door

[ 4 minute read ]

I think if we take all the digital interactions we are nudged into making and put them in a mixing bowl, with the essential idea not to put anything else in, such as emotion, and we bake the mess, we would pull from the oven a policy to collect data on every movement we make. The smell in the kitchen is not one of fondness or care such as a grandmother might make with cinnamon and icing sugar; it is a smell like a disc-cutter makes when cutting steel, or the smell of a slipping clutch on a vehicle passing by with the handbrake still on.
Just the idea of the acrid and pungent aftertaste in my mouth once the bolus is swallowed elicits feelings of absorbing carcinogenics in me. I think, this drive to profile each of us, while projecting a smooth veneer of compatibility with our modern lifestyles, once cracked the inner stuff is of worms and gaping maws of razor-sharp fangs. 
This last weekend I heard an LBC presenter make a brief exclamation of surprise. He noted on air that in October 2027 there will be a 'tax' on, I think he started his piece by saying drinks containers such as plastic bottles and tins or cans of 'pop'. As he padded out his startled piece I started to think he was including all tins and cans since he included glass as one of the things that would be taxed at the source. By 'taxed' I mean a surcharge of either 20p or 20% would be charged on every item that passes through a checkout or is otherwise bought, that is products that are packaged in glass, metal, or plastic. Apparently, this extra cost would be redeemed at specific recycling collection points. The presenter moved on, no doubt because he and his research team were blindsided by this revelation, and they would need to properly research the implications and how it is to be implemented.
I set to turning an imagined future over in my head. How would this impact on my life? I live in a village and so I would need to lug all my glass and empty tins to my local city, How would I be able to collect the returns money? It dawned on me then that it would necessarily go into my bank account and that due to the British public's tacit agreement to being filmed everywhere we go, there would be cameras at every collection point; just like the cameras at the bank ATMs. So, in with my card and the pin (obviously!) and look sweetly at the camera without a face-mask. Facial recognition. It would not matter that I do not carry a GPS tracking device in the form of a phone, my precise location will be known simply because I am not rich enough to avoid being tracked.
I dwelt on the way that the charge would be made. It would necessarily be twenty pence and not 20% of the product price. Everything recycled in this way would otherwise still have a barcode still attached and it would need to be scanned into the recycling machine. Waitrose coffee is more expensive than LIDL coffee and costs more in the south than in the north of England. Surely, reading barcodes and returning 20% of the purchase price is unworkable. The retailer would take the surcharge and then have to submit it to the government so the government can give it back to the recycling shopper, surely. That is expensive to implement on a national scale. It also means that the barcode meta-data held in computers necessarily needs to include information on the packaging. That is expensive for small retailers to have; they would need to maintain a continuous subscription to a bar-code data bank and a live and highly reliable and super-fast internet connection to check every single product during every transaction. Moreover, it must be unbreakable. A faulty internet connection would shut an entire shop or supermarket. Any competent bad actor could paralyse the country's food supply. Those vegetables in the wafer-thin plastic bag cannot possibly be considered to have packaging that can be recycled. Packaging that is definitely NOT bio-degradable. Scales at the recycling point would need to be frequently calibrated. I mean two cabbages have two plastic wrappers and if fifty of these are shoved in a recycling point 'bin' and weighed, the payment might only be for forty eight. That is a 40 pence loss to the customer. If not another thin wedge to add to a reason to riot then an angry driver who will be prone to road-rage.
No, I am certain that someone somewhere had a problem to solve. 'Look team. Not everyone uses the self-checkout in the larger supermarkets and not everyone face-times their family, so we have an incomplete 'picture' of the British population. We can't force them to do those things at present so what can we do?'
       'Make them pay a redeemable surcharge under the auspices that they do not recycle properly. We can film them while we read their bank cards at specific collection points for recycled packaging.'
 The 'tell' will be the absence of alternative packaging. I buy coffee in a glass jar. I would buy loose coffee from a vending machine that dumps it into a container I brought with me. Tinned tomatoes; a bit more tricky. We will never see vending machines dispensing loose produce, such as we used to see loose muesli mix in health food shops. They will inevitably always be banned on Health and Safety grounds. Personally, I would definitely go into a 'store / warehouse' full of vending machines that dispense cornflakes and milk and sugar and stuff. Logistically, it takes too long for each customer to receive their selection; there would be long queues and the 'warehouse stores' would necessarily need to be jointly-owned by the manufacturers that dispense their products (they save on the cost of packaging).
It is a dystopian world I paint; one that with precise positioning of the dispensing spouts, robots would inhabit. If  humans were to be anywhere they would be in their precisely parked cars; shifted by stepper-motors upon arrival in the car-park into slots. Robots would deliver carts of loose produce in bins with scoops chained to the bins. The customer would then transfer their purchases into their own containers and let the car drive them home. This would need to be in a car-park with a roof and probably heated too. Oh, they would need to look into a camera while their bank card is read to get into the car-park before they make their selections. Might we see mobile traders with analogue scales driving steam-powered vehicles in our streets dispensing loose product to householders who hearing their bell flock to their vehicles? 'Stop me to buy some!' The closest you might get to being filmed or noticed is a curious child's eye who doesn't speak our language sitting on the lap of a woman in the dark recesses of the van.
Interestingly, the LBC presenter did not mention cardboard as a packaging that will attract a surcharge. It absorbs water and weight and is of course, biodegradable. Is there not a prevailing presence of cardboard in supermarkets?
 
 
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Deadly female

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 11 October 2026 at 05:24

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Opinion

Ah, yes. Sorry?

[ 3 minute read ]

When I chucked the female Giant House Spider out my living room window in early September I didn't expect to find her on my bathroom floor last night. 'House Spiders die if you put them outside.' I had been told or read. I can't help but to think that House Spiders have only other spiders to worry about as predators. The biggest problem for Giant House Spiders are surely humans, no? Yet, they do not just run away when they see a human close by; they stay motionless. Even poking her with a door wedge didn't get her to move for a while. Then off she went at about the pace of a two year old child walking. I imagine the spider was sprinting though.
I followed her and she stopped only half-hidden near one of my old bicycles in my bedroom. Experience told me I had time to fetch a piece of cardboard and a glass. Sure enough she was still there pretending to be the discarded stalk of a huge tomato. At 65mm the last time I measured her she had little chance of fooling me, even if I do have a glut of tomatoes at the moment. 
This time, she was angry at being captured. With the glass over her and the cardboard beneath she was trapped and I picked her up to eye level. Ooh, she looked like she was threatening me. Her front legs were against the glass in that half-reared up position that a spider does when they are about to attack. I didn't rotate her, the glass and the cardboard to see if she would face me. If I had and she did, I may have had to throw her out into a much colder environment to the one I had done last month; our low humidity summer. At nine degrees Celsius outside this morning she might slow down a bit. 
I dumped her in the living room near to where I had last seen the male Giant House Spider. I may have just signed his death warrant. 'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.'
 
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. 
[...]
 
The Female of the Species - Rudyard Kipling, 1911
https://www.heretical.com/miscella/kipling1.html
 
I was a bit alarmed at how easily she could run under closed doors. My doors have a big gap underneath them to allow them to run over carpet. I don't have carpet; I spill too much too often. I was also surprised by how angry she was at being captured; does she remember being thrown out the last time. Sometimes, I pretend I am a bit fey and when she fell to the floor I had a sudden spike of weird perception. She seemed surprised. If she can remember much, she would remember my living room floor and certainly, if the male is still around, she would be able to smell him? I went to bed hoping that she was gratified and not vengeful.  I didn't want to wake up with her trying to suffocate me by dragging my pillow over my face or something; or spitting in my eyes.
I suppose spiders regard some places as 'home'. I mean they are not randomly stopping and thinking, 'This will do,' are they? Trap-door spiders don't. I hope she realises that I won't throw her out again and she is 'home'. Hats off to her tremendous effort in making her way to my bathroom window. It is the one that is open the most and the longest. Ooh, she is too smart for comfort. I know that I under-estimate the intelligence of creatures but who bothers to try to work out how a spider thinks, except for the few?
I have to look down at the floor all the time whenever I move around in my home, or if I am so affected, 'our' home. Already, I am thinking I might have to move my old bicycles out to make way for a piece of art.
 
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Clever Donkey

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 11 October 2026 at 12:21

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Opinion

Seriously joking, right?

[ 2 minute read ]

       'I have come to learn!'

       'Oh, alright then,' the old man in the deck-chair replied, knocking out his pipe. 'What is it you want to know?' His deeply lined face grew older as he pondered.

       'I don't know. Stuff!'

       'Do you hear that, Bonny? He wants to know stuff.' The donkey beside him looked balefully back at him. 'Have you come far, learner?' The old man asked the hesitant man. 'Are you a seeker?'

       'Not really. I just fancied learning something and thought I would show up. I borrowed the money.'

       'And?'

       'I think there are people more advanced than I in the class.'

       'And so you have not made yourself known, and because you think the money is not yours, since you borrowed it, you have not lost it?'

       'Well, yes.'

       'Embarrassed!'

The old man in the deck-chair refilled his pipe and tamped the tobacco down. He shrewdly looked at Bonny, the donkey, which winked at him and thought itself more clever than the man. The old man lit his pipe and nodded his agreement. 'Another one', he mouthed. Bonny raised and lowered her head twice.

***

There are two types of people. There are a lot more really but today there are only two. There is the person who makes the most out of their day. 'Carpe Diem' (seize the day) and there is the person who expects others to make the day for them. 'absens haeres non erit.' The latter Latin phrase means 'he who is absent will not inherit'. As far as I understand things, if someone does not bring their head to the game, the game will play without them, and that head-less person can never gain anything.

       The old man decided to speak Latin, 'spectator!' and strangely he was understood. The slumped-shouldered man before him flinched. 'You have paid to learn and yet you remain a spectator.' The old man deliberately said to Bonny the donkey. Bonny looked at the crestfallen man, who nervously looked back. He had yet to come to terms with self-actualising, the highest personal aspirational human need in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs after basic needs are met.

       Bonny coughed, 'Ego!' but added 'Haw' to make it seem natural. She drew her lips back into a macabre yellow-toothed grin.

       'I am coming to that!' the old man said irascibly. 'Don't jump the gun.' He boosted himself up from his deck-chair, reached over to the side and down to the sand on the beach and picked up the only book there; next to a red plastic bucket and spade. The book had no title or author's name but the fly-leaf inside said, 'Simply Psychology, and it had https://www.simplypsychology.org/self-actualization.html underneath the words. It fell open at 'Potential' and he read aloud, 'Self-actualization is a concept in psychology that refers to the process of fulfilling one's true potential, becoming the best version of oneself, and achieving personal growth, meaning, and fulfillment in various aspects of life.' All the rest of the pages were blank. They always were. He put the book back down and a few grains of sand jumped onto it. It didn't matter. He was safe in the knowledge that the words would rearrange themselves, with sometimes more and sometimes less words, and some of the words would be changed into other words.

       'Were you seeking validation, approbation, praise and positive clamouring for your skill?'

       'No,'

       Bonny shook her huge head and looked directly at the man. Facing the scrutiny of a dumb animal the man cracked, 'Yes! yes, yes!'

       'Now you realise that you have been coasting and not applying yourself.'

       'Yes.'

       'All that glistens is not gold.' said Bonny finally fed up with being silent.

       'If vicarious learning was your goal then you have it.' said the old man, nodding. 'If you really want to learn, you have to work at it.' And following on from Bonny's careless outburst, 'Diamonds do not come out of the ground already cut and polished.'

       Bonny coughed again. 'Ego!' and unconvincingly added 'Haw.'

       'Flat, I should say.' observed the old man, 'But the realisation is not yet there because there is too much of an echo.' He puffed on his pipe and shut his eyes and then lifted one eye-lid to see if the follower had gone. He noticed the tide was coming in.

It is strange how an echo seems so real and provides comfort, even though it is disembodied and from the past.

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Fetch the Steven

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Friday 9 October 2026 at 06:33

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Opinion

Friends in Jars

[ 4 minute read ]

'It is thrifty to prepare today for the wants of tomorrow.' - Aesop - The Ant and the Grasshopper.

I think most people might think, 'Oooh! I should save some money!' I thought that. May I suggest that is a rather narrow conclusion to make from the quote? I mean, 'A stitch in time saves nine.' neatly falls under the banner of both thrifty and preparedness. Let's face it, if something is going to be thrown away because it needs repairing then no stitches are needed, so the whole idea of applying a single stitch in time follows a decision to use the item in the future.

Perhaps, making sure we clean our tools properly before we put them away is preparing for the future and it is indeed thrifty if we do not need to replace them due to deterioration from poor storage.

In truth, what I am hovering around is something less tangible but nonetheless vital for a good future, on an individual basis that is; friendship. Callous, it may seem, to store friendship in a bottle on a shelf in the larder for later use. Would that I could! 

        'Ah ha! Old friend, I need you today. Yes, I know that I have paid you no heed for a century or so. But, my friend, we agreed that we will allow ourselves to be encapsulated for eternity merely by our memories of one another, and dash to one another's side whenever we are called or needed.'

Yup, in the land of witchery and magic! Let me think for a moment on whether I act like a Disney witch and save favours and friends on shelves. For me, symbiotic relationships are weird. Oh, I understand them, but I fail to get why people need to knit themselves so deeply into other people's lives. Where is our fortitude and perseverance if we can just send for a friend? Of course, I have still not effectively moved away from describing the intricate and complex modern world of having friends; maintaining friendship is resource expensive, no? But, hopefully no-one is keeping a tally stick that records favours, gift-giving and kindness. 

Yet, it is thrifty to prepare today for the wants of tomorrow. So, with my jaded eye I shall go online and order some friends in case I need one in the future. I mean, I wouldn't want to spend one right now because I have no unsatisfied wants if I don't include a refill of sugar in my kitchen. Is that a want or a need? Oh, I need it and I want it. I need strong coffee in the mornings to kick-start me awake and I need sugar in it. Really, Martin? The truth is, I want to move from the after-effects of sleep to wide awake in an extremely short period of time. I suppose it is a part of a patterned lifestyle of immediate gratification. 

       'Eliminate the liminal spaces!' called the two-dimensional cartoon castle guard.

       I smugly agreed, 'There's no need for liminal space! Nothing happens in them anyway. What's the point? I have friends on tap to help me right now, or whenever I need them!'

It seems I am skipping from one position in life to another without taking time to consider any option other than reaching for a jar on a shelf that contains the essence of a stored friend. I don't do that! of course not. I do value the liminal spaces and I use them, even if not the bit between my bed and a laptop. Somewhere, in the thirty or so feet traipse between bedroom and ivory tower there is an essence of me that is begging for attention. 'Wait! Wait up! Please don't ignore me.' I do; my focus is elsewhere. All those imagined friends in jars on a shelf in the larder mean I have no time for myself to look at my own resources. That isn't me.

       'Oh, how lucky you are, Martin, to have time to even consider that you do not consider yourself!' Yeah, I hear that. Yet, I plainly have a different approach to the world than my neighbours probably do. I work, I study, and I play, but it is not part of a work-life balance; it is in conjunction with looking in the liminal spaces, digging deep. It is just something I do. Oh, but wait; I have had to do that, be resourceful I mean. I grew up fairly quickly in Bosnia and Herzogovina, Croatia, Austria, Germany and France during two weeks when I was twenty-six that pretty much put the lid on my attitude to relying on other people, and that is why I can see the space on my shelf in my larder where the jars of friends are absent. I don't maintain friends. Friends to my cruel, unfeeling, and ruthless character were tools to satisfy my entertainment needs.

       'I need a conversation. Fetch the Vincent. No wait, fetch the Steven, he is more fun.'

       'Sire, the Steven is currently ignoring you. Should I court his friendship again, sire?

       'You mean you would ingratiate me to him, don't you? Never!' Plainly, he does not love me enough, the fool! Go and buy some dogs; I need to play.'

Harsh, isn't it? Prepare today for the wants of tomorrow. You see, I am hung up on what I understand to be 'wants'. Friends are not tireless objects whose purpose is to be at my beck and call. They get tired and need to dwell in their own liminal spaces, and if they don't have any liminal spaces it my duty to help them find them, and to make those spaces comfortable for them. Of course, I must be as a cool breeze in their hot lives and not let them know I was ever anything else, and definitely not carry a tally-stick.

       'Fetch some batteries. This friend needs more energy.'

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We can both do well

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 8 October 2026 at 07:21

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Cadwell NOT Caldwell

Opinion

We can both do well

[ 5 minute read ]

Ever since I can remember words just pop into my head. Of course, I don't mean everyday words; I mean words I have no recollection of ever hearing or reading or otherwise coming across. Today, 'extant'. Since I don't know what it means I had to look it up. Unfortunately, because I was doing something else on my laptop I had to type it into my browser so I would not forget to hunt for the meaning. 

Extant: used to refer to something very old that is still existing. We have some extant parish records from the 16th century. 

https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/extant

My 1962 publication of Roget's Thesaurus has it as an adjective under 'Existence, 'existing', perpetual and gives a few synonyms: standing, surviving, extant, undestroyed, undestructible

Near that entry is the word quidditative essential, subsistential, substantive. A wonderful word.

I can tell you that I harvested all that from the first entry in my Roget's thesaurus which pages have a peculiar smell to it, never been opened to that page in sixty-six years? Because I believe in weird stuff, like magic  and spells and spirits and stuff, I cannot help thinking I am supposed to find a clue to something, so I looked at the page again. I can't see anything that suddenly leaps out at me and shouts 'You found me, now let's act on it!' but I am a little spooked by this existence / non-existence thing. It might be simply a form of salutation. 'Hiya! Yup you are looking in the right direction for assistance with preventing your neighbour's spirit looming over you while you are sleeping and waking you up.' Oh, I hope so.

But this is the long-standing question, risen again from when I first encountered it at age sixteen when I was pretty miserable from domestic bullying. 'Which way would you like to choose, Martin?' I am not going to capture definitions of specific action within 'good' and 'evil'. But then, there was an experiment many years ago, testing to see if toddlers seated alone for a few minutes with a single sweet in front of them on a table would not eat that sweet when they were promised that they would very soon get a second one if they didn't. Most of them ate the sweet. The temptation was too much for them. I think it is evidence of a desire for immediate gratification. Just as it is neither good nor evil to eat the sweet, or give in to immediate gratification, eating metaphorical sweets is not always good for us either. 

My 'Leave me alone, neighbour!' could have future effects that are quite unfathomable to me today. In the past, I have visited my mother and stayed the night. She always went to bed before me. What we need to understand at this point is, by this time she had bought her own house and none of us children had grown up in it. It was in her mind her house and not a shared one. When I later went to bed I had the worst sleep ever. I woke unrefreshed and tired. One day I thought I would test a theory; does her spirit come out of her body and inhabit the house while she sleeps. I visited her and went to bed and got to sleep before her. I slept well and woke lively. I asked her how she slept.

       'Terrible,' she said. 'I tossed and turned all night.'

Hmm, it seems either I deliberately barred her from good sleep or stopped her spirit from barring me from good sleep. I cannot leave that resultant thought out of my life, which is why I want to eat the metaphorical sweet on the table. I want immediate gratification because I do not know the future. I don't know if my neighbour will move out next week. I suppose some people would be going down a line of thinking to do with 'manifesting'. To me, that is not much different to what I have in my mind. Yet, if I go to bed before my neighbour I am still woken when he, I guess, falls asleep and reaches a particular stage in his sleep, around about a quarter past eleven, and two and four. It seems to me to be fairly periodic and, from what I know, so are the sleep stages.

Looking inward. I have been told I do not snore but do I now? Well, when my neighbour is away for a week or two I sleep fine, so... is this an anxiety thing? Certainly, he troubles me. I mean I am scared of psychopathic ogre monsters; I would be, I had a brother just like that, hence the question that was asked of me when I was sixteen, 'Which way would you like to go? or 'How do you want to handle this?' As a teenager I was saturated by born-again Christianity in my village, All the kids were doing it. I couldn't help thinking that it would bleach out a lot of my life. Plainly, I was more in the spirit world than I thought.

I like the richness of the spirit world. i don't like the doctrine of Christianity which I have a sneaking suspicion 'manifests' in its own way; it just takes longer and requires a lot of re-moulding and hard work for the rest of people's lives. I suspect that  is often overlooked; you don't just get a membership badge with Christianity. Yet, taking out a loan from the spirit world could have interest payments that may spiritually bankrupt me. If I consider that a financial advisor works hard to maintain a level of understanding of current financial and fiscal policies and trends, and I consider a borrower as someone who does not work hard to understand and continue to understand the markets or governments, I am definitely the latter when it comes to spiritual matters. I like the fun and frilly bits; the toffee-apples and cake. I don't think I want something that is able to follow me from room to room in my home, and isn't stopped from entering my home by a locked and barred front door, collecting a spiritual debt. I know that if something is moved from there to here, there is a hole that needs to be filled.

And there is the question again. It has never gone away and I could solve a lot of my problems by becoming an adept in either camp. But, immediate gratification? Not today or even this year, and how patient am i?

The overall point here, which I have really only washed onto canvas, is, it comes down to belief. I believed if I went to sleep before my mum in her home I would sleep better, and I did sleep better. I also believed that she would not sleep well, and she did not sleep well. Now, I want to go back and try the experiment again; this time I would believe that we would both sleep well. 

       'By Jove, I think he's got it!'

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Spy Cars

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 7 October 2026 at 08:18

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Opinion

Spy Cars

[ 3 minute read ]

Yesterday, I read an article on Euronews, titled 'Wiretaps on wheels': Drivers warned their data privacy is not guaranteed in modern vehicles'. The article is actually dated 06 September 2023, so it appears that the knowledge that electric cars listening and recording our personal details is not new.

https://www.euronews.com/2023/09/06/wiretaps-on-wheels-drivers-warned-their-data-privacy-is-not-guaranteed-in-modern-vehicles

in fact, 'The Surveillance Technology Oversight Project; The Los Angles Times; Gess Engineering; Fortune; Forensic Resources and others all ran the same or similar article. Nearly all the manufacturers say they would readily share that information with governments, even without a formal directive; in response to a mere request for that information.

Electric cars, it seems, with their multiple microphones can record and extrapolate from that data all sorts of things, even sexual activity by the cars occupants. Although the manufacturers will not say how they can get that information, it is clear that drivers and passengers freely talk without check on their discourse. Obviously, no-one should be picking up their adulterous squeeze in their car. 'Let's take a bus, sweetheart.'

I am more than a little shocked that it is not only the child's teddy-bear that connects to the internet that is out to capture early information on individuals; infants, I mean. Anyone is susceptible to spying now. The kids in the car; your mum and dad you picked up from the airport; your personal assistant; the neighbour who can't get to the shops. Any creative writer or film-maker would be delighted to be able to collect information on millions of people and assemble profiles for characters, and the plots would write themselves; just transcribe what actually happens. 

I cannot fathom why people accept this as a norm. The long-standing claim that they have done nothing wrong so they have nothing to fear just doesn't carry the same weight today. I ask who will be the next prime-minister or president and who will determine where we shop and when?

       'Well, look. We know you only use your car for shopping on Fridays so you must sell it and join a car-share group. Global climate change, you know.'

       'We know you are having an affair. You must immediately move out of this county, province or state, and your partner will get full custody of the kids.'

I don't have the mental capacity to imagine what other drives any new Government may make in fifty or seventy years time that will affect my children and grandchildren.

       'Okay kids, we are going to get in the car, so you must not say a single word and you must carry this heavy weight on your lap so you seem bigger on the seat. Oh, and by the way, duck down or wear this mask in the car, because the cameras can use the images of you growing up to form an image of how you will look when you are an adult, so you will never be able to hide when everything goes wrong for the world.

Have electric car drivers not thought things through? Has anybody? I mean a lot of people use SmartPhones that can record conversations even when they are not in use.

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Woman up

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Friday 9 October 2026 at 09:30

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Opinion

Woman up

[ 1 minute read ]

Sometimes I despair.I am waiting for students to pluck up the courage to make themselves known They seem to have an imagined scenario in which the persons who have access to the same group forum are all ravenous beasts ready to tear at their soft bellies. Just say hello and retreat if you wish but at least stop waiting for someone with a spoon to feed you, No-one is going to do that. It is part of being an adult. We all have to woman-up or something. That sounds to me like weaponising ourselves with the assistance of a woman. I mean we could arm-up with guns or feed-up someone; but 'womaning-up', is a strange thing indeed.

Surely, it beats the cry of the defeated after a primary school playground fight.

       'I'm gonna tell my dad!' 

       'Go on then. I am going to get a woman!'

       'Never mind then. I'm going home. You can keep my ball.'

No, we no longer want to 'man-up'. Used to upgrades and downloads in the modern world, we should be seeking a woman as an upgrade, no?

Unfortunately, there are other ways of hearing 'Woman up'. One of them might be in a restaurant kitchen. 'Woman up. Table four.'

None of these are good. They all smack of servitude. What a pickle! Woman should not even be considered to be a commodity that can be strapped to your waist and used in a duel one misty dawn in a country park. Neither should they be served on a platter to a customer. 

You simply can't 'woman-up'.

Of course, this is all vernacular and it is preferable to be more circumspect in our use of language. 'Come forward' and 'Step up to the mark' while still idiosyncrasies, have no gender connatations. 

So, adult-up everyone!

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At Last

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 6 October 2026 at 17:18

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Opinion

At Last

[ 4 and a half minutes read ]

I played the remastered track ‘At Last’ by Etta James on YouTube last night. ‘At Last’ is also the name of her album of 1960. The YouTube ‘track / song’ has had over sixty-five million views.

There was a comment, ‘I played this song in the Sims 4 when my sim and her boyfriend danced together’. She gave her tag as ‘SayounaraXXXX’, with some numbers at the end instead of x’s, but on a platform that invites discussion on the subject material, the video.

I was quite touched by this. I couldn’t help but see a young woman sighing as she played with the little dolls. I suppose there is some hope of a similar romantic dance in her own real future. Yet, it is not her hope that sparked my empathy; it was her softness. In her moment of romantic love, albeit vicariously through her Sim, she was supremely beautiful.

I have always thought that cuddling up with a loved one is soppy. Certainly, I am emotionally derailed by seeing ‘Public Displays of Affection’ - PDAs. I suppose you have to be in it to feel it. Being someone with a background of parental violence when I was small, I never got used to, or embarrassed as a teenager, by my parents kissing, cuddling, holding hands, gazing at one another, or acting in any intimate or loving way. When I say ‘soppy’ I mean, ridiculous, or something that may invoke someone to motion sticking their own fingers down their throat. I wish I was different. However, as a teenager and young adult, it was common at parties to see people snogging, but they weren’t in love.

I think there is an openness to be vulnerable that is required to be intimate with someone else. One’s guard needs to be dropped to allow trust to take over as overseer.

‘I am in Your hands now. Don’t let me fall!’ Like two people standing on tiptoes on the highest peak, while holding onto each other for balance, so they can experience the finest and richest panorama imaginable.

It is this openness that fascinates me. Much as someone is ‘bewitched’ by someone else, and would say that they are in love, where others might say, ‘smitten’ or ‘besotted’, I wonder if they would be so, if the person of their desire was not open to being vulnerable, such as I suspect the person who posted on the Etta James, ‘At Last’ video clearly was, in her home.

I think I have a parallel thought to the recognition of vulnerability, that is invoked when I go, ‘Ahhhh!’ It is almost like pity and fear mashed together. I want to watch out for danger that could leap out and surprise the vulnerable person(s). You know, the six year old kid on the huge ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ stage, watched by three thousand judges in real time, and millions of viewers later.

The funny thing is, I repeated a section, multiple times, of a different video in which, I think a young woman had a fall. I actually cannot remember what happened to her; that was not the interesting thing to me, and I certainly get no ‘Schadenfruede’ (harm-joy) from seeing people get hurt. I got pleasure from hearing a chorus of mixed voices chime, ‘Ooooooh!’ Empathy.

The comment on the ‘At Last’ YouTube video came from someone empathising with herself through the use of her avatar. That is amazing and fascinating. Fascinating, in the real sense of fascination. I am like a deer in the headlights staring at a phenomena of the most profound wonder.

When I was still very young, I overheard my brother saying, ‘Mum, he's doing it again.’ My mum started calling my name which came to me louder and louder, ‘martin, Martin, Martin, Martin, Martin'. I was irritated by it. I had been ‘fascinated’ by a bright light and complete and utter peace, and then rudely brought back to the real world. I am still deeply, but mildly, annoyed now. I once, apparently more than once, knew complete, unadulterated fascination.

The recognition that SayounaraXXXX is using a doll as an avatar for herself, perhaps without realising it, has widened a vivid path of thinking for me. I should very much like to be present when SayounaraXXXX meets ‘The One’ and is warmed and excited by her fantasy of reciprocated love from someone special, made real.

The combination of the orchestra-backed song ‘At Last’, with [Etta] ‘James singing with the cathartic intensity you’d expect from someone who endured a troubled upbringing.’ (Scanlon, 2024), and SayounaraXXXX’s wishes for a romantic marriage, that are steeped in vulnerability, just completely overwhelms me. I don’t think I have ever been successfully seduced by anyone or anything, until now.

Scanlon, Kelly, (2024) faroutmagazine, “Soul Reinvented: the stirring story of Etta James’ ‘At Last”, https://faroutmagazine.co.uk/stirring-story-of-etta-james-at-last/, 2024

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I liked being boorish

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 6 October 2026 at 06:47

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I liked being boorish

[ 2 minute read ]

Opinion

Good Crikeyness! I am living an existence of playing catch-up by my own hand. It seems I strode forward waving a banner of competence and now I follow myself along, the only other person in the parade, and find I am inadequate to support my banner-carrying self by not being able to answer questions properly. 'Er, I dunno.' seems to be my 'go to' response.

I really need some vitamins and minerals again. Words have melted into the dark recesses of my memory. They are hiding from me, afraid to come out because I have whipped them into presenting themselves as something they are not. I am operating an 'It will do' policy. That  is an abhorrence to me. I have lost confidence that I am using the right words and it is stymieing my free style. Watching and testing every word is tiresome and draining for me. 

I think I may have figured out why reflection after an event is just so important. Did I do what I wanted and where are my mistakes? Yuk! If that doesn't erode my boorishness nothing will. I like being an arrogant idiot. I grew into it very easily. Lately though, I have people around me to cause me to check myself, as in pause and stop and halt. My 'C'mon, the water is fine!' has turned into 'Can anyone identify that species of predatory fish?' Oh me, oh my! It is like returning to exercise after eating myself out of house and home for a decade. Self-doubt is not a much practiced attitude for me, even if it is the template to which I wake to each morning. I push it aside and tell myself that I am negating my natural ability to use my own resources and get out of bed. But now, it is like putting on spectacles and seeing how dirty my home truly is.

I shall be buying vitamins and minerals supplements, but, in the meantime, I shall regret being so slovenly and unfocused; taking mental holidays and lounging around over the summer. I am a waster. But I wasn't challenged! Was I? Was I?

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Blithering Idiot

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 5 October 2026 at 12:59

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You Blockhead!

[ 4 minute read ]

Opinion

Yesterday, I was listening to LBC, the national 'phone-in' radio station in the UK. One of the presenters posed a question that had me reaching for my phone, at least mentally. Knee-jerk reactions I am good at; too good. A more measured approach is to wait a while and listen to what people have to say before wading in and knocking their opinions aside like so many skittles in front of a heavy building site excavator. Oh yes, on the subject of why are more people in the service industry getting more abuse from customers I have an opinion; one that has not changed in years. I switched the radio off because I felt I would be irritated by the callers. Perhaps I should have left the radio on, locked all my doors and shut my windows and opened a bottle of cough mixture to dull my ire. Maybe I would have learnt something. But, I am fed up with people bleating that they are victims when they have done nothing to prepare themselves for real life.
'Why are more people in the service industry getting more abuse these days?' or something like that. I almost never state my position on topical issues or current affairs. But this one really gets my goat. It is not the question or the target that is important to me, it is the hegemony behind the question. There seems to be a position that the customer is wrong to be enraged by the actions of train staff and doctor's surgery reception staff and so on. While I don't condone letting any of our emotions fly free in public and I am a firm believer, in that vein that there should be no Public Displays of Affection, I cannot help but have a ready response to the statement 'Abuse of our staff will not be tolerated.' My answer to that is, 'Then employ people who are good at their jobs!' It is not enough to just be able to speak and write the appropriate language if you deal with the public; it never was. Yet that is all I seem to get from people behind desks with public-facing roles. I do not notice any Customer Service training at all. Surely, staff dealing with the public should be trained to diffuse tension. If they cannot do it they should be relieved of their job, moved to another department and their CV closely scrutinised for fraud.
Surely, a good government should make good customer service a Health and Safety issue. There should absolutely be people wandering around calming people down. Instead, political parties back-stab each other at their conferences and foment an attitude of 'It is okay to attack anyone who does not belong in our group or disagrees with us.' I should like to bar any person from office who promotes such behaviour, except I cannot. Instead i have to expect to find the public emulating public figures who are demonstrating themselves to be less than civil.
Why are more staff getting abuse? It is two-fold: Because the public have no moral compass from which to steer and because staff have personal phones that they not only interrogate first thing in the morning but also throughout the day. Staff can get bad news during the day that will affect their disposition for hours afterwards. An example is this: If someone is dumped by their partner but the affected person must be at work, we cannot expect that person to compartmentalise such an issue and be professional at work. Why not? Because they are not trained to do so. Perhaps cabin crew in airliners might be and military figures but anyone else, no chance.
I have long stated that I find most of the world's ills come from internet access and social interaction through mobile phones. Ignorance is bliss may be a old aphorism, if it actually is an aphorism, but it is definitely more relevant today than when I first heard it. 
Text message: I have left you. Text message: You have failed your exams. Text message: Grandma is dead. Text message: You have won ten thousand pounds. 
In my eyes, the overriding issue is this: we are living multiple lives with multiple influences simultaneously. My politican derides other people and shows contempt and my phone tells me I am a bad person or not deserving of good attention while the person in front of me has a whole bunch of issues that they have not been trained to deal with but they are inadequately dealing with me. Go figure. Properly and thoroughly train people to deal with their lives BEFORE they are given jobs or take their phones and society-wide connection away.
Oh, and stop being mean to each other you blithering idiot politicians. Immunity in the House of Commons should be abolished. Yet, let us look at how politicians get to where they are. People actually vote for back-stabbers as though these candidates are normal. Where did the BBC go? Once a stalwart of respectability it is now a reflection of the people, who in a vicious circle reflect it. Who thought that was a good idea? I might say it all started with 'EastEnders'. As a docu-drama, cool. As a soap with characters that the public identify with and so find relevance and validity in their own lives? definitely not a good idea to air it.
Would you prefer to not know the truth, Martin? No. Politicians are not good people or at least act as though they are five years old or drunk and television dramas and perhaps more pertinently, EastEnders, are from scripts written by people with good imaginations making money; the more salacious the better! No, I definitely want the truth.
Get under the stairs with a torch and a sandwich and stay there until the world has recovered some decorum.
 
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Battle

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 6 October 2026 at 10:21

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Battle

[ 2 minute read ]

Opinion

I think we are coming up to my favourite day, a day that England does not celebrate; 'Battle of Hastings Day'. On the 14th October 1066 Harold Godwinson, King Harold to you and me, but Harold II to England, fought William, Duke of Normandy. Nine hundred and sixty years ago those two had a fight to see who would be King of England. Fortunately, William won. What? Fortunately? Yeah, Harold wasn't a very nice man and nor were his family. I think they were like the bankers in London during the 1980s and 2007 - 8. 

The Battle of Hastings is the last time that England was successfully invaded by a conquering army and it is because of these Normans that we have lovely castles to visit and French words in our language. Never mind the dispossessed and the beaten, the down-trodden and the enslaved. Never mind feudalism and serfdom, we have nice castles to look at. There are even some in Wales! Hurray for the early idea of future tourism. But, by Goodness, it took a while and a lot of deaths to get to our favoured position. Of course, the modern population won't agree with me on this subject, after all we left the EU. All that hard work the Norman kings and taxes did to get us to be a central power in the modern world and we throw it all away with a vote. Shame! At least we could have had another bloody battle; a civil war or something on the subject, to honour the fallen on the 14th October 1066. 

I am jesting. Time moves on and being attacked by Normans is still an open wound in the English to this day. Even the French remember it and have tried to eradicate English words from their language. So I say, let us not say 'ventilation' let us say 'windilation' instead. 

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Look over There

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 4 October 2026 at 19:05

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You sluggard!

[ 3 minute read ]

Opinion

I have a laissez-faire approach to life; except I don't, because I do not have a 'minimally restricted freedom in commerce' and my unwillingness to get involved in other people's activities is actually disinterest. How about if I was to say that I suspect badgers and Muntjac Deer are eating the last of my ripening tomatoes, and that I take a position of, 'Oh, let them. They are probably hungrier than me,' I might be able to pretend that I am somehow generous and hide how lazy I truly am.

       'Well, it's a big job.' I stood beside myself with hands on my hips. We, both me and I, knew that the whole area around my garden would need to be cleared and a good fence put in.

       'Yup, 'spensive too!' I nodded. For a few years now I have been considering the costs and benefits of spending a lot of money. Not money on a fence or a car or a new washing machine, just spending a lot of money. I looked at myself still nodding beside me; lazy and cheap then, I thought. My nodding, I noticed, was more like a horse tossing its head than an agreement; stupid too, I concluded.

Work Smarter, not harder. I suppose I could come up with some plan to make the renovation of my garden into a neighbourhood project; something like providing work experience for young people and offering a view into working with others through holding some kind of responsibility. You are in charge of the east side, you the north, and so on. I suppose I could even promote someone to project manager or garden planner or something. Of course, their parents would necessarily pay for the fence. Hmmm, hundreds of pounds. I might have to play two hands in this game. Poverty and training opportunities as a community-minded enterprise, perhaps.

I suppose it is a pride thing that might let me beg for a fence to stop wild animals eating my tomatoes. If I think about it practically it is a hard sell; buy me a fence because I have a hobby which I am too foolish to be able to find a fresh approach to. I mean, raised beds would save the fruits. After all, Muntjac deer are not very tall and European badgers are not known for their climbing abilities or aspirations. And, I suppose a smaller inner fence around the tomato plants might work. 

I can't help liking the idea of successfully bringing a gardening project to the fore though. It has opportunity sprouting out of it in different ways. It could mean that my village gets a free work-force and all that villagers need to do is stump up the money for the materials for their own properties. It could mean I get a house-point in my village. 'Here he comes, good old Martin!' Yet, I think that might be a dead-duck. It would more likely be, 'Here he comes, weirdo Martin begging again with some new-fangled idea rattling in his empty head!' 

       'Change! Change! Spare some change for a new drive at number 43.' Considering that, I can't help thinking about hungry people and I would like it to be, 'Spare some change for a community fridge, Guv'nor?' I seem to have gotten somewhat lost it seems. The right approach is to have a market garden perhaps. 'Mend my garden fence and share in eating the tomatoes!'

There is another scenario. I have to wedge a small piece of timber between two fences that border my path to my back garden, to hold the sagging apart. If you don't know it is there you will bump your head on it and dislodge it. Twice last month, in a period of three days, I noticed it had fallen and there were no ripe tomatoes ready to be picked. With this in mind, I readily grabbed the book, 'The Mammoth Book of Special Forces Training' by Jon E. Lewis, with a particular interest in booby traps, from the nearby telephone library. 'I am gonna catch me a man!' I doubt it. Digging pits and growing springy trees is more than I care to do, although, there is a modicum of sadistic pleasure in poking a man hanging upside down by his ankles. 'Got you now, you greedy pig! What do you have to say for yourself now, other than oink oink, huh?' 

No, procrastination wins the day. I knew I had a tough fight when my competition was late for the game. What a monster! 

       'We have a good fight ahead tonight folks. Sniveling in the blue corner, Martin Cadwell; and in the red...Procrastination. With Laziness as Procratination's second there is not much Martin will be able to do in this fight. We wonder why he bothers.

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Verbal football

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 4 October 2026 at 08:54

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Verbal Football

[ 1 minute read ]

Opinion

I might offer a piece of writing to be used as a verbal football. I could offer the bare bones of a scene and allow other people to add elements to it as they see fit. 'Hey, you, Yes you. May I take a moment of your time? I wonder, would you like to describe the characters in this scene? Ah, I see, yes. Perhaps your friend would like to contribute some speech. You would. What's that? I see. Somewhat fruity, wouldn't you say? Lascivious! Yes, perhaps the scene doesn't call for lusty interaction. Never mind. Thanks, anyway.'

A lot of people are really shy about writing something and showing it to the public. It takes practice to get good at making a fool of yourself and not caring, or is it noticing? After a while, I think we improve yet I know we must be patient and not expect to be able to just trot out a thousand words of wonder.

Hmmm. What to do. I want to help people to come out of their shell but they are not tortoises tempted by lettuce, and if you poke a snail in the eye, it doesn't come out for ages. Tricky!

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Atavistic Pleasure

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Saturday 3 October 2026 at 08:38

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I put a spell on you

[ 2 minute read ]

Opinion

WARNING - SUPERSTITION and DROWNING

Things are difficult now. I recently discovered that there are people who will harvest from the work of others to feather their own nests. Scavengers, like magpies, they look into corners to see what they can take. Something shiny? Perhaps with a little polishing they can make something of it. Their goal is to borrow, at least that is what they say, and by way of giving it back they say they will say where they found it. It is how they allow themselves to steal through telling themselves they are honest that sticks in my craw. 

But not only that. Gatherers have stripped the honest worker of reward. Hard-working and pioneering folk, these people have toiled for hours, and through trial and error and much time spent, have produced something useful or beautiful. Proud, they may exhibit it for the public to see. Then, along comes a thief who packs a mould around it and whisks the shape, the tale, or the design away and reproduces it. The thanks is a note on every cast piece that states where the thing was first seen or found. My father said to me 'I have a pocket-full of Thank Yous and I can't spend them.' Something that was rare is made cheap by these pilferers who work in the shade. I point a poison finger at them and spit in their direction to avert their evil. I long that they always spill their salt and that dogs forever howl near them. These dark shades are drains on our souls and they must be lit.

WARNING -DROWNING

I had to be taught not to leave valuables lying around because they can be taken; my brother, a dark shade, stole from me, and profited from my hard-won successes. A piggy-backer, he leapt on my back and weighed me down. He reached forward and and grabbed every fruit and every opportunity before I could focus. Greedy and selfish, he gnawed at everything in case it had any flavour. Stopped from drowning me when I was four, years later, he thrashed and pleaded as he himself gulped for air but there was no-one there. 

WARNING OVER

It is not difficult to slide into a dark way of thinking and so much easier if you have superstition to act as hand-holds or signposts along the way. I am fairly well inclined towards the kind of thinking that allows magic and superstition and curses and manifestations to billow out of the ether. I suppose many of us can feel the softness of letting go a bit and leaving the hardness of the modern world, and I have to say, I was beginning to enjoy myself a bit too much for a while back there in the earlier paragraphs; way too much atavistic pleasure; way too much.

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You are right, it is my fault

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Friday 2 October 2026 at 14:18

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Cadwell NOT Caldwell

You are right, it is my fault

[ 4 minute read ]

Opinion 

Isn't it strange how people cross the floor, or how we change our minds and find new support networks?

A long time ago, my friend was visiting me and my wife (I think we ought write it 'wife and I' but he was visiting me as the primary person). My wife and I were having a conversation on how I present myself.

'It is not what you say,' she stated, 'It is the way you say it.'

I thought, 'Well, if you know that then what is the problem? You know I am weird, so what?' Intransigent as I am, when it comes to protecting myself.

My friend stepped sideways and stood with his shoulder almost touching my wife's. 'She right, Martin.' Something clicked in my head. The sum of what had just taken place overwhelmed me. It was not the words; it was being the outsider to my marriage. The close proximity of my wife and my friend as a united force in verbal agreement finished my marriage, right there and then. Yes, I know. It couldn't have been much of a marriage, and how weak you are, Martin! Nonetheless, that is what happened. My fragility could not stand being an outsider to my new marriage. I suppose adultery outside of a mature marriage might have a similar effect, except there is at least something tangible, if discovery or confession, as a notion or realisation, can ever be weighed in our hands and is considered to supersede the need for a continuance of a long-standing reliance on another person.

I suppose it is realisation of one of our faults, that, by way of a back door takes us by surprise and causes us to react strongly.

'The game's up, Martin.' This came from the door behind me while I faced my accuser by the window. 

'You will never take me alive!' I shouted, desperately seeking an escape route. The window! Oh well, there will just have to be collateral damage. Not that I thought that; when you get ambushed from behind by your own self, you don't think about saving others.

My brother's partner was not known for being particularly good at academic stuff; she could read and write, but she wasn't going to write a novel. Benign, mundane and banal, I rudely and dismissively thought. One day, she stated that she was surprised to find sweetcorn in a tin.

'Why is sweetcorn in a tin? It isn't a vegetable.'

'...course it is' I replied.

'No, it's a grain.'

The bottom fell out of my world. Of course sweetcorn is a grain. I hadn't really bothered to notice it before. I had always eaten it as a vegetable, fresh from our garden, boiled and smothered with butter. It always used to burn my fingers when I held the ends. I had eaten sweetcorn from a tin. No amount of butter cheers it up. The trip for me was that two suppositions collided and I was left foolish. I had come to regard my brother's partner as a bit dim and not particularly interesting, and I had always assumed that sweetcorn is a vegetable; my father used to grow it in our garden, and wheat used to grow in a field opposite our home, and I knew that my 'Ready Brek' was oats. Being told by someone, whom I regarded as unworthy to teach me or show me anything of consequence, that my belief was wrong, just flipped the world, while of course, I stood firmly still. No, I changed after that wake-up call. I realised just how wrong I can be and that if I saw myself walking down the street I would cross the road to avoid meeting myself. That was the third, and so far the last revelation to me, that I can put my finger on. 

The first time I was given to make a significant change in the way I thought was when I received a letter from a girl in Germany, whom I had been a bit more than friendly with when I was seventeen and working in Germany. Back home in England, I had written to her a few times and had not received a reply. I wrote protesting that I had been generous and spent money on her and treated her and asked why she had never replied to any of my letters. I was eighteen and stupid to hold that as a good reason for favour. She spoke really good English and I was surprised to one day open a letter that was written in German; the only one she ever sent to me. She wrote that she had written countless letters and then torn them up, and then in frustration decided to write in German because she could better explain. The essential part was a response to my claim that I was due a letter because I had showered her with gifts and money. Her sentence, paraphrased, said, 'Never add up what you have done for someone, in case that person can show that they have done more for you'. In fact, that is near perfectly what she wrote. Reading that was a moment I shall never forget, and it seems that Petra changed the way I went on to think. I honestly don't recall ever keeping score or claiming points in anything other than a board-game or a sports game, and even then never remembered it. I haven't kept score or added up, not in any argument or at Christmas when it came to giving presents. 'I did more,' simply never arises.

My opening sentence was a question. 'Isn't it strange how people cross the floor, or how we change our minds and find new support networks?' It is not so funny if we can find something in ourselves to be able to judge ourselves and find ourselves guilty and still move on with that. It is foolish to cling to a sinking life-raft just because that is where we placed our trust or belief. 

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Why Won't You Talk?

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Friday 2 October 2026 at 14:17

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Those bovine people

[ 2 minute read ]

Opinion 

I noticed a woman carrying a Coop shopping bag today in my village. She was leaning quite significantly to the opposing side so I concluded that she might appreciate some help, and she was delighted to hand her bag over to me. I put it on top of my own purchases from the Coop and off we set. Do you know what? she barely spoke. I had to carry the conversation right from the off. I mean her opening question was. 'Where were you off to?' and my answer, 'Home.' Subject done and dusted. There is nothing left to say. It is a non-starter. 

I spoke about studying, squirrels, sports, aircraft, even the weather; and nothing. It was like talking to a marionette. Why are so many people so reluctant to find something interesting and evocative in what they hear and verbally respond. I found the whole journey with her so awkward. Has nothing I have mentioned not triggered anything in your mind? Nothing?

When we got ot her house I read the bootstrap on her T-shirt, something to do with a medical service and managed to get her to say she wasn't a physiotherapist, she had just had some 'physio. That was it! The total amount of information she gave out but she let me know where she lives! What can she be fearing? How private does she think she needs to be? One must not talk about oneself? That went out with the dinosaurs. It is all that people do these days. 

I despair. I can never find an open person who I can just listen to. I can never find a confident person, an interesting person who will just talk and interact and respond to other people talking. Is it me? Do I really have to respond to an opening such as, 'Where were you off to then?'? I mean what purpose is there behind knowing where I was going? She wasn't coming and plainly I was no longer going there!

I suppose I should allow people to mutter meaningless crud at me and 'moo' back at them or 'baa' or something. 

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Our First Kiss

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 1 October 2026 at 08:42

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Our first Kiss

[ 1 minute read ]

Opinion 

It is strange to me to find that I don't know the word or expression that encompasses the feeling of first experiencing something. There are many people out there who know precisely the word, and many more who know the feeling. 

Our first kiss or the roller-coaster ride; which came first? So sweet if those firsts happened at the exact same time. The bump of the wheels slamming left and right on the rails, the swoop of our tummies when we pass over the humps; the savoury-sweet bumps of our shoulders meeting and the thrill when we look at each other. If I have to bump shoulders with anyone I want it to be yours. Why does my shoulder keep moving away from yours? Bump go our foreheads and our faces slam together as our hands hold each others head. It isn't only our first kiss; it is the first firm agreement, and the first idea that we can do this again. It is the excitement of the roller-coaster; the emotional awkwardness of the moment before the kiss is given over to the increased difficulty to hold our bodies still. Breathless, it is a fools errand; the g-forces win but our anxiety is calmed. The shoulder clashes are warmer and softer and the bumps of the rails less brittle. The cacophony of discordant music from multiple sources is our first song and you will always smell of candy floss to me.

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A Book of Imagination and Order

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 30 September 2026 at 15:32

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A Book of Imagination and Order

[ 4 minute read ]

Opinion 

Spissitude (solidity, inspissation, constipation, concretion) - Roget's Thesaurus, 1962. Longman

Originally 40/- or £2, but, to me in 2022, free outside a villager's home. It has £3 penciled onto the inner fly leaf above a National Trust stamp, yet, this book has been invaluable to me for inspiration when I needed a new path of creativity; when I cannot quite remember a word I have only heard once, many years ago, but never used, and when I have merely been mildly curious. It has bookmarks poking out of it, some might say like arrows from a fallen person in a Cowboy and Indian film from the 1950s with whooping Red Indians, their legs tightly gripping stuttering horses, circling the pages; others may say, marking passages in time, similar to a clock-face with many hands frozen in place, like a watch recovered from the chilled depths that shows exactly when the Titanic sank. 

It is both of them; it has the excitement of black and white Westerns that leap into colour when I look at its pages and read words I have never read before, and it has a bound and circumscribed quality of order and structure, wherein not only words are held in place by their definitions, but where also my searches are pinpointed; my imagination, my intent, and my focus. Yet, it is even more than that. It has a past. A number of owners have cherished its presence and its validity. 

Perhaps it was sold, perhaps in the summer of 1962 immediately before the winter of 1962 or 1963 when Britain froze, in what must have seemed like a mini-ice-age, with snow falling to lie higher than cars, and bungalows in Cornwall and Devon were buried. The owner may have frowned at the short skirts and loud music that was the effervescence of youth resulting from the strong rebellious influence of The Beatles on music and social attitudes alike; marveled at the technology of the 1980s that allowed a writer or lecturer to save and recover and cut and paste and eventually digitally send. Perhaps it changed hands, after it had lain unused on a shelf that seemed to grow dustier and dustier every week in a room that no longer smelt of fresh flowers in summer and wood polish, pipe-tobacco and perfume throughout the rest of the year; when the curtains and windows were shut and only the wood-fire, sometimes spitting and crackling interrupted a large ticking clock that kept time to the click of keys being struck on a computer keyboard. Perhaps, the cheerful voices of the first owner's grand-children had softened when they entered the home, and the hush marked a nostalgic joy as they gently packed the contents of the room. Perhaps, the Cowboys and Indians and the Titanic imagination was lifted from the shelf and with little understanding of what was inside, because the bookmarks meant only where words are, donated it to Wimpole Hall where it was sold for £3, in the late 1980s or early 1990s, to a casual buyer; a buyer who knew its value and regarded themself as a good recipient for its hidden splendour; who had an expectation of wonderment that all the Disney cartoons and dusty tomes of law would not match; a person who knew that they held a match to light the kindling of their imagination or drive.

Years later, It was probably left on the little table in someone's drive in my village because though useful, the life of the person who had visited the National Trust property of Wimpole Hall and bought it had wound to a close, and the wrinkled eyes that had once strained to see had finally closed.It may  not have been picked up by the dog-walkers who have the internet on their phones and it may have waited for years before someone who eschews the linear path of understanding that is a modern approach, picked it up.

This book has value. Modern approaches to words held captive in books with no story, are different to when the book was first excitedly bought with perhaps a last few shillings that meant not joining fellow students at Cambridge for cakes in grey duffel coats and six feet long Saxony wool scarves for a week or two. Yet, this book has been respected for sixty-six years by its owners, and that respect carried on and imbued into the last handler before it came to me. Perhaps, because the person knew how important it was for their parent, and how respected it was, but perhaps knew not of its value, then it must be important enough to be saved and passed on to someone who can unravel the secret of not just words but also meaning and complexity and exuberance and structure and excitement and order.

This Roget's Thesaurus shall never see the inside of a plastic bin. This book will be respected by one more owner after me; a rare person, one who is warmed by discovery and who stands on a bridge and watches a flood wash fallen trees and rocks and pieces of wooden structures pass underneath. That person is the one who sees a story in every passing object; a past, a present, and a future in everything. If I cannot find that person the book will go by fire. Its heat and light will meet with the flames of consumption; a fitting end to something that gave so much to perhaps only two people.

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Reminder for World Mental Health Day

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 28 September 2026 at 18:31

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Reminder: World Mental Health Day is on the 10th October

[ 4 minute read ]

Opinion  Mental Health

All I have left are my own monsters to deal with so I have to be honest to be able to recognise them.

       'Ha Haa! Have at ye, you varlets! I shall strike you asunder. Your lies that bind me are my own concoction from the ingredients you offered me. You are discovered and measured. I have  control over the eating of the cake you gave me the recipe for, and it shall not touch my lips.'

I sometimes consider mental ill-health to be a hostage-taker and I am the hostage, in that I also have to recognise that I have Stockholm Syndrome; I have a part of me that embraces the effect that PTSD from childhood has on me. It makes me different; it makes me find new routes for dealing with problems; it makes me more comfortable with social-isolation than most other people - I can concentrate in silence; the most wonderful aspect of my early PTSD is: it forces me to question everything.

However, the most wonderful aspects of life often give us the sharpest focus on the converse, the obverse, and the reciprocal. For me, that honed focus from a distant position, often called hyper-vigilance, also means I trust nothing and nobody. That wonderful aspect is, for me, a razor-sharp double-edged sword. Just like most of us, when I buy a new, expensive kitchen knife I often cut myself, so I keep the blunter one. I only use the superior cutting tool when it is necessary.

In terms of mental ill-health, using the blunter kitchen knife might be considered to be partial numbness, when trying to cut a loaf of bread with a spoon is numb. That means that the new super-sharp kitchen knife is carefully washed, dried and stored in a cupboard; never in a drawer or in a chefs knife-block on the work-top where it can be clumsily, and without adequate thought, be reached for when it is the nearest one and time is flying. Knowing it is there rather than using it usually keeps me out of trouble.

To continue the kitchen and cooking metaphor: Let's just say I can cook a delicious meal from meagre ingredients. I am interesting until I tell my guests I sourced, prepared, cooked, and served them their own coccyx; when 'coccyx' means 'emotions'. We all know how much any impacts on our coccyx hurts, males and females alike.

       'How dare you?' I hear from them, and I think, 'How dare you not have more control?'

The World Health Organisation (WHO) says, I believe, that 1 in 4 people suffer from mental ill-health and I counter with, 'No, it is 4 people in 4, because your figures are for a single moment on a single day, and my figures are for a week, month, a year, and throughout our lifetimes'. 

When we dream, as we sleep, we enter a form of psychosis; there are no real aliens or bears or beautiful flowers. Dreaming is essential, I hear, for making sense of our world because we are sorting and filing aspects of our days; we need to do that.

I am not trying to normalise mental ill-health. But, I believe, neither should any person or other entity normalise mental good-health.

Finally, on International Womens Day I cheekily offered up a question to a woman I know, under the auspices of jokingly suggesting hypocrisy. In other words, I carelessly used a knife with a fine edge.

       'Why do women get a day every year to highlight themselves?' I sneakily asked with a smile.

       'Because men get the other 364!' She speedily replied, half-smiling into my eyes.

She is naturally sharp. Touché!

.

Samaritans offer free and non-judgemental talk 

'If you need someone to talk to, we listen. We won't judge or tell you what to do.'

'Call us any time, day or night'

'Whatever you're going through, you can call us any time, from any phone for FREE.'

Call 116 123 (one one six one two three)

https://www.samaritans.org

Their web page advises that there is a 10 minute delay to chat with them online, but you can if you can wait.

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Peekaboo

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 28 September 2026 at 17:00

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They can see children hiding behind their hands

[ 9 minute read ]

Opinion based on Fact

While the best place to get information for what The Open University expects from its students; and I believe the primary source is on their information pages, I have provided my take on how I can make the changes in their policy work best for me.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION

Final versions of TMAs for some modules must now be submitted and no resubmission is possible. Drafts are uploaded and saved and cannot be submitted because that would make them final versions and they would be the only version that can be offered for marking. If the student does not submit a final version by the assignment deadline, the last draft uploaded or saved is automatically submitted for marking after the deadline day.

There was a message posted on a forum the day after I received an email from The Open University that read the same for all students doing level 2 modules (and above I presume).

18 Sept 2026 09:28 POST 1. '... concerned about the students uploading drafts and then submitting a final version. ....How many times will [students] accidentally [upload and save] a [draft] that is not the final version as a result.'

The words in square parenthesis I changed or added, to clarify the intent behind the post.

I am in my third year and doing two modules this year. All my assignments were submitted as drafts. I am conscious that a catastrophe could beset anyone and everyone, as a Black Swan event, so I resubmitted two or three times for every improved TMA. The final ones I resubmitted were only different because they had group forum comments on them. I believe it is only the autumn intake this year (2026) who are the first students to be affected by The Open University's changes to their TMA and EMA submission policy; and the new policies or the changes are a pilot for an intention to make the new or changed policies apply for many years to come.

Until now, as long as we could resubmit TMAs, we could work at our own pace and work on TMAs in any order. We could just bung a half decent one in and work on the module elsewhere because we are party to new information (radio and stage shows and plays; Television broadcasts ; etc.)

Effectively, because there is a long Christmas break, I would have been able to submit our TMA 01's on time (likely October or November) and use the long Christmas break to submit drafts for TMA 02 and TMA 03 for our modules with an intention to update them with mandatory forum posts; so I would then be able to concentrate solely on another module for a while; you know, become one with it. (There are twelve set books to read for A240 English Literature). 

Remember: Submit now means it is the final version that the student intends to be marked. It also means the version cannot be downloaded for future checking if we desire to because we have come into information pertinent to any improvement we might make.

Some people like to be a week ahead; I like to be six or seven weeks ahead; black swan events are grey swan events for me these days. Now, we can now only  download our draft TMAs because they were uploaded or saved, so a personal computer crash will not deny students access to their worked drafts. However, I believe there is a distinction that should be made between uploading and saving. I believe that uploading takes the TMA or EMA draft version to TurnItIn which sends a report on it to the student, who, if the report is favourable, then saves the draft version. I also believe that submitting a draft version means it cannot be downloaded and it also did not go to TurnItIn, because all checks and changes should have already been made, and submitting is reserved solely for final versions.

Someone replied to the first post (POST 1) - the one partly reproduced above

Post 19

27 Sept 2026 09:27

 

'As I understand it, we don't have to submit drafts. It's there if we're concerned about not being able to submit a final draft  [version]. At least then there is something that will be submitted  [marked]

I understand that tutors will not be able to access any drafts that have been uploaded or saved UNLESS THERE IS NO VERSION THAT HAS BEEN SUBMITTED in which case the latest version will be considered as the final version and that one shall be marked. This is in order to avoid students missing assignment deadlines.

The student who posted POST 19 (immediately above) then went on to say:

 '...they only send [final versions] and if there was a computer crash it would not matter, because all their drafts are backed up to an eternal drive.'

That works if the computer can be fixed in time to meet an assignment deadline; we all still have electricity; are not in hospital; ill from flu or something; at least have one working arm or know someone who understands what the student is saying and can type...You get my drift.

We cannot resubmit final versions; so we should not submit any version until it includes associated TMA forum comments if they are required; so I advise sending at least one draft by saving. This makes the new Open University TMA and EMA Submission policies hugely restrictive for me, and the best way to get the best draft marked (the last one) is to never submit a final version, since if no final version is submitted, the last draft that was uploaded and saved will be marked as a final version submission anyway.

I found some information (below) and a bit more on an OU site. Incidentally, the time for the deadline has long been 12:00 noon, but we were given twelve hours grace for late submissions on the deadline day. I am not certain, but I think versions that are submitted do not get that twelve hours grace. I may be wrong, but I am working from memory on that, and that piece of information is not important to me, because I shall send a version before the deadline day anyway, so I didn't bother fitting that into how the new policies will impact me. Certainly, if anything is submitted the student can not ask for an extension before or after the deadline time and date.

Interestingly, the Open University site (partially reproduced below) uses the word 'upload' as separate to 'submit'. I have extrapolated from their words 'Upload and revise your work' to mean upload sends the work to a plagiarism checker, such as TurnItIn, and there is no point in saving it for later download if the student intends to submit the same file since it cannot be downloaded and only one version can be submitted. I think I forgot to mention that now because only one version or work can be submitted, any drafts saved anywhere are rendered useless if there latest draft was used to be marked, and it can only be of use to reflect on what went right or wrong. In the past, I have downloaded the submitted marked final version after the deadline, but now we cannot. I advise saving the final version before it is submitted. I believe a student can ask for more time to complete the assignment if the submit something. This means that if the student has an expectation that they will not be able to complete the assignment at any time before the deadline; new expectation of a long hospital stay or expectation of a long physical or mental illness, they should get someone to submit anything, and not let their latest saved draft be automatically submitted to be marked (see the OU web site below). However, within that site there is a contradiction.

From an Open University site:

'Upload and revise your work before submitting for marking

You can upload your work as a draft as many times as you like before the cut-off date until you're ready to submit it for marking.

If you do not submit your work for marking by 23:59 (UK time) on the cut-off date, the latest version you've uploaded will automatically be submitted to ensure you do not miss the deadline. You will not be able to request more time to complete your assignment if your draft has been automatically submitted. 

Submit your assignment for marking

Once you submit your assignment for marking, you cannot submit it again. Before submitting for marking, download and check the uploaded files to make sure they're correct. If you realise something is wrong with your files after submitting, contact your tutor to tell them what's happened and discuss your options.'

https://learn2.open.ac.uk/course/view.php?id=245647&cmid=2741576

Also read: ADDENDUM to TMA and iCMA Policy

https://help.open.ac.uk/documents/policies/tma-icma-policy/files/411/tma-icma-policy-addendum.pdf

The gist I got from another Open University site, is that draft TMAs can be uploaded / saved as a draft, through the Submit button and may automatically go to TurnItIn. Uploading does not save the work; only saving saves and is distinct from uploading.

'How to save your work as a draft

To upload and save your work as a draft, you can either go to the Assessment page of your module website and select the ‘Start submission’ button. Or go to the module record page of StudentHome and select the 'Submit' button for the relevant TMA. This will take you to the new service where you can upload your files, and you'll have the option to save your work as a draft. '

https://help.open.ac.uk/documents/policies/tma-icma-policy

I think the issue that might offend some people, and especially me, is whether drafts get automatically sent to TurnItIn. The changes seem to follow a statement that the OU is concerned with plagiarism and AI assisted work. I say this because I read on an OU site that the tutors will not see the drafts and so the issue of students being continuously tracked is not evident. However, the tutors WILL see the final draft that is uploaded and saved if no final version is submitted; so some kind of automation or even manual manipulation is obvious. That is worrying for me because that means A.I. is likely to automate the process; it is not difficult to write in a couple of lines of code that perform an IF-THEN-IF ELSE-ELSE subroutine. This means that it is highly likely that A.I. will continuously track how students have performed throughout the process of creating any work that is uploaded and submitted. That is useful information for tutors because I often read about student performing poorly and even failing level 1 modules.

What this means, is that by uploading and drafts, A.I. generative software WILL have access to the students' work including their writing style and so that student's style can be known, and even emulated and that makes THAT student obsolete.

I shall either not upload drafts or learn a new style specifically for TurnItIn to emulate. There is another problem, in that, if students do not have their work checked by TurnItIn, the student cannot prove that they have not plagiarised another student who later DOES use TurnItIn with similar work.

Also, because only ONE final version can be submitted, no student can submit more final versions for future TMA marking by working ahead (during the long Christmas break for example) and expect high marks since the Tutor Group Forum comments would be missing from their final versions; if they never upload and save their drafts (which TurnItIN may have access to).

I must conclude that in the drive to eradicate plagiarism and students' use of generative A.I. software, students are now compelled, even forced, to upload drafts and then submit a final version. Progress, performance and style will be measured and if two or more students have the same style of writing or performance then at least one of them is cheating. Expect accusations if you try to interfere with a profile of your studying; working style; and performance being created.

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Many a slip betwixt cup and lip

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 17 September 2026 at 15:04

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or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser. There is a space between my name and the minus sign and NO space before 'caldwell' to eliminate the name 'caldwell' in the Google listings

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Cadwell NOT Caldwell

 

Many a slip betwixt cup and lip

[ 7 minute read ]

How easy it is to inadvertently cancel someone on an open forum, or create a division.

Simply joking that someone who tends to post quite lengthy comments owes the reader some time back for wasting their time is clearly drawing a line. All those who agree that the posts are long-winded stand here with me; all those who think there is enough value in the post to warrant spending time wading through the words stand over there with the person who wrote the post. Clearly though, I have coloured the distinction by including 'wading through the words'. This is intentional framing.

'Many a slip betwixt (between) cup and lip' has never been more poignant than this morning. Someone made a comedic comment on how much more expensive the words in one fiction book are than in another fiction book. The comment included simple maths in the form of the cost of the books divided by the number of words in each book, which gave a monetary value to each word. There was more simple maths in the form of the cost of each book divided by the estimated time it would take to read each book, based on the number of words. A guess was made that the shorter book would cost around £3.66 per hour to read. That post had a conclusion that noted that the reader should read this shorter and more expensive book really slowly to save money (by taking a long time to read the book the cost to the reader for each hour would be reduced). It is, of course, deliberately silly and was, no doubt a reflection of the comedy in one of the fiction books.

A reply was made to that post, which caused me considerable displeasure; not because the reply was divisive, but because of the content of the reply married up to the time it was posted (after 10pm) made me conscious that there could be a misunderstanding that resulted in someone misrepresenting themself. Why would the time be relevant to me? As part of our studies we should all be taking into account all the information that is provided; for Arts and Humanities this might include looking at the frame holding a painting, or comparing one sentence or musical phrase with a preceding sentence or musical phrase, and in Literature, the context in which information is given.

I recently had the misfortune to find myself in a situation in which someone made a comment that ultimately caused me to react quite strongly, ruthlessly and divisively. It also caused me to revise what I was about to say.

Hair Trigger

I had lost my house-keys through a hole in my back pocket; I dress like a beach bum, a drifter. Someone found them and handed them into the local pub. On discovering that the person was still in the pub I left £10 GBP behind the bar thinking it was a single person who could get themselves a drink. It transpired that the person was in a group in the garden so I thought it pertinent to thank them in person and advise them that there is £10 behind the bar, waiting to be spent. I recognised them to be my neighbours, who live on the same road as I do. Here is where it went wrong:

       'Here is something you might find interesting...' I announced.

        'Oh, here we go!' the woman who found the keys and handed them in disparagingly remarked.

She doesn't know me at all and could have no idea on what I was about to say. She also seemed to forget that I had helped to get the property directly next door to them occupied by a social housing tenant after she and her husband had complained to me that the property had been empty and abandoned by the District Council for years and there was now a rat problem.

In response to her rolling eyes, I maliciously switched to accessing the undercurrent of my understanding of what had actually transpired when I lost my keys. This meant that I focused on why she did not simply call me back to let me know I had dropped my keys. It is a long story, but it seems she saw the keys fall through the hole in my outside back pocket of my shorts. 'I didn't hear them fall' to me means they fell close enough to her that she noticed the lack of sound from the impact on the road, so she knew whose keys they belonged to because she saw them fall. As I say, it is a long story and things don't completely add up in the sequence of events.

       'A while ago,' I said to the group, 'Greek men would wear a black arm-band for a year if his donkey died and wear a black arm-band for a month if his wife died.' I left it at that, without giving any explanation or opinion. Thousands of years ago, a Greek farmer would have been unlikely to be able to get a wife without first having a donkey. Let's visit him:

       'I love you; marry me. I have an olive farm and you will only need to toil and carry heavy loads for ten or twenty years before I can get a beast of burden to replace you.'

And it is right there that one significant point is made. He doesn't have a donkey and the donkey used to replace the woman has more value in being able to do the job more efficiently than a woman. But that sentence is divisive because many people might say the woman is valuable to him simply because she is a woman. But then, if she does nothing and is only there to be looked at and loved, he could save money by sending her away and buying a painting. Harsh and cold, isn't it? But what do you do if you are a subsistence farmer, farming only to survive from what you can grow; No prospects to attract a woman. 

       'I would live my life barefoot if I can only live it with you!' Oh, you handsome man!

I think the truth is that without a donkey a Greek man had no hope of attracting a woman to marry him. If the donkey was instead a ladder and the man's goal was to escape from a hole and gain freedom in a wider world; the ladder might warrant a special place in the man's heart. Yet, because all free men have freedom it is often not celebrated as much as it could be. 

If the ancient Greek man's wife dies and he still has a donkey he can still survive. However, if the donkey dies and his wife lives, they are destined, as subsistence farmers, to die of starvation in each other's loving arms. So, essentially, the concept is really about how much the ancient farmer wants to live. A donkey helps him to live and a wife helps him to be happy to live, even if she contributes to help him live, she will not compete with a donkey as a beast of burden or its strength. In the modern world we might find brute force to be less desirable than encouragement. A thousand or two thousand years ago, it may have mattered quite a bit.

That is all supposition and opinion, and had I said it to the group in the pub garden it would have confused the two women in the group as much as it confused the two men in the group, one of which in trying to save me, blurted, 'I like donkeys!'

Oh dear! Perhaps you might have proclaimed, while your wife is present, 'I like women!'

It is so easy to make mistakes. My deliberate comment about how Greek men used to visibly show their mourning for a donkey over a longer period than for a wife does not necessarily mean that they actually did mourn its loss more than they would mourn their wife. If the donkey was a gift or part of a dowry, it may have been considered disrespectful to dismiss its death in any other way, such as a short period of wearing a black armband along with the immediate replacement of the dead donkey, the latter of which obviously took place. However, replacing a recently deceased wife inside a year does show disrespect, not only to her but also to her family. But so does, 'I like donkeys!' show approval for mourning donkeys for a long period of time in the context of the story.

In speech, one can get away with far more than one can get away with in writing. 

       'I like donkeys!'

       'What? You like donkeys more then me, your wife?'

       'Of course not, dear. I am just saying I like donkeys. I love you. That goes without saying, surely.'

Back to the forum post

Making a joke about someone's long-winded posts in a forum requires a careful response from a potentially aggrieved person; one who understand how division foments. The response must not add to the blueprint of an as yet unrealised position with a banner from which others may fall in line with. The response should not be patronising or derisive because that is divisive in an open forum, let alone rude and insulting. It may not point out the harm that the original comment may cause, because that will draw the original comment into becoming a subject for debate. The owner of the original comment may instinctively double-down as a defence mechanism or become significantly regretful and recognise the ripples they have created in a fragile pond of deliberately focused calm; a pond that some students who cannot swim, must put their toes into as a necessity to ready themselves for university study.

Often, when someone has made a comment on an open forum late in the evening or in the very early hours, readers have to consider the empty wine bottle and the single glass that perhaps sits beside the laptop of the person who posted; but you can never even allude to that. There is no adequate response to a post that has the potential to cancel other people without drawing attention to oneself and making it clear that the intention behind the response is to bring an excavator to a crack that is still a blueprint for a division, if only in that one person disagrees with another. Said openly it will, we tend to overlook, create opposition and everyone loves contrast and belonging to a group, don't they?

I thought perhaps Latin might work. In using a Latin phrase the responder takes a step away from confrontation behind a shroud of rationale, one hopes, but is really based on this:

'quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur' (whatever has been said in Latin seems deep)

A short list:

'Nunc est bibendum' simply won't work.(Now is the time for drinking)

'Post factum nullum consilium' is just pointless. (After the fact consultation is useless)

'Alea iacta est' needs explanation.(The die is cast)

However, perhaps this one is fitting:

'semper in excretia sumus solim profundum variat' - We are always in the manure, only the depth varies.' attributed to Lord de Ramsey, the House of Lords, 1998

Any mistakes with the Latin are mine.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Latin_phrases_(full)

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The Magic Sword that is England

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 16 September 2026 at 21:56

All my posts: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?u=zw219551

or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser. There is a space between my name and the minus sign and NO space before 'caldwell' to eliminate the name 'caldwell' in the Google listings

I am not on YouTube or social media

Cadwell NOT Caldwell

 

The Magic Sword that is England

[ 7 minute read ]

Fiction based on some much adulterated facts

According to 'The Cambridge Historical Encyclopedia of Great Britain and Ireland', [1985] (1992), Cambridge University Press, p. 78, 'By the eleventh century, Anglo-Saxon England was a rich country and her people were better fed and taller on average than for many centuries to come.' 

Ooh er! French food must have been really quite nutritious or were there less people to feed? Well, apparently the rest of Britain was largely unaffected by England's increased trade across the North Sea and the Channel. So, having Scandinavian and Normandy heritage seems to have been a good thing. Yet there is still a North/South divide that needs to be 'levelled up'. There still seems, in my mind, to be an undying battle between Vikings and Normans that simply won't die.

Both York and London were major players in decision-making. The Vikings lived in York and the Normans lived wherever the land was especially profitable as was proved before 1066 and the Battle of Hastings by the recently evicted farmers. With York and the land thereabouts harried by King Harold, it won't be much of a surprise to consider that the South and East of England had a head-start on the North of England, and that with better weather to boot.

       'Why does your wheat grow taller than mine?'

       'Oh, my parents speak French.'

       'Can I learn French?'

       'Mais oui!'

       'Jeg vet ikke.'

       'What did he say?'

        'Je ne sais pas! I think he is happy.'

       'Nescio.' shrugged Brutus. 'Anyway, you can be sure he doesn't have underfloor heating like my Roman ancestors had. Hmmm, If only we had window covering that let enough light through we could make greenhouses and grow some lovely turnips.'

       'Can you remember how the underfloor heating worked, Brutus?'

        'Far too complicated for a disorganised and motley bunch like us to control, Alfred. Maybe, Sven might know about fire. Sven? On second thoughts, no. The Vikings send fire across the sea on a ship when someone dies. Burying fire isn't something they might want to do.'

In any case, I think the Anglo-Saxon bloodline in the South of England that has a good dash of Norman flavouring in it might be trying to bury the thousand year old hatchet these days. With not being able to rely on the Black Death weeding out the burgeoning population in the South of England any time soon, it might be a good time to colonise the North. Wetherby will become Wetherham and Derby will become Derham to match Nottingham, Rotherham and Durham.

It surprises me that the people in the North of England never realised that there were 'sleeper' towns and cities right in their midst. I mean Manchester is the capital of the north and the Romans liked the local girls there, don't you know?

Yet, let's look closer at the area surrounding Manchester: We find Bolton, Oldham, Warrington, Altrincham, Preston, and a bunch of fords. No Vikings! The Anglo-Saxons might win against both the Romans and the Vikings after all. Good old Andy Burnham. Genetically programmed as an Anglo-Saxon in 1070 to be born 900 years later and awaken in 2026. (I can't find anything interesting for 1026 to make an even 1,000 years).

In 1070, nine hundred years before Andy Burnham was born, magic was thrown over Hereward the Wake by his wife, Torfrida, who was known for her Black Arts, just after he led the last concerted revolt, from the Isle of Ely, against William the Conqueror (Christmas Day was never the same after his coronation).

In the Bruneswald, the forest that went from Brampton, near Huntingdon up to somewhere else that had an Anglo-Saxon name (maybe the settlement near the River Rother), after his loss to William, Hereward licked his wounds and he and Torfrida shared a cunning plan. First, he had to get into the court of William for their plan to work though, so he placed his hands between King William's hands and gave his allegiance. What no-one but Torfrida saw was the spell put into place. It leapt from Hereward into William and from that moment all the Norman influence would die and take with it the pesky Vikings (who might well have been Hereward's parents in Earl Leofric and Lady Godiva, but what the heck, Hereward had already dissed his dad by pretending to be his tax-collector and later raiding Peterborough Cathedral near Bourn, his birthplace). What neither Hereward or Torfrida knew was how long a spell might take to work or how it might come to work.

Neither Hereward or Torfrida knew the North of England must first be brought to its knees thrice; the Americans must kill the Northern sheep with nylon stockings; the French and the Icelandic's would have to steal all the fish from around Britain's shores (there has to be some hidden reason why a woman born in St. Omer hated the Normans, somewhere), and open-fires in houses would be replaced with boilers and immersion heaters. Oh, and Cornwall will shrivel too, but, what the heck; they had always been too much trouble for even the Romans, who unfortunately for them didn't have the benefit of having lunch and dessert in the same pastry-wrapped package. Not having to queue at the camp canteen twice must have been more efficient. Now that the world has their eating secret they can also be colonised, but only with lucky gambling rich people winning houses through lotteries. In any case, no-one really wants Cornwall these days except surfers and the people who never had to learn Latin at school to appease their long-dead masters. Don't you just love nostalgia? Oh those halcyon days of good leadership.

Now, the North of England will finally be conquered and colonised with Anglo-Saxons. The final spear shall be buried into the beating heart and the swelling breast of the long-lived Vikings, those we cautiously call Northerners in the south of England (despite recognising that the 'North People' live in Norfolk). King Alfred will rise from the swamps of Wessex (or Wales or Cornwall). 

Never mind Saint George's cross, England's flag shall have a magic sword on it, and the flag shall be called 'Caliber' (we don't want any Latin prefixes, thank you).

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Romantically Scented Elder Flower

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 16 September 2026 at 10:56

All my posts: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?u=zw219551

or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser. There is a space between my name and the minus sign and NO space before 'caldwell' to eliminate the name 'caldwell' in the Google listings

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Cadwell NOT Caldwell

 

Scented Elder Flower

[ 2 minute read ]

Opinion 

How can you tell your neighbour that if they are miserable, rude and won't give you the time of day, they are building a route to problems. By not encouraging an open and courteous debate on local issues they inhibit healthy relationships and foment brewing resentment that tends to finalise in complaints to official bodies (The Environment Agency, DVLA, the Police and even HMRC).

My neighbour thinks it is me who complains to his landlord. It isn't; there are other neighbours who make complaints about him. Yet, he is convinced I am drunk all the time and stay awake all night watching the telly, and his father seemed to think I had bent a pear tree to grow towards my garden so I could reap the fruit. I don't have a telly and I am not drunk all the time, and I wouldn't dream of being so lazy that I can't even be bothered to 'scrump' properly! But he thinks because he is lazy then everyone else is.

He and his live-in carer/girlfriend even act suspiciously. I opened my front door this evening and she hurriedly turned away as though she was pretending not to be looking at my front door. He hides behind his front door among the hanging coats to eavesdrop on conversations anyone has with his girlfriend; and they think I am weird! He even asked me once why I leave young tomato plants and art supplies for the neighbours and passers-by to take. I explained why but he didn't get it. I could feel him thinking, 'You consider other people to have a value?'

How can you tell them to be polite and open, when they don't notice people showing them it?

I think someone needs to count the cats in the neighbourhood to see if any are missing. I know if I asked my neighbour he would have a recipe for cooking his own coccyx, and he knows exactly what an Elder shrub is used for; even if, weirdly, his dad cannot identify one. How socially isolated do you need to be if you live in the countryside and cannot recognise Elder; the cat-piss-smell flowers? the little black berries? and the astringent smell of the leaves? Really?

Well, I suppose I will just have to go on wondering.

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Car Story

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 15 September 2026 at 19:50

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or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser. There is a space between my name and the minus sign and NO space before 'caldwell' to eliminate the name 'caldwell' in the Google listings

I am not on YouTube or social media

Cadwell NOT Caldwell

 

Where is the battery?

Opinion 

[ 2 minute read ]

On the way back from the convenience shop I came across a young lad looking under the bonnet of a car. I made a joke about how bored he must be if he thought he would find something exciting under the bonnet.

       'I am looking for the battery.' he offered.

I wasn't surprised; I know my way around a car engine's peripherals because I grew up having to and with that confidence was able to start a road haulage business. I no longer expect people under the age of thirty to be able to do much more than put fuel in their car and that completes the technical part of their knowledge for car-driving. That isn't uncharitable of me, it is just that cars don't do the same things that they used to, what with having their own computers to tell them what to do. Let's face it, to bastardise one of my favourite maxims 'You can't fix an analogue problem with a digital solution' into 'you can't fix a digital  problem with an analogue solution, if your spanner is not also a computer chip' so why even open the bonnet these days and see what is in there? No point, these days.

After about an hour of explaining what the lad might do with his entirely flat battery, he still wanted to wait for his parents to come back despite admitting that they probably don't know as much as I do about the practicalities of maintaining a car. You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink. Parents are like superheroes to most children.

I really wouldn't be able to drive a vehicle if I didn't know what to do if it suddenly breaks down in the outside lane of a motorway, for example. Nope, no chance. Are modern drivers brave or happy in their ignorance? i am not saying I am a control freak but I am not sure if I could be a passenger in an aircraft if I didn't have a quick go in it first, you know, in case the pilots jump out the cockpit windows one day, or more realistically, eat the same in-flight meal.

       'Budge up, captain, hand over the keys. Where's the clutch pedal?'

Sometimes I am the nutter on the bus that no-one wants to sit next to. On an airliner, I would take great pleasure in explaining to other passengers how I would have done something different to something they never even noticed happening.

       'Oh dear! We are doing a go-around. That probably means we nearly landed on a plane taking-off.' and, Oooh no! I wouldn't have done that, ooh dear, oh no!' and 'What a shame! If the pilot had gunned it we might have slipped through that gap on the runway.' I would save the best for the most implacable passengers when the plane is affected by turbulence, 'I think the pilot has dropped the vodka bottle again. and is reaching for it on the floor. It must be rolling around a lot.'

I don't do any of that, but I can't help feeling that despite all the knowledge I have on the internal combustion engine I am still an evil passer-by who is intent on causing a young man to destroy his car with a spanner, while his parents are somewhere else and cannot tell him they don't know enough to help. 

       'Best take it to a mechanic, son.' The thing is, they wouldn't even consider whether their son should or shouldn't wear a shirt and tie when he approaches the garage with the car.

Oh well. Life is like that.

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