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Trees of Green

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 16 October 2025 at 05:58

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[ 6 minute read ]

'I see Trees of Green (red roses too)'

How do you do?

Ooh! Wireless mice! I dropped one of mine and it went wonky. Either that or my neighbour got a booster for his wireless devices and his signal bled into my mouse waves. Every now and then my on-screen cursor would leap off to the side; so for a few hours I had a lot of fun moving it away to the middle again and just randomly clicking the buttons. I was hoping my neighbour was writing an email or putting data into a spreadsheet, or something that requires a cell or sentence to be selected. Eventually though, I decided that it was probably my mouse that was broken and so I bought one with a tail; a wired one. Modern laptops, I have heard, have only one USB port, so I make sure I don't buy new ones. I have four USB ports on each of my machines. Having a wired mouse is no problem because I only use three USB ports anyway.

I see posts on my module forum by students that remark that they fell a little behind on their previous module. I wonder why they are telling people this. Maybe they should study. Not necessarily though. One might ask the same of me. 

       'Martin, why do you spend so much time writing posts?'

I would reply, 'Because I am cheating. I am combining tasks for the early assignments to aid me in the End of Module Assignment.'

Just like some people cheat in actual exams by smuggling in information on their sleeves or written in tiny writing on their arms, or on the inside of the label on their water bottle, I am smuggling all the information I need for the EMA by storing it in my head. Yes, I know that I can access the course books for the EMA but I can transpose a good lot of the information I am learning at the start of the module into later TMAs. There is a huge amount of time from the module website opening to the cut-off time for the first TMA. I scan all the module and keep in mind what I need to know for subsequent TMAs. To someone who uses the internet for finding the meaning of words or as a thesaurus, it may be difficult to understand the efficacy of my method. 

If I need to find the definition or meaning of a word I use an actual dictionary or when I am really excited a Roget's Thesaurus. I usually need a sandwich if I go that deep though. The thing is the internet will give us the meaning of the word we don't know. Efficient! Not best though. There is a website that gives the word listed in a dictionary before the one we are interested in, the word we are interested in, AND the word listed in a dictionary that follows the word we are interested in. That is what a real dictionary does. Yet, the real dictionary always opens on a page that is not the one where the word we are seeking is listed. This means that we are exposed to extraneous words - I usually read those random words and definitions before I find the word I am seeking.

By understanding what the whole module requires of me - such as all the options for all the TMAs and the EMA, I can create a path of study that is closest to the best combination of study. I will then automatically absorb information from one unit to later collate with information from a subsequent unit. Although the information from any other unit at Level One will not fit into any TMA assignment, the information provides a perspective that would otherwise be unrecognised by me. 

So why am I not studying, right now?  Just like Louis Armstrong singing; 'The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky...' is a construct that precedes, 'Are also on the faces, of people going by.' It is there to show variety, brightness and wonder that are evident in people at a particular time in a particular place. Describing my plan for the whole module allows me to add flavour and colour to it; opens me up for accidental information (I currently have one laptop accessing YouTube); and gives me time to subconsciously absorb what I have recently learned, with controlled interference. Many people will be familiar with the idea of meditating by looking at a candle flame in a darkened room. It, the candle flame, is a visual distraction that allows the subconscious to access the conscious and borrow information, shape it and put it back into the conscious mind when it is requested. Reading a dull book when we have something important to think about has the same effect; the eyes are distracted and the words are not consciously noticed, so the story does not distract us from our thoughts.

However, I would never write that I am about to fail at something until I have tried everything in my knowledge to find a way to succeed beforehand. Neither would I portray that I almost failed and then almost fail because I need to reach for comfort.

'I see friends shaking hands, saying "How do you do? They're really saying, "I love you". Comfort for the ones who are struggling at something, perhaps? Yet, I can't quite see any gain from seeking, 'There, there! Don't Worry!' when they need 'Here, Here! Everything is here!' Here, for me, is in my head, stored from previous accidental learning that applies to later assignments. Non-linear learning is, in our modern world, cheating!

'I hear babies cry. I watch them grow. They'll learn much more than I'll ever know...'  (non-linear)

Lyrics from 'What a Wonderful World' written and composed by George Douglas and George David Weiss, and first recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1967 - Wikipedia. 

Lots of things across the world happened in 1967 which have parallels with today's news; seeking national and personal independence, religion, famine and war. 1967 was also 'The Summer of Love' and the first human heart transplant was performed in December, in South Africa, by Dr. Christiaan Barnard (sic); and chaos ensued when Sweden started driving on the right hand side of the road. 

Contrast helps to cement information.

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The Kent Landings

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 14 October 2025 at 07:59

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[ 6 minute read ]

The Kent Landings

Invasion!

Today, 14th October, is Battle of Hastings Day (Well, it is in my head).

On the morning of 14th of October 1066, some Vikings, pretending to be Normans because they had lived in Northern France for a couple of generations, decided that since they were on English soil they might as well attack the Anglo-Saxon Army that came to meet them for a friendly cup of tea. Fresh from fighting his brother, Tostig, and King Harold Hardrada's invading force (more pesky Vikings) at Stamford Bridge near York, Harold, King of England since only the 6th of January, got into an argument with Duke William of Normandy. Their armies joined in and many men died at the scene. William went on an eleven week 'jolly' on the way to visit London, and with a massive hangover, was crowned King of England on Christmas Day that same year. The newspapers had the headline, 'Dire consequences from Christmas prank'.

It could have happened like that but historians are fairly well united in believing that William of Normandy was already intent on claiming the crown of England because there was an agreement between him and Edward the Confessor (reigned 1042-1066) that William should be the next King if England. The problem is, and this is what historians believe, is that Harold Godwineson also believed his own conversation with Edward the Confessor included Edward's wish for Harold to be the next king of England. 

Just to muddy the waters, Harold's outlawed brother Tostig had persuaded Harold Hardrada, a Norwegian king, that England was ripe for the taking. They attacked near York at Stamford Bridge, in the North of England, over 250 miles from Hastings on the South England coast that faces the English Channel. A couple of websites say that the car journey would be about five hours; but King Harold and his army, once intelligence reports reached Harold of a gathering invasion about to invade across the channel, had to walk. We are told that Harold's army met the Norman invaders and William some miles inland from the English Channel (La Manche - 'the sleeve').

The whole period is a story-writers dream for plots, twists, betrayal, fighting, glory, death, punishment, fear and celebration. Yet, the battle of Hastings is an open sore on English pride. I don't really know why. The English language is a mix of French, German, Latin, and a few words from the indigenous people and from overseas conquest. Conquest is entirely English. Perhaps that is why it is so shameful to lose such a monumental battle to an illegitimate man who took advantage of a family problem. 'It just isn't Cricket!'

Harold was son of Godwine, Earl of Wessex. In those days, England was split into a handful of powerful earldoms and a few little ones. Godwine was the most powerful Earl with the greatest resources at hand. Unfortunately, his sons were unruly, and both Sweyn and Tostig were a bit feisty. In those days, upsetting the king through piracy off the English shore meant that you would be outlawed, which meant that anyone could legally murder that person without having to pay compensation to the affected family. You could win favour and return to the English fold, by doing something to please the king, but Tostig, decided to invade with the king of Norway's army, on the 25th September 1066.

Harold, upon the death of his father, who died in 1053, became the leader of the strongest earldom in England. 

Godwine, Harold's father was made an earl (circa 1018) by King Cnut. Godwine dominated Edward the Confessor. Edward outlawed Godwin for not following his wishes. Godwine attacked England and Edward relented. We should also be aware that Godwine was also held responsible for the murder of one of the claimants to the throne upon Cnut's death. After the battering of Edward the Confessor in a battle in 1052 and a subsequent obsequious buttering up of Edward the Confessor, who had after all, married Godwine's daughter, Edith in 1045. The Godwine famiy assumed that they would rightlfully claim the English throne upon Edward the Confessor's death, since he had no issue (rightful heirs). Edward, however, was pro-Norman and had wanted to fill his court with Normans. William of Normandy believed he had been told by Edward the Confessor that he should claim the throne of England. Hence we have a battle in 1066.

I celebrate the 14th October as the day that a bullying family was crushed. I can't stand conniving and snivelling sycophants, who desire to seize power to control others for a menacing gathering of wealth. Bullies, greedy people, liars, cheats and charlatans, I see, in the Bayeau Tapestry, your leader poked in the eye with an arrow 959 years ago. And be clear on this, it is not the arrow of Love that Cupid shoots, that I see.

The Bayeaux Tapestry is an embroidery that shows the sequence of events of the Battle of Hastings as seen by the winners.

I heard that such is the underlying anxiety still felt by the Norman attack in 1066 that there is a monument erected by the English in a French cemetary for the fallen French soldiers of World War Two that reads something like this: 'Despite you attacking us in 1066 we have forgiven you and came to save you in this war.' A little contentious in its thrust if it is true. Yet, there was an underlying current of resentment and scorn that cannot be easily dismissed. If the inscription exists on a monument, it is of its time and for me is indicative of British humour. Again, if it is true, I am certain that there is no real resentment towards the French soldiers of the second World War. Rather, it is a salute to the fallen French who deserved honourable recognisance, but with the dark and stiff upper lip humour of the British of that time. I think it is one of the saddest inscriptions that I can ever imagine coming across. It, if it exists, is a show of comradeship not division; of loss not gain in position. It kind of says: 'We are family, and as family we are loyal'.

Thank you to the French for your wonderful language and your laws that came from the consequences of the Battle of Hastings, particularly from William the Conqueror's descendent King Henry II, (great-grandson) who codified much of England's laws.

The 14th of October is the day that England was rescued from tyranny.

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Weigh the Parents

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 12 October 2025 at 05:24

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[ 6 minute read ]

Weigh the Parents

This is not about politics. Leon Spence writes a good 'blog' on his perspective on the political climate. This is more about oligopoly; or market power within the hands of a few, which would, given enough freedom, I suggest, ultimately become a controlling force in a wider sense. I provide a link to one of Leon Spence's posts as is fair, since I may well overlap his perspicacious focus with my random fantasy world.  I prefer to write - 'Just Saying!' posts, while Leon writes tidy and clear declarative statements. Leon Spence Saturday 11th October 07:49

I would like cereal manufacturers to no longer add sugar to breakfast cereals. I can't eat them because they are too sweet for me. I lived in Holland, in The Netherlands, for a while, and met an English chap who had an 'English' Shop in Delft. Because I would travel back and forth to the UK, he suggested that I pick up a consignment of Kellogg's Corn Flakes in England to deliver to his English shop in Delft, The Netherlands. 

       'Why?' I asked.

       'English people have a sweeter tooth than Dutch people.' He explained. I think English people have a sweeter tooth than most of the European countries. I think it is also a thing that emerged around about fifty years ago. I think it may go further back to when there were still milk bars that didn't sell Coca Cola. Milkshakes were cool once.

Yet, I have to put both salt and sugar in CO-OP Baked Beans. Clearly, whoever controls sugar controls what the people eat. 

Let's imagine that the Government came up with a law that banned sugar being added to foodstuffs at the source of manufacture. The home cook can do what they like at home; but can't sell their sweetened home-cooked produce. Better still, they can't even give it away at garden fetes, to friends or work colleagues. Cake in shops might have to have a sachet of sugar included separately. But without going too far into the logistics of manufacturers stuffing sugar into the consumer, we will just consider that sugar is freely available, and there are no restrictions on anyone buying it in shops. In my weird market, we might restrict the sale of yeast being bought with sugar though; like you can't buy certain pain-killers together in one transaction.

Eventually, young children would be weaned off sugar. Feeders of children would be more closely aware of how much sugar they need to purchase to satisfy their addicted family. The new conundrum would be: Heat, Eat, or Buy Sugar.' Sooner or later, because sugar is not a dietary requirement in a healthy diet, it would soon attract a premium price set by the oligopoly of sugar refiners, that we currently have, I suggest that no Government would want to be known by the opposition as a party that encourages obesity by capping the price of sugar.

There is a problem though. Have you ever had one of those 'one in a million' cups of tea when everything is in the perfect quantity and it is the right temperature? There are a lot of variables involved to get a cup of tea just right. Likewise, spooning sugar onto unsweetened corn flakes or bran flakes or coco-pops will eventually lead to applying too much sweetness rather than too little. Most of us can stand something that is just a little too sweet, but are disheartened when it is not sweet enough. If the 'sugar-bowl' (bag) is to hand, might as well chuck a bit more on the cereal, eh?

Schools would need to weigh the pupils to keep a check on the parents. Fat children can only be fat from eating too much sweet stuff or too much ultra-processed foods, I think. So, Mum and Dad must be directly contributing to an unhealthy diet. 

       'All rise!'

       'You did willfully fatten your child with an overdose of sugar over a period of months, thereby inducing an addiction to a foreign substance. A substance, mind, that has long been used as a recreational drug to induce pleasure and the consequent release of dopamine and serotonin'

       'Your honour,' called the prosecutor, 'We should like to add the charge of willfully manipulating the electro-chemical mental balance of the child in question to make the child more malleable to further controlling influence by the parents. This, your Honour is a clear case of child abuse!' Her voice raised sharply in tone and volume towards the end.

       'Weigh the parents!' cried the Judge.

Clearly, no government is going to enact a law that entirely prohibits sugar being added to breakfast cereal. Yet, strangely, Shredded Wheat is 100% wheat.

In my mind, it is cheaper to not add sugar at the source of manufacture. Also, some vitamins and minerals are added to the breakfast cereal. This should mean that breakfast cereal would be cheaper to buy, so more kids get to eat before going to school AND they get iron and some B vitamins, to boot. Unfortunately, without simple carbohydrates like refined sugar, the now slimmer and healthier kids have less available energy in the bloodstream early in the morning to motivate them to walk to school. Best get in the car then, otherwise they will be late (if they don't get up early enough to metabolise the more complex carbohydrates that cereal is).

Oh dear! We simply can't have children getting up early and waking up a bit before school - this simply will not do!

If I was in control, I would pass a law that made it compulsory for every household to have at least one bee-hive in the kitchen. I would also be the owner of the only licensed business to produce a universal spigot that fits all bee-hives so honey is 'on tap'. Imports of Chinese spigots (especially if they are called Chigots on the black market) would be subject to 100% tariffs. I would also send officers to randomly check homes for beehives and foreign spigots. There would, of course, be even higher tariffs set if a foreign spigot was ever found.

       'All rise!'

       'You did willfully tamper with a bee-hive with the intention of promoting the rise of a foreign power that is bent on undermining the sociability of the British Breakfast Table.'

The people in the gallery looked at each other, confused. 'Social?'

       'Your Honour, this person has appeared before you only a week ago for using a phone while peeing.' The prosecutor added.

       'Is nothing sacred, anymore? Weigh the parents!'

While, the theme of this post, 'What would I do if I was a controlling influence in marketing that ultimately controls a country?', was thought up this morning while I was adding sugar and salt to my tinned Baked Beans, there may be parallels with Leon Spence's posts on what UK political parties may do, or try to do. At least, I think so, but not about sugar.

Such is my addiction to sugar that while I was writing this, I ate some Honey Monster cereal with milk. I am actually lactose-intolerant. However, I am a recovering sugar addict because I stopped myself drinking the sugary milk left in the bowl. Yuck! (I only have the Honey Monster cereal because my local shop-keeper gave it to me. I only have the milk because I have the Honey Monster cereal. I am so bad!)

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You frazzled yourself

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 12 October 2025 at 05:37

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[ 9 minute read ]

You frazzled yourself

Oh me oh my! Everybody is after something all the time. Such dissatisfaction I have never before experienced. I keep banging on about people seeking validity of themselves; because I am amazed at how pernicious it is. I had a conversation with my doctor a while ago and forgot to ask if people were different before the Covid 19 thing. Of course, anyone who followed the rules and locked themselves down will be different to how they should be now. Likewise, anyone who didn't lock themselves down will be different to how they should be because other people locked themselves down.

An expansion: I didn't lock myself down. I just carried on as usual. Oh no! How irresponsible! No, I had no need to change what I do to conform with not spreading diseases. When the UK Government said 'socially isolate yourselves' to the people, I thought, no change there then. I found it interesting that most people were not actually acting normal for themselves, when they stayed at home. Normal for me! Welcome to my world. 

I read somewhere that people have a distorted way of recalling the past. Most people, I believe, cannot remember what the world was like five years ago. I understand that we use selective memory to recall our childhood. It never rained during Summer holidays at the sea-side, for example. I don't think social media chatting platforms have changed much from how they were five or six years ago, except that everyone seems to think that it is entirely normal to use one. I have an email from my tutor that contains a link to an app to be able to make a booking for a one-to-one 'tutorial' initial telephone meeting. Why? Why does the tutor think that students want to meet the person who marks their assignments? And, why an email address to send a link to an app to be able to receive a telephone call? It is really confusing to me. Either I was affected by Covid, or I am one of the few who wasn't. 

The point I am getting at, in a round-about way, which I am only now starting to understand, in the way people now process anything, is that conventional rules for communication are ignored, unheard of, or obsolete. There is a technological reason for that, but it is the human factor that interests me. 

Have technology will use it

I met a woman in her sixties in an ALDI car park, 2021. Just in passing, but I like to talk; you know, to people, not VDUs - like computer screens and phone screens. Let's just separate that out: Typing (texts and emails); looking at a moving picture (face-time, video-conferencing); and telephone calls. Talking to people is none of those. Phone calls is talking to thin air, hoping that we are heard. Typing is moving our fingers and the only response is alpha-numeric characters appear on a screen; and talking to a screen is precisely that. There is no-one there. It is all fantasy. We are all just hoping that someone is there to receive our message. No, we TRUST that there is someone there. We believe it. Believing someone is there when they are not, is so close to being psychotic that most of us would be paralysed with fear if we knew that, that is what we are. That is where we are currently at. We have to get a reply to our cries in the air. 

Back to the woman in the ALDI car-park.

       'I haven't spoken to my grand-children for six months!' she wailed. I inwardly shrugged, 'And?'

This woman, I thought, can remember when we didn't see relatives for years at a time, yet she is emotionally wiped out when real conversation is denied us. I couldn't help thinking, 'Welcome to my world,' when people bemoaned their isolation. 'What!' 'What is wrong with you?' 'What?' 'How needy are you?' At the time, I thought that this woman's grandchildren would probably be relieved that she is absent. I imagined that they would groan when they were called to the phone to face-time Gran. But they wouldn't have been, unless they were previously bribed into liking Gran with sweet treats, or money. The fact is, they were probably brought up to misuse communication devices.

I have a low qualification in Business Administration. One of the things that was taught is what form of communication is appropriate when and why. Phone someone in an emergency. Text someone a burst of information, such as an address, or meeting time. Texts are notes for someone else to read. They are not chatting messages. Email someone with a report or draft contract. Emails are not, definitely not, for chatting. Providing a link in one of these to another form of communication is just plain nonsense. Mixing up communication platforms requires the recipient to switch their attention. It demands something of the recipient that is outside of the form of communication. 

Try this; I got an email containing an app link to arrange a telephone call. Just phone me! You have my number! leave a voice-mail message! Q-U-I-C-K-E-R! Why over-complicate a conversation? Even though I have a SmartPhone, I won't ever be using it for emails or accessing the internet. Why not? Because emails should not be text messages. Emails are opened on computers so links to websites can be included. To presume that anyone is foolish enough to open an app using a computer must mean that Covid fried their brain. 'Use any means to communicate! Break convention! Ignore cyber threats!' The conspiracy theorists must be peeing their pants laughing at this madness. Invent a disease to make people use digital communication with a desperation that causes them to be careless about cyber-security and maintaining security of their personal details. Make them show their faces on phones with service contracts so we can use facial recognition in shops and at airports. Dean Koontz would love this time. We all know of '1984' by George Orwell. Koontz wrote, 'Night Chills' in 1976. (Published in Gt. Britain in 1977 by W.H. Allen & Co. PLC) 

It is not without some dark bemusement that I read about people having their mobile phones stolen right out of their hands. If you have £200 would you walk around holding it right in front of your face?

       'The police won't do anything!'

Why should they? If millions of people decided to walk into brick walls and then phoned for an ambulance, the emergency-call-handlers would be compelled to ask? 'Did you deliberately close your eyes while walking towards a brick wall?' They would look at each other in their office and roll their eyeballs. 'Covid! Another person affected by Covid!'

If someone is instrumental in my immediate future and offers me a chance to 'chat', I have to do it because I am certain that they are ill and will be negatively affected by my puzzlement as to why they want to 'chat'. If they are instrumental in my immediate future, I have to make sure they don't dislike me for blanking their need; because I have to pass through a period that allows me to later distance myself from their confusion. Yes, I am being harsh. I recognise that people have the same universal need, but to satiate it, I have to become an addict, like them, to 'chatting' to thin air or a video display unit (alpha-numeric characters or digital images - it's all the same to me). Of course, this offer of a 'chat' may come from someone who thinks I need to inanely chat.

But I know what most people really want. They want to build a rapport. What I don't understand is why I have to do something to make them feel more comfortable. Personally, I don't need to set up a procedure to build a temporary rapport with someone, because I don't use people and I respect people. Whenever someone needs to build a rapport with me, I am forced to lie to them to make them go away and leave me in peace. 'Yes! Yes! We are getting on fine! There is no need to worry!'  I don't want anything to do with someone that is so insecure as that, without them also knowing they are mentally unwell. Generally, it is professionals that need to know they are doing their jobs right. If they don't know, I suggest they are in the wrong job.

I ran a very successful business a while ago. One learns to separate one's personal life from business. Today though, UK businesses have taken the stupid Americanism of personalising everything. In business and marketing, this is the after-sales service. 'You bought.....Do you like it?' or 'You are important to us, so we will pretend to show that, by making sure we don't have to waste time satisfying our obligations to our duty.' They do this using a universal means. Texts and emails. I think, 'Just sell it to me, or deliver it and I never need to know you even exist.' No, instead, why don't you just waste my time with inane conversation? But in reality they are hoping that their mediocre attitude and incompetence will not be noticed. It is not excellent. Why would it be? All they have to do now is sweet talk people who want to feel valued and validated for being fooled.

I know what cognitive dissonance is. I know why people feel it. How about businesses just doing what they are supposed to do and adhering to a good code of practice so customers do not expect more than is actually available?

I had a valid complaint about O2 services (UK telephone service provider). Their policy is, if the customer asks to speak to a manager, don't quibble, escalate the conversation or complaint. O2 doesn't do that. They have inadequately trained staff trying to sell more services like upgrades or something similarly ridiculous. Why would anyone upgrade? I just get what I need to satisfy everyone else, and then I stick to it. That wasn't true, but it is now; it has to be this way.

I bought some operating systems a while back to avoid MS Windows continual upgrading. The reason for doing this is because I recognised that eventually hackers would find a way in, that I will not be able to detect. In the past, whenever I detected strange software on my computers I simply formatted the hard drives and loaded an operating system from a DVD. The data on a DVD does not change. This means I can run the same operating system on two identical computers and only allow one to access the internet. Any changes in performance is detectable and directly attributable to downloaded updates. Now we have A.I. as a standard feature in our lives. It is even in used for searching the internet. I don't want assistance that favours what everyone else wants. However, at last, I have found an operating system that was created before Unlimited Data plans were a thing. It currently recognises that it uses a 'metered' internet connection, so it has paused ALL updates until it detects an unmetered internet connection. So, it will not download any updates, and most importantly, any that use A.I. to assist me by scanning my internet and computer use, and getting to know me. No updates make it harder for hackers to use Trojan Horses.

Me, measured in conversation; I get it now. 

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A Zoo of Chimeras of Thinking reposted

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 8 October 2025 at 11:33

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silhouette of a female face in profile   four highly stylised people facing each other. One is red   Mental Health

[ 6 minute read ]

This post was originally posted: Monday 22 September 2025 and has been reposted for relevance to World Mental Health Day on Friday

There is an open invite posted earlier today at 10:22

 

A Zoo of Chimeras of Thinking

Good Crikeyness! Everything is so monetised these days. I have a website still under construction but active and viewable (hegemo.co.uk) that I get nothing from. I get no money or reward or acclaim. It, I suppose, is an element of social responsibility, or a social enterprise if I want to feel that I am making a positive contribution to the world. I have to pay for stuff now that was free in May this same year (2025). There will be critics to the content, particularly from the mental health camp of supposedly trained and normal-thinking people. I am fairly well convinced, though, that they do not see themselves as negotiators in a hostage-taking scenario, when they should. I suspect, that the first thing critics to my approach will do is fail to recognise that the current content (22 September) comes from a single individual with a mind. A mind that is subject to its environment; the immediate world around the body in which it sits. While isolation, at certain times of our lives is favourable, it is not, I suggest, very helpful, when experienced for long periods, in an environment of increasing social interaction. 

However, someone used to long or extended periods of isolation is an alien to a planet of chit-chatting. The critics, I suspect, will not see it this way. If there is a planet somewhere in space that is almost identical to ours, but has different realities, a different past, future and present, most of us, I suggest, would be fascinated to learn all about it? While I would not suggest that any one of us humans on Earth with our own national histories is as fascinating as someone from an alternative planet, if anyone indigenous to Earth has a different historical pattern, I think I am safe in stating that each one of us is still uniquely interesting.

Unfortunately, out of eight billion of us on Earth only about one hundred and nine handfuls of us can actually use our languages and bodies sufficiently well to compel people to listen to us. Obviously, I have no idea of the real number of fascinating people with communication skills. They do, however, need to have both something to say and be able to say it well, don't they? I haven't met all of them yet, so..... 

'Nuff said, you get the point.

Confidence is something that grows in us while we are perceiving that others are finding us interesting. Personally, I have had the most anguished times in many conversations in which I have been outlining a position and 'spiralling in' to hone a point, when I get the feeling that the listening person is thinking their own thoughts around the multi-faceted subject, and reached a strong position that is far from the one I am trying to portray.

       'Oh, please stop thinking! Just listen until you have heard my conclusion.'

Too late! My conclusion will inevitably meet a different one. A fight will then occur between the two, and because the alternative conclusion is on home ground, it is likely to be cheered and encouraged, so it almost always wins.

When we meet another human, I suggest, we consider them to be the same as us. 'What is new?' we ask, albeit obliquely. 'How are you?' means 'Hello' politely. There is an expectation that the person we have just met cannot adequately convey anything interesting to us beyond, that is, what we are hard-wired to want. We crave knowing where good food is, and how we can attain it; procreation; and where danger is. It is only recently that we want to know about the Arctic or a desert located somewhere, where we might go one day, but that visit is highly improbable.

Right there in front of us, is someone with a past, living in the present environment, with a hope for the future. "Not interested. Don't care. Just entertain me somehow, because even though I can never remember that I have a past in the present environment with hopes for the future, I absolutely think I am different to you because I am healthy." It is a default position. Overweight, elderly, unfit, and silly, we ignore all of it while our brain seeks some kind of succour from the stuff that ails it; ourselves. 

It is not you that makes me feel rough; it is me. It is me because I forget that you are only putting on a play, an act that serves to protect you; an act that modern society demands from each of us because it is a hodge-podge of all of us that creates an hegemony of ideas and solutions. Today, I had a long conversation with someone who, at the end of it, made sure that I was aware that she would make notes for someone else to get a picture of what was said during our meeting. I told her that she will only promote a conversation between someone else and my avatar; an avatar created from her notes; an avatar that I shall be compelled to comply with. Far better that I make my own avatar and comply with that one, isn't it? 

You might, by now, have formed your own conclusions to my words. 'This idiot is trying to start a revolution! He wants to change the way we think.' Dangerous stuff, when it is spelt out like that, isn't it? But, you are not wrong. Like countless people before me, I cannot fathom a way to hold up a banner that says, 'It is okay to cry' without being hailed as a softie weirdo loser, a soufflé that can stand no knocks. It is true that I have been felled by a cruel axe that cut me deeply with every stroke. I was a young sapling and easily chopped. I grew back, but not as a tree with a single trunk, like every other tree in a forest. I am the tree that hikers, no, not hikers because that presupposes possession of some interest in an environment; I am the tree that passers-by look at and point out to the other passengers in the vehicle that whisks then speedily along. That isn't a car or a train, by the way; it is the way we live our lives and the pace of them.

The hikers, fleeting as they are, tilt their heads to one side and ponder for a short while before they think about where to find food, procreation, and what is dangerous. I mentioned, before, that I want to build a zoo of stories and mental positions for hikers to visit. None of us, it seems, want wild thoughts to be roaming around biting and clawing at the safe thoughts of where to find food, procreation, and what is dangerous, so it seems logical to shape those animals and recognise the shape of them, and then, even for a modicum of validation, show off our own chimeras. In effect, create avatars that individually belong to us and can be re-shaped over and over again, but only by the owner.

       'Look! Look! This one is really weird!' 

We are not allowed to do that! the Government won't let us. How can we ever be able to understand something if the 'something' is always shrouded in secrecy, and no-one can talk about it? I am not suggesting that we pillory people and laugh at their failing or incapacity to succeed, or conform to our idea or version of success. Far from it. I am suggesting that we recognise that it is beneficial to laugh at, be amused, disgusted by, or jealous of, other people's shaped and deliberately displayed chimeras of understanding and perception, as long as we do not do this to the persons themselves. Like pieces of art works like Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' we gawk and gape and try to reach deeper into it, and simultaneously ourselves, by attempting to understand how the image came to be. Many of us might simply glance at that painting and make an off-hand statement such as, 'That's how I feel' or 'That's how I feel when.....' Why do we do that? Why don't we spend some time shaping what we are thinking? I want to 'experience' more fascinating chimera's that can live in a zoo with 'The Scream' painting hanging on a wall.

Samaritans phone number 116 123 https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help/contact-samaritan/

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World Mental Health Day

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 8 October 2025 at 14:01

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silhouette of a female face in profile  four stylised people facing each other. One is red.  Mental Health

[ 2 Minute read ]

World Mental Health Day

Friday 10th October 2025

Samaritans phone 116 123 anytime 24 hour service 7 days per week for someone who listens

It is World Mental Health Day on Friday 10th October 2025. Make no mistake about it, I have mental health issues on a daily basis. For example: I fetched half a bucket of acorns for the local squirrels to save so they can eat on Christmas Dinner, New Year Day, Valentine's Day, and Saint Patrick's Day and the stupid thieves are too respectful to take them. Only I would have honest squirrels in my garden! How frustrating when things don't go to plan, eh?

I have re-purposed one of my websites to be able to accept anonymous comments that can be thousands of words long. I want to provide a space for people to let loose their feelings or explain their condition. 

Rant all you like, no-one will know your name because even though you need to include a name, you can make one up.

As an example of how I have opened myself up to honesty and taken some responsibility for my behaviour I have written about my failings in my posts. I have posted two pseudo-interviews with myself. The statements I make are true at the times of original writing - the questions I ask myself and my responses are more reflective in the present time. You can read those testimonies by searching for 'martin cadwell interview'. Or if you are logged in and on my OU Blog space you can click the tag 'interview'. Or click this link: INTERVIEW which is a link to two of my posts on the OU Blog site https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?user=852553&tag=interview

Share your story on hegemo.co.uk (my website) as comments in the 'Contact Us' form. I will read them and post them as blog posts under the assumed name on hegemo.co.uk or within my own blog space in the subdomain martincadwellblog.hegemo.co.uk. No-one will be able to comment on any posts or message (except me of course). 

I have no mental health training and will not and cannot advise on any matter beyond directions on where to seek appropriate help on an individual basis. However, I may contribute in an open and general way with my ideas on how I see things might be different but as I say NOT on an individual basis.

I found that interviewing myself gave me power over something that takes me hostage and leaves me weakened. If I recognise how frustration affects me (honestly affects me) I can redirect my energy.

My kitchen is too small; I hate electric cookers; My neighbour is weird; My knee hurts and the doctors think I am unfit; I think I am unfit and feel put upon by my own laziness; Why do people keep complaining all the time? 

Everybody has some kind of gripe.

hegemo.co.uk is a non-profit website solely for expressing opinion. No racism; no political angle and definitely no religious preaching. However, feel free to moan about anything.

Suggestions on how we can all live better lives are welcome.

Comment anonymously on the the 'Contact Us' form on hegemo.co.uk

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Mental Integration

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 7 October 2025 at 12:50

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[ 4 Minute read ]

Mental Integration

I can't help thinking that there are people who are diagnosed with something that they don't actually have; mentally, that is. It seems that some people with autism are able to identify someone else with autism. I, myself, have been questioned many times by different doctors, psychologists, and psychiatrists on whether I have autism. First: why did they ask me? and second; why do some people with autism tell me? 

Easy! I present with symptoms of autism. I don't look people in the eye. I work better on my own. I am distracted by other people. I can work, completely solitary, for hours without a break. My focus is laser-like. 

All of those are because I have PTSD and a very high IQ with a good deal of patience and a desire to complete a task before I forget what I have done so far. Not looking someone in their eyes is because I had terrible uncorrected eyesight and looked at the thing I saw moving; someone's mouth. Nuances in people's eyes were not available to me, so I focused on nuances in their voices. This last is why I have no need for video-conferencing and telephone calls work better for me. Looking at someone's face is merely a distraction from their words. I don't trust smiles as genuine. I am trained to smile, simply because I don't as a natural condition. 

There is a single parent woman, down the road from me, who laments that her neighbour blanks her. In my village people like quiet times. This woman likes to shout at her kids because it works for her. It doesn't work for her neighbour. Here is where I get contentious. One of them has a greater mental acuity than the other. That is not indicative of who is right, or righteous, or kind, or empathic, or stupid. I have met PhD graduates that many people would consider to be struggling to find two thoughts to rub together. I am just going to have to put aside that people have diagnosable mental ill-health conditions as a primary source of their difficulties they may exhibit in any particular environment; this is in order for me to be able to introduce 'high IQ' as a source for subsequent mental ill-heath.

We think differently. I am amazed at how much rubbish comes out of some mouths; my own included, and I mean I talk rubbish a lot. The woman down the road likes to worry that her doorbell is not working and she NEEDS to get a new one. I told her that most medieval people never had doorbells; they just banged on each other's doors with pitchforks. Many sensible modern people don't have door-bells. Well, they wouldn't, if the paranoid people didn't. If everyone in my road has a Ring doorbell and I do not, I am the target for thieves. Thanks, you lot!

The 'shouty' woman down the road is scared to drive her car because an acorn fell on her car roof while she was driving it. She told me today that she is at her wits end because her teenage son is running her ragged. If he has three thoughts to rub together he might be impatient with someone with only two thoughts - contemptuous even. See? If her son is super clever, he cannot integrate into a family of mildly clever people. The way he thinks, if it is markedly different to his home family thoughts, I suggest, will make him tempestuous to everyone with less mental acuity than he has. Only someone with a high IQ can recognise a high IQ in someone else. The key, then, is to teach him not to be disrespectful to people with only the same thoughts to rub together. 'That's Life, Kiddo!'

Contempt, misunderstanding, and fear of something different. Sound familiar? Too topical, maybe? 

Now then; the clever lad down the road might want to protest that everyone with an IQ that is less than his, should leave his country. Rather, the other way around; because if his IQ is really high he will not integrate well in an average environment. 

I like to simplify things. Teenagers are sharp because they are trained to use their brains at school. Parents are dull because they stop using their brains after 'Uni' or whatever, or more likely, school. Fit and agile brains hate dull and slow brains, So, if you want to get on with your teenagers, don't send them to school; take away anything stimulating when they are between the ages of birth and eleven, so they don't form strong connections in their brains; and make them watch television. They should then be dull enough to integrate with the average family environment.

Me, I am going to blockade 'skools' so children can't get out and contaminate us with intelligence and knowledge. 

The 'shouty' woman told me that her son is going to be assessed by a mental health team. They will say he has ADHD, autism or some kind of sociopathy, she surmised. If the testing team don't have a higher IQ than him. that is all they will see. I suggest an non-integrated high IQ might exhibit ADHD, autism, or some kind of sociopathy, because they are not properly diagnosed as having a higher IQ than the tester.This is HIGHLY likely, I propose.

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Claim the Bike!

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 6 October 2025 at 21:26

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[ 4 Minute read ]

Claim the Bike!

I had the most embarrassing fun in my village shop today. I went there to buy something specific but on the way I stopped to collect some quince (or quinces) - two units of quince anyway. I have never seen a quince before and was quite puzzled what to do with them. This year, many people are sharing their surplus fruit. I would be pleased if my 'good neighbour' policy has enhanced the desire to share, from how it used to be in my village. 

Realistically, it could only be a better attitude in my road that the residents take with them to other roads. Who knows what futures we change by being friendly?

I get on pretty well with the local shop keeper. Well, at least he doesn't watch me on his CCTV monitor....I think. I went into his shop and then couldn't remember why I was there, so I went back out. Outside, I noticed a woman go to the bin where the really, really out of date stuff gets, well, binned. I couldn't see what she was doing so I just waited for her to come back out. When she did. I told her where the shopkeeper puts his free out of date stuff in the shop. She didn't want that; but you never know.

She was after a water-butt and a couple of storage boxes that the shopkeeper had dumped. She had gotten permission from the shopkeeper to take them. There was also a cranky bicycle, sullenly slumped in the corner. I wanted that. 

After a long and drawn out conversation with the woman on how to pronounce 'tat'; she had said 'tuurt'. Do you mean 'tut', I asked. She meant, 'tat'. Strangely, she did not have a northern England or Birmingham accent. Glo'll (Glottal) stops and all, I placed her as coming from South London and Sussex. She said she is local. Anyway, she was keen on cornering the shopkeeper and bending him to the idea of letting me take the bike. I knew that I could just ask him and he would say yes, or no. No amount of negotiation or wheedling would change his mind. I quickly escaped her, went into the shop and asked for it. He demurred a bit. I found out why later. The 'Tat Gatherer' woman followed me into the shop and brow-beated him for probably five minutes.

       'It's falling apart!' she claimed. 'You don't need it!' and other pushes, and she never asked an open question.

       'If I give it to you, are you going to give it to him?' he asked, meaning me.

       'Yes! Yes! Him!'

       'You can have it then.'

I have to hand it to him, he entertained all of the woman's strident claims. I couldn't get a word in edgeways, except, 'We don't need to do this.' and 'He doesn't need to hear it!' and finally, 'I'll talk to you in a bit,' before I went to find a jar of Marmite. The woman followed me apologising if she had interfered. I told her not. Interfering wasn't what she had done; She had displaced me. I assured her that everything was fine, so she left, but not before trying to make me put the bike in her open-top car and take me and it to my home. I wasn't sure if she liked me or was just bent on ironing out her stress, somehow. Maybe, she was familiar with the lyrics in The Eurythmics, 'Love is a Stranger' song. (Love is a stranger in an open car. To tempt you in and drive you far away). I taught myself to dance to that when I was in love with a beautiful and exotic Russian woman. No, I wasn't going in this woman's open car, and I certainly wasn't going to show her where I live, even though I don't keep rabbits.

At the counter, the shopkeeper and I smiled at each other. I told him that I didn't need the bike but intended to repair it. I suggested he reconsider giving it to me when he said he was thinking of keeping it, but he added that it had been rusting in the same place for over a year. He said I should take it. The conversation was calm and respectful; just as it should be, and we both expect it to be so. I don't do manic persuasion, and he doesn't do spiteful or selfish refusal.

Half an hour at home with the bike and I had it ride-able, after I rejoined the chain and secured the wheels with spare wheel nuts. I will probably fix it up with spare parts after I have resprayed it, and give it to him as a gift, if he wants it. But it will be in a queue for about a year because I have others to mend, use for donor parts, and just move around my home, until I make a decision to do something more expensive than I can afford to do, with the worst of them. They need a lot of attention.

My local shop is so much fun.

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Don't shake hands, wave instead

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 6 October 2025 at 09:23

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[ 4 Minute read ]

a stylised man standing either side of text that reads, Half Penny Stories

Don't shake hands, wave instead

I have a book open before me. In it, it says that a person with a coarse, clumsy and thick hand, with a heavy palm and short fingers, an elementary hand formation, has the lowest type of mentality.

       'Okay, infants. Come here. Show me your hands. Oh dear! Not one clever one among you!'

       'Now then, children, according to this book, you need long, angular and bony hands. It is a philosophic hand shape. If you have this bony hand shape, kids, it means you will gain wisdom but not money.'

They went back to dipping their hands in paint and sticking them to paper laid on the floor. My bare-footed wife hopped around and trod on each piece of paper that rose into the air, until their hands came free. Some of the cuddly toys had made their paw-prints too. She spared me an arched-eyebrow haughty glance. Hand prints was my idea. She has long, angular and bony hands. She also has opinions, an excellent memory, and a brilliant sense of timing. Which is why later, when I cuddle up to her in bed, I shall make the decision not to buy her a gift tomorrow. She will not have money from selling my gift; that much is true. She doesn't sell them; she keeps them all - to remind me who I am.

silhouette of a female face in profile

During my ambling around the village, I like to cheerily greet the locals. After a while, I notice a strange hand-gesture that indicates that they want to carry on with walking their dogs or something. Their half-closed hand rises from their side and comes up to their stomach, almost reaching their chest and then drops back down to their sides. It is a sign that they are uncomfortable.

A stylised man either side of text that reads. Half Penny Stories

I like to sing and fancy that I might break into spontaneous singing in the street this Autumn. The problem is that too many people still remember what Elvis Presley sounded like and they might think I am a charlatan, a pretender. I am a crooner, so some Country might work. Of course, I shall have to be selling Hot Potatoes from a hand-barrow as a reason to be standing outside. I would be looking for gentlemen in top hats to touch their hats and nod at me, and ladies in long dresses catching their breath with one hand while they hold their wide-brimmed, lace trimmed hats with the other. I fancy a hansom carriage might pass, with a generous and cheery benefactor aboard. 

silhouette of a female face in profile

The locals in my village slowly hurry off. I see it as rude desperation. They, to me, seem ill-equipped to end a conversation amicably. What they have done, I feel, is not given enough effort to the discourse. They have not given enough of themselves into a real-time moment and have lost control of the direction the moment might take. I am, of course, boring them. 

A stylised man either side of text that reads. Half Penny Stories

       'Bravo!' A shower of coins thrown my way. My gaze might leave the blushing ladies and be cast down to the ground.

       'Ah! Hugo, you scamp!' I might expect Hugo, my four-year-old neighbour to be hoping to share in good fortune. He has an eye for serendipity and a quick podgy hand. The twinkling of silver has changed to only brown. He isn't stealing, he has not yet comprehended individual possession. Later, he will swap some coins for caterpillars or something with the bigger boys in flat caps and bare feet.

silhouette of a female face in profile

Alternatively, the village locals are overwhelmed with useless information. I give them information that has no value. It cannot be exchanged for something else. It is non-transferable. 

These are not people who are browsing in a Victorian market lit by candle-light and lanterns, who are keeping an eye out for an amusing gim-crack or gew-gaw. They are instead, seemingly, half-conscious. 

It is odd to me that people want to be asleep while they are awake. When I next see the little hand gesture that indicates that they are about to slam the door on communication, I shall look more closely at the shape of it. Here then, is where the real problem lies. I am reading them like they imagine a psychiatrist might. They don't want to give anything away that might incriminate them, or get them in trouble. Plainly, I missed the lesson on how to make banal conversation that never breaks the veneer of privacy, and the lesson that focuses on never giving facts as friendly conversation. 

Most alarming is this: When I am at home there is no noise from a radio or television, a phone, or music player. When I do answer the phone and have a short conversation, and the call ends, the silence is heavy and pervasive. It distracts me from studying or focusing on anything. That is not to say that I could focus on anything that was not the phone call. No, unfortunately, for a brief time I was awoken from my secret slumber and now I have no noisy distraction again. i am suffering withdrawal symptoms. I, it seems, am a junkie. Worse, I am a pusher. 

That hand that both cheerily and sadly waves goodbye, also uses the same wave to say 'No, thanks!'

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Danger Squirrels

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 5 October 2025 at 06:10
 

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[ 3 Minute read ]

Danger Squirrels

Hah! I am so glad I that invented sober enthusiasm. I used to hate the wind. You know, that prevailing wind we get from the west. I used to have to cycle against that wind to work each early weekday. I got a job downwind after a  while. Much better. I was a paint sprayer. Sober in the morning and dizzy on the way home from the fumes. I never noticed the cruel wind. The wind and I were cosy friends, just cuddling together in a warm fug. I started on my route to gaining a Masters in invention and set myself on the path for a PhD in avoiding effort; or at least not recognising it. I got dizzily fit cycling against that wind for years.

One day, I was walking past an industrial estate and saw a man with his head down struggling against the wind on his bicycle. He passed me really slowly. If I ran I could have easily overtaken him. It was 12:34. I supposed he was late coming back from his lunch-break. I sympathised with him, and made a pact with myself never to do that. I used to rush back to work and use more energy arriving than when I actually worked. 

After that job I started remembering how the wind hated me, so I bought a boat; a 17ft sailing boat 7.9 metres. Ha hah! Blow wind blow! It makes my boat go faster! Except it didn't; not after it had reached its hull speed of four and a half knots or five miles per hour. The tidal current off the Kent and Essex coast (South East England) can be faster than that. My boat was moored there. I saw a sports catamaran fly across the water in a light wind easily faster than the tide. I sold my boat and bought a bigger one, 26ft, that had a hull speed of six and a half knots or seven and a half miles per hour. That was when I actually learnt what hull speed was. I can't sail a boat single-handed that is bigger than that so I sold it. But for a while I would notice a windy day and be pleased. 'Good Sailing day!' 

So, back to being tossed around by an unruly and boisterous wind for no reason. Such a waste of energy. Para-sailing should have been the next evolution. But no, my skateboarding skills were never going to be good enough to convince me to get wet while I do it tied to a kite. Should have at least practiced though; faster than that catamaran.

No, I have put on a little weight following my food-diet experiment a few weeks ago. Eating pies, butter, meat, and additives in ultra-processed food to see if my creativity changed. My sober enthusiasm granted me an idea. Lots of acorns were blown off an oak tree in my village. I have squirrels that dig up my garlic to bury walnuts in my garden. I gathered half a bucket of acorns and put them in my garden. Now the squirrels will get fat and make me feel better about myself. Job done. I won't need to exercise until Spring.

I might store some acorns for when the ground is frozen mid-winter, and leave them out then.

There is a tom-cat that bosses my neighbour Sally's cat. Sally has to take her cat to the vet sometimes. Perhaps the beefier squirrels will punch the bully cat, if I tip a bucket of acorns over the fence into her garden. They might be territorial. I am sure Sally will understand my sober enthusiasm! Maybe, I should throw an empty Amazon box with a corner chewed off and addressed to 'The Squirrels', over the fence too. 'It wasn't me, Sally!'

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I haven't got a clue

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Saturday 4 October 2025 at 05:50

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[ 2 Minute read ]

Continuing my theme from yesterday afternoon (15:29) on 'Things aren't quite what they seem' from 'Dangerously Lost in Translation'. click here: The Kate Bush Interview

 or here: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?user=852553&tag=Kate+Bush+interview.

I haven't got a clue

I keep bumping into Matt; it turns out that, that is the name of the Don who runs 'The Tomato Plant and Apple Gatherer' family in my road. He looks and talks normal; so normal that I would never guess he has heard of Noam Chomsky or Ludwig Wittgenstein. He launched into a speech on language acquisition. The funny thing is; he says he is interested in their approach to language development in children. He said his interest is in how children pick up language in the home. I mentioned 'prosody' to show him I care! You know, a verbal hug. I then said, 'Aren't we talking about behavioural and developmental psychology?' He wanted to leave then. I suppose, I don't know what I am talking about. I haven't got a clue. 

Interestingly, he said I am soft-spoken. I have never been accused of that before! I told him there is a raging fury inside of me. He didn't blink. 

       'Measured.' he offered. 'You are soft-spoken with us.' He pointed to Hugo, his four-year old. He has already trained Hugo to get as many advantages as possible. I had just bought a four-pack of toilet paper and it was in my bicycle basket. Hugo wanted me to share it. Poor lad desperately wants to have a long conversation with me about really long sweets that taste of strawberry and mango. Bless him! I haven't got a clue what to say about weird sweets. I could tell him what I used to eat but describing something to a four-year-old is like re-learning a foreign language you never knew in the first place, but thinking you are fluent. Slippery language is essential for communicating with infants, I find.

Measured! Slow-speaker! Maybe that's why people walk off from me when I am mid-lecture. My monologues are always crisp, fruity and fun, except, I suppose, if someone listens too quickly. The trouble is, I never talk from my core; only from a solid rampart. I told Matt, the tomato plant snatcher, that my speech is measured because I am educated; I am guarded. I shall speed up my speech. 'Think excited, Martin.' That way people will think I am smarter, I suppose. Slow-speaker!

       'In a good way.' Matt assured me. 'Boring!' I thought.

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Dangerously Lost in Translation

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 2 October 2025 at 20:03

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[ 4 Minute read ]

Lost in translation

I was watching a YouTube video of Kate Bush being interviewed in, I think 1985. You know, that amazingly creative performance artist-singer who went straight to number 1 in the UK pop charts with 'Withering Heights', and later had a recent revival with, 'Running Up That Hill' which featured in 'Stranger Thins.' I have never seen it, but I think it is a television series on how to lose weight. No?

A little way through the YouTube interview, I couldn't help noticing that she seemed amused by the questions she was being asked. Things become a little clearer as she manages to get the interviewer to understand just how creatively focused she is. I seem to remember that, in the 1980s, she was pilloried for being weird. The UK 1980s music was really diverse, following an odd 1970s cornucopia of pop sounds. Disco music in 1978 came from the likes of The Bee Gees, who held the top two spots in March with 'Night Fever' and 'Stayin' Alive' following the success of 'Saturday Night Fever'; Donna Summer - 'I feel Love'; and Village People with 'YMCA'. Disco was top and only really contested by Punk Rock -  The Sex Pistols, and The Clash, etc.

In January 1978, a skinny, wild-haired 18 year old woman with dance performance skills, including ballet, with an operatic screechy voice released 'Wuthering Heights'. In those days, singers and bands appeared on Top of The Pops, a weekly music show. With her waving arms, like an octopus in a strong current, and her Morticia Addams look, and her unique screechy voice, Kate Bush shocked us into paying attention. (Morticia Addams - Fictional character from The Addams Family).

In 1979, Gary Numan gave us 'Cars'; our first taste of synthesiser pop. Comments on a YouTube video include, 

'No matter how far in the future you play this song it will still sound like it came out in the future' - @michaelfrazia4569

'People in 1980: This makes me want to be in the 2020's. People in 2020: This makes me want to go back to the 80's - @futurecenterofficial

I like @Arielgrrl: 'I think it is hilarious that Gary Numan is two weeks older than Gary Oldman'

My favourite: 'This is the best 80s song of 1979' - @BellefontePerson

He really did sum up what the 1980s pop culture was about to experience. I strongly recommend listening to 'Cars' by Gary Numan, and 'Are Friends Electric?'

Gary Numan was the first of a wave of synthesiser hits. Meanwhile, Kate Bush carried on with her haunting songs and her performance dancing. Some said she was a recluse at the time. In the interview she says she had her own recording studio and took her time creating; all the while, she seems delighted at the questions given to her. There is a comment to that interview on YouTube that denigrates the interviewer, We have to understand that the interviewer and Kate Bush are seen as they were forty years ago. Things were very different then. I can just use a laptop today to get a broader and deeper sense of music, despite not really liking music, than somebody who had to immerse themself in music from an early age. Not only that, interviewers had to rely on their memories a lot of the time. 

The point I am making is that Kate Bush arrived when The Bee Gees had the two top pop spots during a disco-dominated UK hit chart; she traversed the Punk era, and continued screeching while the UK embraced New Wave; and she lived in a house with its own recording studio. What a weird woman, No! The timing was weird. Her career spans a strange transitional time in music popularity.

So, a lot can get lost in translation. Unfortunately, I came across a most troubling instance of mis-translation while watching the Kate Bush interview. YouTubers who upload to YouTube have to signify how many adverts they want YouTube to put in with their upload. Since everyone wants money, most agree to at least one.

Lots of adverts on YouTube are Chinese products, or at least from Asia. Sometimes, I think they use A.I. generative software for translation and speech synthesis from text.

Kate Bush is charming and delightfully complex but manages to be generous and charitable and honest in her interview answers. Suddenly, the interview is interrupted by the one ad in the video. It has a written and spoken strap-line.

'Extendable dog-beater for close combat'.

It is an extendable baton a bit longer than the UK police use which can be used to dissuade attackers. I skip all adverts, so I soon went back to charming Kate, smiling away. It was just so incongruous. Really interesting though.

I don't like providing links away from the OU pages, so hold down the CTRL key while you use the YouTube Kate Bush interview link below.

Kate Bush YouTube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QilTUQpH-Qs

There is a dog near a baton in the advert, if YouTube hasn't replaced it for no reason at all!

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 6 October 2025 at 21:46

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I prefer the end to the beginning

Beginnings are troublesome for me. It is like packing or a holiday by a British beach at the last moment and not knowing what to pack. Will it rain? Should I take some jumpers? Will the children need more pyjamas than when they are at home? Is there a launderette? Of course, all that is farcical but starting a new OU module has the same effect as being at the precipice of not knowing quite what to do.

I have a goal to meet and the opportunity cost of meeting that goal has to be measured against how I can operate in my other roles and responsibilities. This isn't a case of how many hours can I attribute to OU study; it is how much effort should I spend on which unit?

The start of the OU academic year means for me, more emails that demand my attention than all the other emails I receive in the rest of the whole year. I hate it. I am compelled to read anything that comes from the OU in case it is important. Invariably, I find it is superfluous to attaining my goal. I strongly dislike entities demanding my attention. I just want to be left alone to do what I do. Daily checking of my emails is dull and uninspiring. 

In the past, I have not gotten jobs I applied for because I did not want to contactable outside of work hours. I am mostly self-employed, with firm contracts that do not need discussing over and over again. I simply cannot understand how people seemingly want to change their minds all the time.

As an employer, I often had to use casual labour to fill in gaps in worker coverage at short notice. Securement of these workers was made around about three to five days before a job. I told each of them how much the job paid and guaranteed them half of the money if the job was cancelled by the customer. I knew that many people offered a days work next week will spend the money before they get it; so they borrow money with the intention of paying it back when they get paid. At £120 per day ten years ago, promising them half on a certain day, regardless of whether they worked or not, seemed to me to be the right thing to do. They had to turn up on the day though. 

Because I guaranteed the contract price and arrival times It was natural for me to seek consistency in all my undertakings. Now if I don't make changes in my interaction with people and businesses I get ripped off and people default on me. I paid thousands in penalties because someone else messed up. I never passed the buck and said, 'I'm not paying, it's not my fault!' I just pay and move on. I really can't stand wobbling.

I am looking forward to finishing my module so I can finish the next ones. Everyone else is looking forward to starting. My goal is to receive the information I need; not play around hunting for it. I need lists of requirements for a task to be tackled. There are a series of TMAs for each module. I don't see that, I see TMAs in parallel. There is a requirement to reach a certain percentage score or points; the way the OU work it out at level 2 and level 3 is beyond my spreadsheet formulation abilities, and I regard myself as pretty good at spreadsheets. With an EMA pass essential and this year worth 30% of the overall score; the first thing I am looking at, is completing the EMA. Most of us know the EMA is the last assignment. 

I know it all seems backwards, but I have a goal and I don't want to waste time on activities that add nothing to achieving my goal.

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Sociopathy

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 1 October 2025 at 16:05

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silhouette of a female face in profile  four highly stylised people facing each other. One is red.  Mental Health

[ 4 minute read ]

As we move towards The World Mental Health Day on the 10th October this year, I thought I might offer snippets on what shape mental ill health may take.

Sociopathy

'Sociopathy is a form of ASPD, characterized by a lack of empathy, disregard for others and persistent breaking of rules' - https://health.clevelandclinic.org/sociopath-personality-disorder

APSD is Anti-Social Personality Disorder. The most obvious symptom is 'having a consistent disregard for the rules and rights of others' (Cleveland Health Clinic). These people are not evil or mad or dangerous by default. I have a neighbour who has APSD. He rides his motorbike sensibly in built-up areas. Being young, he exhibits behaviour consistent with being young (such as he lacks experience in some things; he is trying new things; he is trying to find out where he fits in),  so being able to recognise that he has a mental illness is beyond almost everyone who is not a mental health clinician. My GP refers people who profess to having mental illness to a mental health team. She is not confident that she can diagnose someone as evil because they get in trouble with the law a lot. 

The Cleveland Health Clinic website goes on to say '“Sociopath” is an outdated, harmful term once used to describe someone who’s been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder (ASPD).'

They go on: '...nearly all signs of this condition involve significant, consistent and persistent disregard for other people.'

  • Strong disregard for social norms, laws or rules at home, at work, in school and other public places
  • Violating the rights of others
  • Minimizing others’ feelings and how they affect other people
  • Chronic manipulation, gaslighting, denial and deceit
  • Difficulty forming healthy relationships
  • Callousness and lack of remorse
  • Acting impulsively without concern for consequences
  • Attempting to gain power and control through aggression
  • A tendency toward petty crime, physical violence or fighting
  • Substance misuse

Like I said, a teenager who falls in with the wrong crowd.

Realistically though, the key thing to be aware of is, their behaviour must be 'significant, consistent and persistent'. Thankfully, even though I question reality, I do it from a position of trying to get a better understanding of reality. I also have a difficulty in forming healthy relationships. PTSD will make sure that the sufferer trusts no-one not to hurt them or to suddenly physically fall apart in instances of combat. 

A distinction can be made between PTSD as a result of domestic violence by a spouse, partner, sibling or parent, wherein the sufferer draws away from what may well be future beneficial relationships for them; and someone who due to having consistent disregard for others, acts impulsively, and is callous and remorseless, may have ASPD (Anti Social Personality Disorder). I think that someone with PTSD is the victim of someone who attempts to gain control and power through aggression, and is not the instigator of it. Indeed, there are many people who attempt to gain control with passive-aggression, as in 'I am right; You should think like me or you are wrong.' My brother would publicly ridicule my naivety to make a comparison to his three years more experience. Essentially, he got the support of a group to shore up his claims of superiority.

Let's face it; if you only have conversations within your own social group of people who only believe in the one and same thing, it is pretty easy to think everyone else is wrong. Thankfully, I only ever say what I think and never back it up with what someone else thinks. I don't overwhelm with numbers. 

When my neighbour with ASPD punched me in the face because I told him he nearly knocked me over on his moped, he didn't care. He acted impulsively and lashed out without thinking of the consequences. He was attempting to gain control using aggression. Another neighbour came along and told me that nobody likes me. I had only been living in my road for six weeks. What she was trying to do was gaslight me with passive-aggression, by trying to persuade me that because the majority have a singular opinion, then my perception of reality must be wrong. She showed a symptom of Anti-Social Personality Disorder. But, she doesn't consistently do this, or even persistently.

So, if I hear that someone has Anti-Social Personality Disorder I am first going to try to imagine what this person's goal is, and how do they shape their behaviour to get it. I am not going to think they are monsters of deception. The likelihood, if we apply only what we are told about people with ASPD is that anyone I meet with ASPD can't act in a consistent way to ever reach a goal anyway. That is plainly not true. While their behaviour and inclination to disrupt may inhibit their own progress we have to allow that every one of us exhibits something in the list above in greater and lesser degrees at different times of our lives, including before our first cup of coffee in the morning; after a divorce; or when we are stressed like immediately before an exam.

I suggest, that we be aware that pretty much all mental illness has crossovers in behaviour and attitude.

I invariably find that it is the person pointing the finger at someone else that is the most interesting person in the room. I find that they are trying to distract people from focusing on themselves. But Why? 

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My Strange Village

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 1 October 2025 at 09:31

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[ 8 minute read ]

My Strange Village

My village is near other villages. We are not remote so if you fall into the pub, covered in snow from a blizzard, the locals won't go silent and, as one, turn towards you with suspicion on their minds. 

       'Oo are you?'

       'They're not from round 'ere, are they?'

You won't hear that in my village. We are used to not recognising people and, because we don't have a bypass, any one of you might stop at our Post Office shop. That shop is not like the ones you might find in hamlets such as one I stayed in Ireland (Eire). There, the Post Office was in the same house as the shop and the pub. You could go in the pub in the evening and buy a tin of luncheon meat or a loaf of bread. Maybe you wouldn't buy both at the same time though. I think Irish people are not rude. But, in that hamlet everyone knew each other, so making a cheeky sandwich wasn't something they might have done to avoid buying one over the pub counter anyway.

I hitch-hiked to that Irish hamlet, and the chap who stopped for me was driving the first car that came along. I told him I was going to Knockavilla.

He wryly smiled at me, "You wouldn't be going anywhere else." It is pretty remote in some parts.

He stopped a few times along the way, at a few houses, exchanging or trading a couple of rabbits or a cake or something else. It is possible he was just the local link between friends, who lived a distance apart.

My village is not like that. My village has another village no more than three miles away in all four of the compass point directions. My village is also five miles from a city. You can't leave my village without entering another village with its own shop straight away. It is possible to escape, but if you cross the main road that bisects my village and one to the south, you will instantly be in another village. There are no gaps. The shop, the only one in my village is a fascination to me. I am interested in marketing, but have only used my knowledge for my own business, and that only evident online and through signage on my vans and lorries. Of course, marketing extends through customer satisfaction and word of mouth as well, and a myriad of other ways.

The shopkeeper is from Sri Lanka, and although he has had three shops before he opened this shop in my village he still has had to feel his way in this particular region. I live in a village with almost no social housing. I think he has not given enough time for wealthy home-owners to recognise what he has to offer. I can cook, and although I don't tend to eat any meals that one might ascribe to any region of the world, I will mix up ingredients to suit my own palate. This shopkeeper, I think, has a lot of experience of a lower socio-economic group than the locals here. I suggest, might have never lived alongside or originated from. I exaggerate a bit, but they might see the Asian staple foodstuffs in the local shop as belonging to a lower socio-economic class that is India or Pakistan or Afghanistan, especially in light of the shopkeeper being from Sri Lanka. Of course, they also might not. So that probably means that only I do, but only because I am aware of poverty in India, the second most populous country in the world. But that is where my thoughts stop. Asian staple foodstuff belongs to the world, just as potatoes, tomatoes and maize, or corn, from South America belongs to the world.

He tried cheap cakes on us; we didn't bite. I told him that I am the poorest person in the village and wouldn't buy cheap cake. I don't buy cake anyway; but if I did, I wouldn't buy cheap cake. He has started to throw away less cake now that he stocks quite expensive cake. The expensive cake is sold before the sell-by date. He does, however throw away packaged sandwiches.

One of his chill cabinets has broken down. It is right at the front of his shop. It has been like that for over a month now. You know, the silver covering pulled down to preserve the chill overnight. Not a good look. That is where he kept the milk. The price he sells milk at, £1.69 for 2 litres, is not even a loss-leader (something that retailers sell at a loss to get customers into the shop). He makes a profit on it. At the moment, he keeps the milk at the back of the shop away from flighty customers' gaze. In fact, it is the last place a browsing customer would go to. It is in the furthest corner in the alcohol aisle. Along with it are the snacks that builders working in the area might buy for lunch, or the very small number of office workers working in the adjacent dentist, or the minders from the playgroup over the road. You get the picture; if you are not from round 'ere, you won't find the packaged sandwiches or Ginsters pies. Pretty dismal isn't it? Like I said, he throws a lot of packaged sandwiches away.

I pointed out to him that the locals only buying newspapers are probably never aware of the price of his milk. They are probably not aware he sells milk now, either. You see, the chill cabinet where the milk was kept is on the same wall as the door to the shop (in the front side corner). Most people continue to drink cow milk beyond their childhood and so they continue to produce lactase to break down the lactose in milk. I suggest that people who buy newspapers are not young people, and just might have milk in their tea in the morning while they read the paper. However, I never see newspaper purchasers buy milk in my local shop. They walk in and head straight to the newspaper stand with their backs to the redundant chill cabinet where the milk used to be (unseen) and where a small A5 sign waffles on about a broken fridge and the milk is now in the alcohol aisle. 

I have studied marketing to FHEQ level 7 Advanced Diploma. I am driven totally crazy by this man's reluctance to market his products. I suggested that the broken chill cabinet is an opportunity to engage his customers in conversation. Perhaps he doesn't like to talk. Perhaps his suspicion of people stems from shoplifters he encountered in his other three shops that he has serially closed, that is if he is suspicious. He might be timid, or not be entirely sociable; many shopkeepers are like that - 'Yeah, yeah! I don't make money from selling a single item. Just give me the money. You haven't paid enough to warrant a conversation.' Too cynical?

I suggested that he advertise the price of his milk with a little A5 chalkboard set up like an easel on his counter. The customer might ask where the milk is and he then has an opportunity to tell them not only where it is but also about the fine choice of charcuterie (Fr. prepared meats) including Polish sausage. I suggested to him that he very much should tell the customers wanting milk about the snacks and , because if he knows they want milk they will seek a large expanse of white from a background of vibrant colour. Once they see the white, they will hone in on it, and not look around. They won't look because they are in the alcohol aisle. The milk is at the bottom of the chill cabinet. The good stuff, that returns more profit, is at eye level, but not for someone seeking milk; they are looking floorwards. They expect to see only alcohol elsewhere. Alcohol is not something they want early in the morning. Because they don't want something they will blind themselves to other things.

The shopkeeper told me that he has entered into a contract with Premier, who will be his main supplier. In doing so, he will reduce his shop floor space by a third to make room for storage, thereby reducing his product range. The question I ask myself is; why has Premier compelled the shopkeeper to reduce his product range and desirability of his shop? Inevitably, the products that will go will be his unique selling point (USP); the Asian staple foodstuffs (Lentils and dried beans; Cassava or manioc; and the herbs, spices and condiments that add flavour). I did a straw poll in my village and there is a growing interest in trying the Asian foodstuffs. My shopkeeper doesn't know this because he won't engage the customers in conversation, or do any kind of market research. In a village close to other villages with shops and close to a city, I suggest, you need to talk. 

Why has Premier compelled the shopkeeper to reduce his product range in favour of creating storage space? It is pretty obvious really. More storage space means less frequent deliveries and because he has a low turnover of goods, Tesco, who owns Premier and Booker, and operate articulated lorries for deliveries, don't want to waste money on fuel and driver hours, making frequent top-ups of only a few units of only a few items. Also, being a village it is hard to turn an articulated lorry around. Tesco wins while the shopkeeper loses. Not only that all the villagers lose too. 

Only half a mile away, in a neighbouring village, is a Co-op medium size shop which stocks the usual fare and directly competes with all the rest of the supermarkets on price and product range. They sell reasonably priced vegetables. The shopkeeper in my village plans to stock perishable items (vegetables) at Tesco (Premier) prices (not cheap) instead of stocking frozen and dried produce / non-perishable products.

Well, who am I to be confused? I am not going to tell him how or what to think or what to do. I am not going to validate myself by showing him my certificates, or quote Philip Kotler or Seth Godin. I tried my best to point out how I shop. I will just go to the Co-op with the same prices as Premier, but with a wider product range and without the cheap cakes. 

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Honest Lies

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 30 September 2025 at 13:36

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[ 9 minute read ] 

Honest Lies

My friend told me that the BBC in the UK is not funded solely funded by tax-payers money. It gets revenue from advertising on the internet. Personally, I think they, in doing so, have undercut their integrity. However, I don't care, because the only BBC broadcast I listen to is the BBC World Service; and even then, only when the needle on the LBC record is stuck. (LBC is a nationally broadcast, music-free radio station). 

Most of my time is spent with the radio off, and I have no television to distract me from real life. I do, however, remember repeats from the 1970s like The Waltons and Little House on The Prairie. I miss them. I seem to remember they were a bit like mission plays in a kind of fable way. There was, I think, a moral to the story; something wholesome to be learnt. I think people like those shows because the were uncomplicated and honest.

Honesty, the subject and theme of this post, is one of my favourite topics. I understand how it is difficult to be honest with others and especially ourselves. I have heard that one of the most difficult things about lying is that one has to continue to lie in order not to reveal the original lie. I have also heard that it is extremely difficult to consistently lie because lies, being not real events, have no history to each one. Only a fictional history can be added, as in a prequel. These fictional prequels are eminently checkable. Best keep fiction in the here and now and as false promises, eh?

I get why Christians might be try to align themselves with, or attach themselves to an honest person. They might feel that they are experiencing God through a real person. (I can tell you that humans are kind). They might be encouraged to try to emulate that person's honesty. There is, I suggest, a strong parallel concept when Christianity and honesty are independently considered and compared. Of course, I do not intend to reduce any religion down to a simple notion of concepts. Let it suffice that the point I am trying to make is after giving up everything to worship a Supreme Being, trying to achieve a state of cleanliness free from sin is the leading necessity in religion. Put crudely, though I believe it is also accurate, this is taking a step to give up on everyone else for the sake of a single goal. For me, that is absolute truth. For a Christian it is God; or if they describe God - absolute truth. But the act of worshipping God is the only necessity for a Christian religion. Actually, doing it, requires another religion: honesty. Like a alcohol and substance abuse addict, abstention requires willpower and grit and determination. Ultimately, it means losing 'friends' and familiar places to go hang around in. For example, it wouldn't take me long drinking and leaning against a pub bar with other people to 'back-slide' into spreading lies. I actually don't get addicted to alcohol or anything else. I stopped eating fatty or sweet foods like pies and cakes and have no problem ignoring them in shopping aisles, just like not drinking alcohol or smoking despite being a heavy user of both in the past. But lying, that is a tricky one.

So, here is where I find a parallel. Because I can ignore other people's feelings I could be called psychopathic. But, that is a sweeping and, I suggest, an ill-informed opinion. the clue is in 'I can'. I don't switch my emotions off. Once upon a time, they were switched off by my mind to protect me from further emotional harm. i could have stayed that way but chose not to. I decided to care; to experience; to be like an android or robot or Pinocchio and get confused by conflicting feelings. A born-again Christian (someone who has chosen to be a Christian, rather than be one from birth) gives up people. They decide, hopefully by themselves, that God is more important than people; including their family and friends. There is an overwhelming urge to throw in 'Selfish!' at this point. There! I did.

I propose that Christians feel guilty about putting God before everything else and seek to don attributes that they consider to be 'Christian-like'. Honesty! It is no wonder that we hear so much about it from Christians' mouths. I think it is one of the Ten Commandment given to Moses who had momentarily escaped from the hub-bub and thrum of a crowd. I think it is something about not bearing false witness against your neighbour. I think that means you can lie about your enemy, if we take those words without the context in which it might have been meant; that is if we can, or want to, give credence to an historical event, and want to transpose it for relevance in a modern context, today.

That last aside, I can be honest without really any effort at all. That does not make me worthy of praise or approbation. It also should not mean that people should look to me for advice; neither should anyone try to emulate me; or attempt to be honest in their own lives. I am not an icon of righteousness. I am someone who can give a damn, or a hoot, or a fig; but because I am honest, there are not many people around me to give damns, hoots, and figs to. This means, I can be honest with strangers who will, therefore, always be strangers. Do you see where I am going with this?

I think I scare the 'heebie-jeebies' out of people. They don't have any heuristics to deal with someone who has no damns, hoots, or figs to give. I don't even have a presentation display case of them. I hated the WYSIWYG (wizzywig) acronyn when I first come across it and thankfully it had gone until, Voila! Here is!. But that does describe me pretty accurately. Almost without exception, I feel that everyone I meet or who knows me somehow, thinks I am an idiot. If I was an object I would be a kaleidoscope. I have no position from which my character is known other than honesty, righteousness and moral rectitude. Everyday, a new set of circumstances arises and I do not have a solid standpoint. I give some topics as examples: taxes; immigration; family, men and women. These are social issues that, as topics, tend to cause similarly-minded people to clump together and, like arm-chair critics, firmly pontificate, promulgate and expostulate. 

An amusing aside - I won a five pound bet that both 'postulate' and 'expostulate' are not only in the dictionary but also have the same meaning. You can think you know Latin, but....

I mentioned to someone that I like women's football. I only see it at my friend's house. He mentioned something about female body shapes, and I said, "No, I like they way they play football. It is noticeably different to how professional male footballers play". He looked confused. As a man, I broke a golden rule.

You see, this is honesty. Not that I am telling him or you what I thought and revealed that many men look at sportswomen with a naughty glint in their eyes. Everyone knows that. The truth is that I see beyond a female shape. The truth is that I notice that The Lionesses pause, control the ball, and then shoot; while a male England player volleys the ball from a well-aimed cross. The truth is that women are seemingly not comfortable volleying footballs in major matches. I have no idea about league games. I like players controlling footballs. I can see what is happening. 

It may be so that I see things that other people do not see because I have no emotional attachment to certain things. Raise taxes; tax the rich; tax the poor; tax school-children (not toddlers though); tax the children of dead people. It is all the same to me, because I am both; not prescient; and have no information on the duration of taxation. 

Every tax incurred will result in a different future than if that tax was never collected. But that is just a tiny part of tax. All the tax collected could be burned and we might look only at the reduction of spending money people have. The tax money could be squandered or used wisely. We could be better off or worse off. I am not an economist, so even if I knew all the variables I could not even guess at how the future would be; An economist would need to also be prescient to know what a future might hold, because we have Global Trading to queer any plan for any future. You know, The Butterfly Effect. Loosely then, tax people bad! Don't tax people bad!

I am weird to them, because I am honest with myself, in that I know that I know nothing about the future; my future and all of our futures. So, I will not moan with strangers or acquaintances about stuff they think is important. Please, I think, Just go home and quietly cut your grass, or kiss your loved ones (but never your dog first). 

However, these people also know I am educated. I suspect they think I am dangerous and not to be trusted, because I won't agree with the 'wool they pull over their eyes'. The pigeon-hole I think they put me in, is 'Idiot / Simpleton'. It is really annoying because it is a trigger for my PTSD, but habituation slowly works away on me.

In fairness, I think some people, if they analysed what I am doing during our conversations is that I am pulling my punches. Another way to see that is; my spirit is holding up a banner that says: 'Never pull the tail of a sleeping Tiger!' But, like me, my spirit won't quite tell the whole truth by adding an explanation.

Oh, wait! In the last paragraph, I have just described everyone, I think.

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Stop Thief

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Sunday 28 September 2025 at 18:55

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[ 15 minute read ] 3200 words

Stop Thief

A couple of days ago, my theme was on peripheral information, such as reading between the lines and people lurking in the shadows; and the relevance of peripheral information. That theme was picked up and minced to negate my meaning.

I do not have a hidden agendum and clearly state that content or themes in my posts are not written to bolster any agenda that others have, including agenda that is in line with a cult, religion, or self-promotion.Those three are often egregiously conflated. Any connection, whether by addition to, or negation of, other people's, posts published later than this, is fabricated to be so according to their own agenda, or agendum.

I have posted this as late as I can, today.

In writing an email, I formed an idea that many of us bolster ourselves by aligning with something we think is worthy of our attention, in the hope that association with something valuable will also show ourselves to be valuable. That is how marketers sell us expensive watches, cars, fashion, make-up, alcohol etc.

Many of us think that religion is something that we should ascribe our lives to. I don't have a problem with that; not one bit. In fact, I very nearly studied for a degree in Divinity. I find religion to be an incredibly interesting subject. I even studied 'Religious and Secular Ethics' with the, now defunct, London Bible College. It might have only changed its name, which is why if you Google, Wikipedia has this: 

'The London School of Theology, formerly London Bible College, is a British interdenominational evangelical theological college based in Northwood within the London Borough of Hillingdon.'.

I got 63% in my exam, as someone hovering on the threshold of giving up (in the wider spiritual sense, but not with an ultimate mortal finality). Really good course! I thoroughly recommend a similar one. Religion is among us and presents itself on a daily basis. I, like tens of millions of others, do not want it rammed down my throat by a fanatic cult member, or anyone who is associated with, or has been associated with, a cult. 

A conversation, I had, with one of my neighbours drifted into a conversation with his next-door neighbour. He is a Muslim. I have no problem with that, at all. Here is a deeply religious man; a man for whom I have a good deal of respect. Why? Because he reveres God; he makes time for his religion; and he will not be swayed from practicing his religion. But, if I can find reasons to respect him, I should already have at least one reason not to respect him if things were different, right? But, I suggest, we rarely look for flaws to substantiate our beliefs. That requires a different kind of thinking that, as far as I know, is not automatic in us. I was going to write: 'quite simply because we do not need to use it to survive'. I am not sure that is true though. 

From an A4 hand-written sheet on my wall: 'In Social Science, hypotheses are tested in their negative form. This form of hypothesis is called the null hypothesis. The intent is to prove the positive hypothesis.'

I suppose an example of this, is when we ask ourselves: If you could paint a picture of your own heaven or paradise, what would you put in your painting. I mean fine art - with scenes and objects, not modern symbolic art. Many of us would leave out a whole bunch of stuff which we only realise we would have included, when we consider the opposite environment; a most negative environment; hell, or hell on earth, however, you want to safely imagine it. When painting a representation of hell, canny people might paint a desert with no water, and have too much heat or cold; or an absence of living people, yet people are still represented, even if it is no more than destroyed houses in the painting. If we then go back to our painting on heaven or paradise, I suggest, we realise that we have not included water, or family and friends, or food, or love, or respect, or a whole bundle of stuff. What we have come to realise is that by recognising an opposite to something we love or crave, in effect, I think, we have a deeper understanding of what is important to us.

I respect my Muslim neighbour because he does not take anything from me. He does not demand my time; he does not demand my respect; he does not shove his ideas down my throat; important to me, is that his strong belief means he will not pass off something I have highlighted as his own consideration; and he does not try to indoctrinate people - he does not claim significance by being a Muslim. To him, his reverence for Allah prohibits him from using Allah as a signifier of his relevance. He is validated by following Islam - he validates Islam. And it is the last, indoctrination, that is a key signifier as to his whether he should be respected. In order to indoctrinate with religion, there is a tendency to back up one's words with quotes from religious text. In other words. 'Believe ME because it says so here.' I find that to be entirely despicable and abhorrent because the person is validating themselves. This is why I must state that I am not colluding with anyone to compel people to believe something.

My posts are completely out of my own head and many people recognise them as brutally and ruthlessly honest. I believe someone scrabbling for recognition and validation may use any religion to back up their words. Foolishly, they might also find something in any person's honesty and attach themselves to that. In my mind, what they are actually doing by stealing themes or padding out themes is diluting the truth. If it was truth that initiated any good thoughts, I believe I should not mess with it. Inevitably, we are going to queer it with our falsehood. The falsehood I am trying to outline and fill in with colour, is the need to present ourselves as similar to something that we find relevant or important to ourselves.

Being honest, is really hard. It is difficult because we are, I suggest, surrounded by falsehood. I wrote this a long time ago and filed it in the 'Religion' folder on my laptop:

a man either side of text that reads Half Penny Stories

Demons and Devils

Drawing attention to Oneself

       'The attention of the demon-possessed grows ever greater and gradually they creep forward, their ears pricking. Only when the believer swears or curses does the attention of the demon-possessed wane and turn elsewhere, As though the threat of detection is too much to bear does one allow filth to gush from one's mouth.

Or, perhaps the evident building of force from the demon-possessed causes the believer to swear, thus causing the believer to become further from God, We must hold hard. Our weakness is wanting to belong, to not be ostracised, to not feel threatened.'

END

It isn't really a story, but I have to distinguish it as such because it is an example environment that comes from my imagination, and as such, is likely to be untrue. I use the 'Sophia' icon to represent truth (my honesty at least).

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One of my most hated character flaws is that I will lie. Years ago, I decided I would tell the truth, perhaps politician-like, but hopefully not, because paltering, which is what we hear when they don't want to tell us something, is also lying. In a TMA question on reflecting on oneself, I lied when I wrote that I enjoyed one subject more than the others. If the question was re-framed to be. 'Which unit or subject did you hate the least?'  I wouldn't have needed to lie. However, the question was on which subject or unit did I enjoy the most. Even if I did enjoy a subject, I didn't want to share that information to a tutor who will probably make a note of it. The fact that my answer was a lie and submitted over five months ago, and I am still very much aware of the lie, might give you some idea of how troubled I am about falsehood. I will never be able to recover from that. Just like a recovering addict, my tally of abstention was reduced to zero. Why did I do it? To make sure I passed the module and be able to move onto the next. I really don't know if it was worth it. I am thinking it was not. I would have passed without even submitting that TMA. I could have completely skipped it, but actively chose to lie throughout the whole TMA, quite simply because I knew what to write to pass the TMA. Shown in the open like that, each to a one, we condemn all me as a harbour for falsehood. I tried to use the French verb 'habiter' but couldn't bend it enough before it snapped. 'J'abite mensonge.' You see how I have corrupted something beautiful. Only fools are impressed by a fool.

So, when someone expands on anything in my posts to further their own goals I am livid. There is worse; when someone twists or expands on my themes or words to further themselves, I recognise a weak and feeble cheat; a charlatan. Perhaps my truth is weak and does not stand scrutiny, but it is my truth and I make sure that is known.

I have a few times stated that I shall never write a book. I do not want people to reference me, and I especially would not want a book reviewer seeking validation to gain any vicarious credence from my work. 

How ugly it is when things are shown in the light. The Open University teaches some of its students to critically analyse other people's words and write a review of their work. Unfortunately, there are some people who, in my mind, believe this to be an admirable quality to hone and perfect. It is parasitic. Without other people's efforts beforehand a reviewer ceases to exist. I shall have to review other students' submissions in forums. I find it so vastly abhorrent that I will get credence for being a parasite, and it is because I have already lied, and acted as a traitor to myself and disrespected everything I spent years working towards, that I have find myself with only four choices. 

  1. Plead for an alternative test. 
  2. Avoid commenting on any student's work, yet still submit my own.
  3. Lie
  4. Leave the Open University degree program

I now have three choices since lying is not going to happen, and from that list of three, pleading for an alternative test on account of any eligibility shall also be removed. I am not a quitter so I have no energy for leaving the degree program. So, I must avoid commenting on anyone's work as a task that would personally give me credit or approbation. I can tell the truth, but nobody wants that, and I would not get any points, so I would need to lie. Paltering, you understand, is lying. When I submit my posts in the mandatory forums I shall add that I invite comments only on what is wrong with my posts and comments on what can be improved. It is presumptuous for me to think that anyone might like something I might write. However, it is difficult for us to always find something positive to say. I hope to remove that onus from commentators of my work. I requested that my tutor for an earlier module give only correction and advice on what is wrong with my TMA submissions on the basis of not being able to fix things that are correct or done well. My tutor's job was much easier; the feedback was freely honest and did not need to be couched in encouraging terms and it was easier for me to understand. I really an that serious about honesty. I suppose trying to be honest requires accepting it from others too. Just my thoughts.

There are only two goals or agenda in my life: Be honest and cause other people to consider being honest as a option that will not necessarily harm them; and make sure that people know that being mentally unwell, whether it is frequent, infrequent, temporary or permanent, treatable or not treatable, is normal and interesting. An example is when we dream, and then say to someone, 'I had a weird dream last night', and then go on to describe a psychotic incident. Happily, we believe that we are not really like that. Aren't you? I am fairly certain that every one of us believes something about ourselves that everyone else cannot see in us. The problem we face, I suggest, is that we steal to feed our self-told lies. 'I am kind, and I am right.' should be: 'I give away what I do not need, and I fool myself because I have convinced myself that I have completely and fully understood something.'

I believe that, being honest means trusting ourselves. You might understand now why I am more than annoyed when anyone thinks it is okay to steal or expand on themes when they have not checked themselves for falsehoods. 

'Oh come on, Martin. A leopard can change its spots!' No amount of religion or worship can do that if we are dishonest with ourselves. I am not a writer. I have never written a book. I lack creativity. I have no talent. I freely admit it. I suggest that the first thing to give up is our desperate need to feed on other people, to make comparisons with liars, and give up trying to pull down anything that exceeds our abilities.

In an earlier post in which I published a pseudo-interview with myself I wrote:

'...I live in a constant state of searching for either escape routes or solutions that satisfy the situation, though not necessarily me. In real terms, this means, to me, Fight tooth and nail using smiles and kid-gloves to attempt to achieve an unrealistic vision of peace (which even worse, provides only succour) against people who would vindictively tear my guts out if I show my soft under-belly, simply because it is in their nature to do so.'

What did I mean by that? By being honest, I reveal myself to be flawed; by being honest, I reveal myself to have weaknesses; by being honest, I trigger the compulsion in others to try to overwhelm me and take advantage of me and anything I do. But no, that is less than a tiny bit of it. By being honest, the falsehood in people is pricked and they, like the demons and devils in the earlier imaginative piece, will seek to destroy and twist something that is merely my thoughts, to favour themselves and their indoctrinating natures. These posts are merely my own thoughts; they are not yours; they are not hers or his; they are not theirs. If you are inspired by them and feel you want to expand on them, you first need to recognise that these are not your thoughts that you are expanding on, so if you publish your expansion you have to reference me as the source of your expansion. If you do not, you are plagiarising me. Similarly, If you want to gain some credence for your new revelation and you post your thoughts on the same platform, juxtaposed to someone else, from whom you have agreed or disagreed with, you need to make sure that people know you are inspired, or angered, or in disagreement with the post you have chronologically posted next to, if the content is significantly connected to. To whit: If I write about my version of truth but you see things differently, you need to reference me. Of course, anyone who is not trying to popularise themselves would do so. You don't actually have to do any of that in an OU blog post. It is just polite, fair and sincere. I suggest that if you don't play fair, you are a charlatan.

Plagiarism is a no-no in academic study with the Open University; see this tutor's post: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/viewpost.php?post=286521

Despite a sweeping mood of unrest sweeping the country at present, I cannot help recognising that my Muslim neighbour with his religious approach to his religion is far more respectful to me than a zealot that wants to further his own goal to popularise himself by aligning himself or herself with a few thoughts on honesty and quoting the Bible. My Muslim neighbour is advanced in his attitude towards his God. He would not entertain my thoughts at all when he considers his faith. He, however, would, if he talks from his own self thoughts. For him, when considering his religion and my thoughts, 'Never the twain shall meet'. 

With this in mind, and my repulsion from self-promotional individuals who claim to be better than truth would reveal, some people are not welcome to my thoughts, because it is like throwing pearls to swine. They gobble them up and all that comes of it is pearls covered in muck. Truth is shrouded and transmogrified into something evil-smelling by ego and falsehood.  

I have made statements that I resent my creativity and work being used to promote an individual, but still my posts get used in that way. My posts are not meant to be used to raise people or diminish them, including myself. If a reader can find some way to raise themselves through being honest, then you have my attention. If I say something about myself that is good, I hope I can also say that it is because I saw the opposite in me and that is how I have learnt. Why I have learnt is because I don't want to repeat my undoings.

Back to commenting on other students' posts in mandatory TMA forums: In adding my thoughts based on the practice of close analysis, I have to promote myself as being perspicacious no matter how well or shoddily the student has presented their work, or how much they have gleaned from the course. I must find a way to remove myself from praise or merit, while also showing that I have learnt from the task and the content published by my fellow students. I cannot expand on their work without weakening their effort. Being patronising is one of my faults. 

In the light of day: 'That is a wonderful painting of mummy and daddy, but people are not bigger than houses.' Someone who understands why the parents are represented as bigger than the home would know that the parents are more important to the child than the home. A crass person would patronise the child with physics. The child would be crushed. 

Please don't expand on my themes before you are certain I have not already covered it. Sometimes it is the exploration that is important; spelling it out in an expansion crushes and negates an experience. Please, don't steal that from someone.

 

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I need to make this clear

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I am in no way affiliated with Jim McCrory, or his views. We do not have the same views or goals. Please do not feel that any of my posts published earlier than his, on the same day, endorse any of his later posts in which he expresses his attitudes or beliefs.

Any common themes in my posts and his later posts are entirely fabricated by him without my permission. 

I have, on occasion, previously moved my posts away from his to avoid any connection to him, his views and his posts.

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Don't believe me I am disrespectful

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Friday 26 September 2025 at 10:46

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[ 7 minute read ]

Don't believe me I am disrespectful

I am not competitive. I look at other people to assess how well I am doing; I have had to do that for a long while. I am disappointed. I know that lots of people are leaning on others for support; I don't do that. I don't trust people, because huge numbers of them are competitively crushing what they see as beyond their capability. They are cheats. They are thieves. They are liars and blaggers.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease. I am disappointed. 

If you take certain elements from my last post, 'The effects of being sorry' (yesterday) and put them into some kind of A.I. text generator, you might get a make-believe story with the same elements but attributed to different people. 'recent death', 'grief', 'fortitude', 'woman', 'eighteen years old', 'support', That takes no creativity or effort. Even if I never write a book (and I never will) I can pretend I have written a book by saying I am a writer and use A.I. to generate an image that shows what I would like my book to look like. I can take a photo of my bookshelf and say that my books are situated somewhere on the bookshelf. If I have written only one book, I can put numerous copies of the same book on the bookshelf, and make sure the title is blurred, to make the viewer think I have written more than one book, when in fact, there are multiple copies of the same book. 

My goal is to highlight human emotions. I don't need a degree to do that. I only need the technique of story-telling. I am enraged by people who take something kind and thoughtful and claim it as their own. I shall never make a lot of money. I don't need a degree to be rich, because I never will be. My success is not measured by how many people know me or my name, or how many 'friends' I have. My success is measured by how honest I am, and noticing that other people do not feel afraid of being honest. Why am I like this? Why do I not crave approbation? From whom? Liars, cheats, and charlatans who think that success is measured by how high up one is in an hierarchy of deceivers? Not on your Nelly! 

In sitting, just sit. In standing, just stand. Above all, don't wobble. What does that mean? Practically nothing if you do not know yourself. If you are living, then live; it could mean that. It could also mean, don't be a anarchist lawyer. It might mean to some people, make a decision about what you are going to do, who you love, who you don't love. It might mean take a position and defend it. It means, to me, stop dithering and stop grasping at straws. If I have no talent I avoid doing things that require a talent to do them. When I get to the end of my degree program. I shall not hover in the Open University background for three years as alumni. I shall not keep crowning myself because I fail to be continually crowned by others. Here, I am not considering the attainment of a degree as being a crown, or lack of one. I shall quietly leave with my degree, because I am only studying at degree level to get the knowledge I need to quietly leave (and live, to do something I like).

There are alumni persons who stay around and help students. These are invaluable to everyone's learning, including tutors, examiners, course writers, and all kinds of academics. There are also peripheral alumni people: like institutionalised prisoners they hang around in a liminal state, neither alive nor dead. I hope I will never be that. Thank you to those who help us. My brother was a conspiracy theorist who told people how they should live. Because he was part of a community of people who believed the same things as him, he felt that his opinion was valid. That is psychosis:

       "I have knowledge and you don't. You should do what I tell you to do. Live your lives like this. Believe this. It is all in this book and in this video."

We would have laughed, but everyone recognised a bully. Any truth he may have said was drowned by his other forceful words. He was an evangelist conspiracy theorist, and an evangelist vegan. Because he believed something he believed everyone else should believe the same. He crowned himself a guru of living, when all he realistically did was destroy relationships and turn people away from seeking any truth in his wild words. If he was a Christian, people would have stopped believing in God. He was the sort to take individual pieces of information and thrust them down people's throats as the truth. If he had a Bible he would not bother with syllogisms to offer to people as reasoned arguments from premises found in the Bible. He would, in this way, show that he had no spiritual life or knowledge to share. He was not alive even while he breathed. He was a shell with nothing of him inside, except ranting rhetoric to quell human ambition, because despite his narcissism, he knew he was lacking. Harsh words, huh? I simply don't lie; that is what I saw.

Like abusive older siblings, food critics and book reviewers, especially book reviewers, who take themselves seriously, they are only giving a subjective opinion based on their own experiences and the environment they are from and not necessarily in. Book reviewers are trained to review books; I am being trained to do that, and I will abandon doing that training as soon as I can, and entirely forget how to strip someone's creativity down into worthless chunks merely to pass a module. No-one, I suggest, actually needs these people. I suggest that, they are parasitic middlemen creaming off a living from someone else's creativity. Yet, the general public rely on star ratings from unmet people. I don't know them, so I certainly don't trust their comments. Everything comes down to cultural relativism for assessing qualitative comments by the public. "It is the best hotel I have been to"; "It is the best book I have read"; "She is the kindest person I have ever met". All written by someone who has never stayed in a hotel before; has just read a book for the first time; and is describing an air steward; an air steward who has been trained to present as being kind and is compelled to show it, otherwise they will lose their job. 

My point is that only the living, and the lively, should talk about living......the rest of us should quietly move on. I write these posts because I am alive; I am learning. When I start telling people how to think and how to live according to someone else's ideas, I shall know that I died and have nothing of myself left. If I tell people how to think, it will not be someone else's thoughts I speak, it will be entirely from my own experiences. This is one of the strongest reasons I dislike quoting, citing and referencing other people in essays; because I am compelled to show that I am only partially alive, and need a crutch to support my living state (pass a module). I am still at level one in my degree and 'champing at the bit' to start breathing for myself. I am currently only writing essays about what other people have said. I am a reviewer of other people's comments. My current module makes this clear to anyone who cares to read between the lines. Effectively, it says. 'We can't believe everything we read and ancient ruins only tell a partial story.'

You are right, I am not doing a STEM degree.

Finally, you and your degree are important and everything you do with the Open University is valid and adds to your credibility, if you move on and use it in the real world. 

My understanding of Level One modules is that we may not find all the subject material to be interesting, or feel it is useful. I have even read that somewhere on the OU website. At level one, we are learning how to learn. If you care to take my weak advice: It is showing that you are learning to learn, with a smattering of subject material to stitch it all together that passes TMAs at level one. 

Don't let me discourage you. I am a ranting idiot who is disrespectful because I lack understanding.

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The effect of being sorry

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 25 September 2025 at 08:20

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[ 4 minute read ]

The effect of being sorry

Something that has always stayed with me is the evening I met a troubled young woman.  I was outside my flat and had only walked about twenty metres or 60 or 70 feet towards the city centre, when I noticed a young woman walking towards me and crying. I asked her what was wrong and she sobbed a little and said, "Nothing" like we do when we haven't put anything into words because we haven't started processing anything. I pressed her a little. "No, it's alright. What's wrong?' 

She was upset and feeling sorry for herself because her boyfriend had abandoned her in the city centre. I suppose they had, had an argument. She was in her late teens. She told me that she lived a long way out of the city and had no money. I felt sorry for her because I knew the city well and all the surrounding towns and villages. I knew how far she would have to walk, and I had some money, in the bank.

We walked a bit closer to where she lived, into the next clump of shops, banks and car service stations one expects to find just outside a city centre but still within the scope of the city. That was where the nearest bank I could get money from, was. I withdrew ₤20 and gave her ten. I called a taxi and we waited outside a pub. Rochelle told me that she was eighteen. Then she was so happy that someone was saving her that she became a bit amorous and wanted to know my name. I didn't tell her. She wanted to know my telephone number; "So, I can thank you again." I didn't tell her. She wanted to know where I lived. "So I can return the money!" I didn't tell her. 

       'I just want to thank you.' she said, hugging me. I let her hug me and hugged her back, but turned from her attempts to kiss me.

       'I will do anything.' she said, looking me in the eye. I refused to follow her lead in conversation.

I didn't feel at all uncomfortable, but I was a little relieved when the taxi turned up. I unhooked myself from Rochelle and spoke to the driver.

       'She wants to go home; to ******. Here's £10 for the fare. I know it is enough for her journey. If she wants to get out early and wants the fare money, let her out but keep the money; she has more money if she needs it. Once you are outside her house, tell her the fare is already paid, and give her the change from this £10. Thank you, Sir.'

Rochelle got in and they left. I didn't worry about her. I was fairly sure she would be fine. I was just glad I could help. I had given her £10 for herself, in case the driver gave her some grief and she had to get out before she arrived home. Rochelle was very attractive. By this time though, I was sure that she was more in control of herself than when I had met her earlier. At least she had options.

Something I never told Rochelle was that twenty minutes before we met, I had received a phone call from my sister telling me our dad had just died. I was heartbroken. I had worked in Germany with him and experienced so many wonderful new things. He had always spread a protective wing over me because he knew that I was deeply wounded. I was about to go into the city to get a little drunk. It was expected that he would die soon, but still I was not prepared. Yet, I could not pass a young woman, clearly upset and feeling more than a little emotionally lost, without trying to help. 

       'You see, Rochelle, I was trying to keep you from harm, the type of harm you would probably would have gotten if you threw yourself at someone else, saying 'What is your name?' 'I'll do anything to thank you!', and trying to kiss them. My pain was nothing that I could not put aside for half an hour. You can thank Emma, the desperate young woman who had lived in the same building as I, for that.'

I didn't try to help Emma when she needed it. Instead, I witnessed the slow process of stress and anxiety from not having enough money to pay her rent, turn into desperation that led to her becoming a prostitute, because she didn't know how to spell out to me that she needed help. Emma was a lovely woman, kind and intelligent. I really enjoyed her company. Her parents had thrown her out. She had nowhere to turn, money had dried up for her. I had money but I have detached emotions too.

       'You, Rochelle, might have woken up regretting the night before, in someone else's bed, if I hadn't managed to get you home. On the other hand, you may have woken smiling, and looked at a fine, young and generous new boyfriend. I wasn't worried about that, though, not one tiny bit.'

This is about seeing ourselves as we truly are, 'warts 'n' all', wanting to not be that way, and learning from our mistakes.

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Badger, Badger, Rabbit

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Wednesday 24 September 2025 at 15:37

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[ 6 minute read ]

a man either side of text that reads, Half Penny Stories

Badger, Badger, Rabbit

These days, I spend a lot of my time inside. Whereas, once I was close to nature and happy within a wild space, trying not to disturb the animal neighbours, my neighbours now are people, with the values of people.

I tried to grow a lot of courgettes / marrow plants this year but fought the near drought conditions with an infrequent hosing. As a human with human neighbours I had enemies in the garden. Initially the muntjac deer stripped my Euonymus shrubs from all their leaves during the frozen ground spell in January and February. Later, the new fruits on the courgette plants got eaten. I fixed the fence with chicken wire. Rabbits, deer, badgers, or six inch long orange slugs? I don't know. Now that they no longer fruit, the leaves are disappearing. I was once in a Disney film with Snow White, now I am alongside Elma Fudd with a shotgun in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I picked no courgettes or marrows from all eight plants. I have to examine the evidence to establish what is taking place. However, there are no historians and no architectural ruins to consult. So, Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, and Hercule Poirot are the order of the day.

       'No fruit, you say.' Sherlock tapped his boot with his cane.

       'Bitten clean off, as you say?' Poirot inquired.

       'Could be munched back from the tip.' observed Jane Marple

       'Hmm. Shallow burrow under the wire fence.' Sherlock had moved away from our group

       'Cats like to pass through and lunge at birds in my garden.' I offered, somewhat muddying the imagined scenario, 'Also Badgers.' I added hopefully, thinking about lunging badgers.

       'Visual evidence of Muntjac on this Euonymus.' I was surprised that someone known for travelling on the expensive Orient Express would be humble enough to recognise Euonymus. It is after all, no orchid.

       'I think so, Hercule'. I nodded enthuastically.

       'Euonymus Japonicus, was it?' asked Jane.

       'Still is.' I wryly returned.

       'Euonymus stripped of leaves to a height of three feet, and then healthy growth.' Sherlock poked the air near it with his hat.

       'Muntjac.' I said. 'I have seen them in next door's garden.' Simple solution and jumping the gun with Sherlock's whatever is left no matter how seemingly impossible must be the truth, evidence thing. I refrained from saying, 'Elementary.'

       'He says that he placed large pieces of paving slab at the bottom of the fence where he noticed the shallow burrowing and then they were moved, though not by him.' pondered Jane, hand on chin. 'Not cats.'

       'Nor slugs.' Hercule knew about the orange ones because I had told him.

       'I hope not!' Jane uttered, mortified.

       'No obvious tracks to the naked eye through the bordering undergrowth.'

       'Pasture meadow beyond.' Sherlock pushed a few saplings aside to have a better view.

       'Not rabbits, is it?' I asked.

       'Badgers.' Sherlock said.

       'Rabbits.' Jane said.

       'We need to tie a hedgehog to a stake and see if it is still there tomorrow.' mumbled Hercule.

       'I'll look on the internet for one,' I said

       'Joke!' the three of them chorused.

       'Shallow scratched out burrow under the fence only eight inches high.' Hercule pointed at the scraping.

       'Loose fence at the bottom with plenty of give allowing an animal of a creeping height of eighteen inches to pass under.' Sherlock added.

       'Badger.'

       'Badger.'

       'Rabbit.'

       'How does one reason with a badger, Britain's only bear?' I asked.

Hercule corrected me, "Mustelid. The UKs largest predator. Weasel, otter, polecat."

       'Use a big Dog.' mused Sherlock.

       'Can you draw?' asked Jane, she knows I can't keep animals happy.

       'No, but I have a seven foot tall mirror I can lay lengthwise along the wire fence.'

       'Males?' Sherlock was following my train of thinking and was checking that I had safe and harmless animal violence in my mind; animal frustration really.

       'Females? Cubs?' Jane looked at me, the question on her forehead. 

       'Drat! Delinquents!' I thought. I hoped they didn't get drunk on the fallen plums all around.

       'Rabbit.' Jane repeated. 'How is your bank balance?'

I frowned, "Absent.Tea anyone?" I offered, embarrassed.

They declined.

I had been staring intently at the telly. The picture on the screen went to the credits so I turned it off.

My leek plants are unaffected but the strawberry plants were dug up in Winter and early Spring. What does that? I looked through my contacts in my phone but Chris Packham wasn't there.

What to do? Buy a GoPro to spy on the animals? Lay shallow concrete footings and erect a real fence or turn to raised beds? I asked myself aloud.

       'Raised beds.' said a female voice

Pippa Greenwood, Alan Titchmarsh and Monty Don! How are you? Thanks for coming.

       'Raised beds are too high for badgers and Muntjac, and easier to defend against slugs and snails.' said Alan smiling and nodding knowledgeably, and waving his hands.

       'Did you bring any copper with you?' I hopefully asked.

       'How's your bank balance?' Monty tentatively asked.

I closed my gardening books.

       'Monetise your static assets.'

       'Mr Kotler, I am honoured.'

       'Call me Philip.' he generously granted. 'Grow a cash crop and sell it.' He waited for me to respond but I didn't. 'You have already developed goodwill among your neighbours, monetise it.'

       'Crowdfund?'

       'Not much fun, is it?' He agreed.

       'I can't do that. I can't turn kindness and sharing into a funneling of money that goes solely towards something from which only I benefit, a fence.'

       'You can share more produce in the next years; do greater good in the future.'

       'Bill Gates savaging people's pockets to give a locked-in product and then turning philanthropist? No!'

       'Barter.' I knew Adam Smith would spookily appear sooner or later. 'Bundles for bundles.' He faded and Philip Kotler with him.

       'Welcome back, Martin. You have been gone for so long.'

       'Honesty and kindness take a heavy toll on capitalist gain.' I sagely offered.

       'Nonetheless, you are recovering.'

       'No, I ate the wrong pill or something. Too much salt or caffeine, I don't know.

       'That job interview scared you, didn't it?'

       'It made me think about money again. It made me calculate how much opportunity cost remuneration is enough for me to feel comfortable taking on more hours. I have had three more phone calls than I wanted this month.'

       'You have had four phone calls in five weeks!'

       'Exactly!' I said.

Sherlock Holmes is a fictional detective in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's books, which have been televised.

Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple are fictional detectives in Agatha Christie's books, which have been televised.

Chris Packham is a wildlife expert, on the telly, I think

Pippa Greenwood is a gardener who has been on Radio Four's 'Gardener's Question Time'.

Alan Titchmarsh and Monty Don are gardeners who have had their own televised gardening shows.

Philip Kotler is a marketing guru

Adam Smith is an 18th century economist, well known for his book, 'Wealth of Nations'. A book I bought eight years ago and have not got past page 42.

The person speaking to me at the end is me.

Martin Cadwell as himself

Written and directed by Martin Cadwell

Produced by Martin Cadwell in association with The Open University.

MMXXV

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She doubts herself

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silhouette of a female face in profile     four highly stylised people facing each other, One is red  Mental Health

[ 6 minute read ]

I once lived in a bedsit. The other bedsit residents and I got on really well. One of them was a lovely twenty-one year old woman who lost her care job because she kept using the office telephone to phone her boyfriend. She turned to luring men into thinking she would have sex for money, and got the money up front and then ran away. She did this to pay her rent for her bed-sit. I was earning more money than I needed from the job I had, but I managed to spend it all anyway. One day, she told me that she would actually go through with the deal she made with the next man who paid. She stole a bottle of Archers and got drunk. Instead of just going out when she had drank her drink, she came to my room. She told me she was going. Then she left. I let her go, and it will haunt me for the rest of my days. I hope I never forgive myself for that. I was selfish and mean, and I let her go. Days later, she stole the wardrobe from her bed-sit and never came back. I let her go a second time. I am so sorry, Emma.

Some time ago, I was on a writing course and our task was to describe someone else by answering certain questions, such as 'What makes this person happy?' and 'What makes this person sad?' There were more questions asked than I had alpha-numeric character space for, so I made two posts on that course into a forum.

However, I decided that I would 'show' two more characters by having them describe the character. I chose the character's partner in Victorian East end of London, and her mother. The description of the character is entirely speech from these two other characters, who are not directly described themselves, so their own speech pattern and use of language describes them, which I hoped would add to the background of the person they are describing.

The third piece here is my post on the same course in response to, 'Describe somewhere where you like to write', I think. I find it difficult to just answer questions in a straightforward way because my mind fizzes with possibilities, so I wrote about someone else's place to write. I used a technique that cinematographers used to use for the opening shots in films. I started from the outside and zoomed through a broken window into a building. This, I hoped would convey the setting in which the little scene took place.

Stitched together, we can get a sense of the downfall of a person from a good position to poverty, (bathos). What remains in the character is that she hopes to get out of her predicament by writing. Of course, in Victorian times she would never be published as a woman, but she still hoped to be, one day.

This little start of a story has appeared in one of my earlier posts. I added into the little story a music-box to tie all the three pieces together.

A man standing either side of test that reads, Half Penny Stories

She doubts herself

       "She doubts herself at times but then once she seems to get it together she just can't help letting you know. Mind you, she is very capable. The funny thing is though, for someone so small she can't 'arf make a big mess when she's angry...lot of tidying up to do afterwards. She's a tornado. Funnily enough, that's what makes her 'appy; tidying up, I mean. And that's what she does when she is happy, she sings; and she dances around her broom, and pulls faces into puddles of spilt water and fallen spoons. I came into the kitchen once when she didn't know. Singing away she was. Blimey! You've never seen anything like it. Frozen, she was. Solid. White. Scared witless. Then she kind of deflated, like a balloon. From a block of ice to a candle held too close to a fire. Melted, she did, right down to the floor. I laughed and laughed. I couldn't help it. I'd come home early from the pub. She couldn't work out why. Thought she had done something wrong. So, she rises again, all pitiful and about to cry but holding it in, like. Then she sits, all crumpled up with her head in her hands. I could see she was sobbing, quiet like. I couldn't understand it - she knows she's my bit 'o jam."



       "Quite frankly, I cannot fathom why she is with him. He won't marry her. As her mother, I was always the one she came to, but now its him. She's stuck to him like a limpet. All I did was care for her and show kindness, but him.....it's hot and cold with him. I suppose its the making-up. You know, the contrast. He bought her a music box. It doesn't even play anymore, but she winds it anyway and goes off in a dream. She's completely forgotten he over-wound it and that she cried for weeks; more than when her animals died in the fire. She can't stand cruelty - unless it comes from him!
We went to the sea-side last week, she and I. She absolutely loved the Punch and Judy. I honestly thought she might die from laughing. But she can be quite embarrassing. One of the donkeys was in the sea and....passed wind. She pointed at it and shouted 'Ooh Look! Bubbles'. Helpless, she was. I had to walk away from her; quite embarrassing. Tut!
Sometimes, she looks so sad. I asked her one day, "What's wrong, Darling?". She didn't want to tell me. She just looked at me. "Mother, I am scared he might leave me one day." It reminded me of when our gaslights went out at home, and I found her in the dark."

****************

Among the crowd and the cries of the hawkers; where the pickpockets struck, a horse-drawn tram came to a faltering stop. From the rear, into acrid gas-lit fog two men in black capes stepped down. They paused and briefly looked about them, then moved towards a grimy two-storey building. The crowd parted. From an upstairs broken window came porcine grunts. Inside, coins changed hands, but always the shame remained in the smaller body. A clatter of clumsy footsteps retreated down the stairs, paused, as an obsequious greeting was muttered, and then resumed. The two men stepped into the room causing the pale woman to flinch and draw back. Her mouth formed a silent 'o'. She had a pen in her hand, torn paper, ink, a music box, and a single flickering candle before her on a tiny, rickety table. Her belly, once swollen, lay slack from recent childbirth. A flea jumped from her washed-out blue shawl to her hair.

       'Mary, we have come to take you home.' she heard.

She glanced into the shadows at her baby and a tear formed in her eye.

-end-

The last sentence in the scene was never written in my writing exercise. The story could have gone a number of ways, including arrest by two constables. I chose for her to be forgiven and rescued.

The flea jumping allows a pause in movement in the rest of the grimy room.

Further editing would vastly improve the whole of it. 

*****************************************

Samaritans

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

https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help/contact-samaritan/

Samaritans phone number 116 123 (free 24hrs)

jo@samaritans.org (It can take several days to get a response by email.)

Write: Freepost SAMARITANS LETTERS

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Mae West arrested for obscenity

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Tuesday 23 September 2025 at 14:44
 

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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.

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Mae West arrested for obscenity

Mae West was a Hollywood star and sex symbol known for her double entendres and witticisms. From appearing in Broadway she moved to Hollywood and made her first film there, 'Night after Night' in 1932. Allied soldiers called their inflatable life-jackets after her in honour of her hourglass figure.

Her autobiography 'Goodness Had Nothing to Do with It' was a retort to one of her character's exclamation, "Goodness, what beautiful diamonds!" 

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Mae-West

She had an interesting way of speech, “If you’re trig and trim and straight and wiry you’ll travel in a slam-bang sports roadster, but if you’re curved and soft and elegant and grand, you’ll travel in a limousine.”

Mae West tested the censors many times throughout her career and relished the attention she got from starring in her outrageous plays.

On the 19th of April 1927 Mae West (August 1893 – November 1980) was found guilty of obscenity and spent ten days in jail for a play she wrote and starred in called ‘Sex’. 325,000 people had already watched it before she was arrested.

Media attention surrounding the incident enhanced her career, by crowning her the darling "bad girl" who "had climbed the ladder of success wrong by wrong".

- wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sex_(play)

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She doubts herself

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Thursday 25 September 2025 at 11:09

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or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' to eliminate caldwell returns (take note of the position of the minus sign) or 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser.

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silhouette of a female face in profile     four highly stylised people facing each other, One is red  Mental Health

[ 6 minute read ]

I once lived in a bedsit. The other bedsit residents and I got on really well. One of them was a lovely twenty-one year old woman who lost her care job because she kept using the office telephone to phone her boyfriend. She turned to luring men into thinking she would have sex for money, and got the money up front and then ran away. She did this to pay her rent for her bed-sit. I was earning more money than I needed from the job I had, but I managed to spend it all anyway. One day, she told me that she would actually go through with the deal she made with the next man who paid. She stole a bottle of Archers and got drunk. Instead of just going out when she had drank her drink, she came to my room. She told me she was going. Then she left. I let her go, and it will haunt me for the rest of my days. I hope I never forgive myself for that. I was selfish and mean, and I let her go. Days later, she stole the wardrobe from her bed-sit and never came back. I let her go a second time. I am so sorry, Emma.

Some time ago, I was on a writing course and our task was to describe someone else by answering certain questions, such as 'What makes this person happy?' and 'What makes this person sad?' There were more questions asked than I had alpha-numeric character space for, so I made two posts on that course into a forum.

However, I decided that I would 'show' two more characters by having them describe the character. I chose the character's partner in Victorian East end of London, and her mother. The description of the character is entirely speech from these two other characters, who are not directly described themselves, so their own speech pattern and use of language describes them, which I hoped would add to the background of the person they are describing.

The third piece here is my post on the same course in response to, 'Describe somewhere where you like to write', I think. I find it difficult to just answer questions in a straightforward way because my mind fizzes with possibilities, so I wrote about someone else's place to write. I used a technique that cinematographers used to use for the opening shots in films. I started from the outside and zoomed through a broken window into a building. This, I hoped would convey the setting in which the little scene took place.

Stitched together, we can get a sense of the downfall of a person from a good position to poverty, (bathos). What remains in the character is that she hopes to get out of her predicament by writing. Of course, in Victorian times she would never be published as a woman, but she still hoped to be, one day.

This little start of a story has appeared in one of my earlier posts. I added into the little story a music-box to tie all the three pieces together.

A man standing either side of test that reads, Half Penny Stories

She doubts herself

       "She doubts herself at times but then once she seems to get it together she just can't help letting you know. Mind you, she is very capable. The funny thing is though, for someone so small she can't 'arf make a big mess when she's angry...lot of tidying up to do afterwards. She's a tornado. Funnily enough, that's what makes her 'appy; tidying up, I mean. And that's what she does when she is happy, she sings; and she dances around her broom, and pulls faces into puddles of spilt water and fallen spoons. I came into the kitchen once when she didn't know. Singing away she was. Blimey! You've never seen anything like it. Frozen, she was. Solid. White. Scared witless. Then she kind of deflated, like a balloon. From a block of ice to a candle held too close to a fire. Melted, she did, right down to the floor. I laughed and laughed. I couldn't help it. I'd come home early from the pub. She couldn't work out why. Thought she had done something wrong. So, she rises again, all pitiful and about to cry but holding it in, like. Then she sits, all crumpled up with her head in her hands. I could see she was sobbing, quiet like. I couldn't understand it - she knows she's my bit 'o jam."



       "Quite frankly, I cannot fathom why she is with him. He won't marry her. As her mother, I was always the one she came to, but now its him. She's stuck to him like a limpet. All I did was care for her and show kindness, but him.....it's hot and cold with him. I suppose its the making-up. You know, the contrast. He bought her a music box. It doesn't even play anymore, but she winds it anyway and goes off in a dream. She's completely forgotten he over-wound it and that she cried for weeks; more than when her animals died in the fire. She can't stand cruelty - unless it comes from him!
We went to the sea-side last week, she and I. She absolutely loved the Punch and Judy. I honestly thought she might die from laughing. But she can be quite embarrassing. One of the donkeys was in the sea and....passed wind. She pointed at it and shouted 'Ooh Look! Bubbles'. Helpless, she was. I had to walk away from her; quite embarrassing. Tut!
Sometimes, she looks so sad. I asked her one day, "What's wrong, Darling?". She didn't want to tell me. She just looked at me. "Mother, I am scared he might leave me one day." It reminded me of when our gaslights went out at home, and I found her in the dark."

****************

Among the crowd and the cries of the hawkers; where the pickpockets struck, a horse-drawn tram came to a faltering stop. From the rear, into acrid gas-lit fog two men in black capes stepped down. They paused and briefly looked about them, then moved towards a grimy two-storey building. The crowd parted. From an upstairs broken window came porcine grunts. Inside, coins changed hands, but always the shame remained in the smaller body. A clatter of clumsy footsteps retreated down the stairs, paused, as an obsequious greeting was muttered, and then resumed. The two men stepped into the room causing the pale woman to flinch and draw back. Her mouth formed a silent 'o'. She had a pen in her hand, torn paper, ink, a music box, and a single flickering candle before her on a tiny, rickety table. Her belly, once swollen, lay slack from recent childbirth. A flea jumped from her washed-out blue shawl to her hair.

       'Mary, we have come to take you home.' she heard.

She glanced into the shadows at her baby and a tear formed in her eye.

-end-

The last sentence in the scene was never written in my writing exercise. The story could have gone a number of ways, including arrest by two constables. I chose for her to be forgiven and rescued.

The flea jumping allows a pause in movement in the rest of the grimy room.

Further editing would vastly improve the whole of it. 

*****************************************

Samaritans

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

https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help/contact-samaritan/

Samaritans phone number 116 123 (free 24hrs)

jo@samaritans.org (It can take several days to get a response by email.)

Write: Freepost SAMARITANS LETTERS

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A Zoo of Chimeras of Thinking

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Edited by Martin Cadwell, Monday 22 September 2025 at 17:42

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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.

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silhouette of a female face in profile   four highly stylised people facing each other. One is red   Mental Health

[ 6 minute read ]

 

A Zoo of Chimeras of Thinking

Good Crikeyness! Everything is so monetised these days. I have a website still under construction but active and viewable (hegemo.co.uk) that I get nothing from. I get no money or reward or acclaim. It, I suppose, is an element of social responsibility, or a social enterprise if I want to feel that I am making a positive contribution to the world. I have to pay for stuff now that was free in May this same year (2025). There will be critics to the content, particularly from the mental health camp of supposedly trained and normal-thinking people. I am fairly well convinced, though, that they do not see themselves as negotiators in a hostage-taking scenario, when they should. I suspect, that the first thing critics to my approach will do is fail to recognise that the current content (22 September) comes from a single individual with a mind. A mind that is subject to its environment; the immediate world around the body in which it sits. While isolation, at certain times of our lives is favourable, it is not, I suggest, very helpful, when experienced for long periods, in an environment of increasing social interaction. 

However, someone used to long or extended periods of isolation is an alien to a planet of chit-chatting. The critics, I suspect, will not see it this way. If there is a planet somewhere in space that is almost identical to ours, but has different realities, a different past, future and present, most of us, I suggest, would be fascinated to learn all about it? While I would not suggest that any one of us humans on Earth with our own national histories is as fascinating as someone from an alternative planet, if anyone indigenous to Earth has a different historical pattern, I think I am safe in stating that each one of us is still uniquely interesting.

Unfortunately, out of eight billion of us on Earth only about one hundred and nine handfuls of us can actually use our languages and bodies sufficiently well to compel people to listen to us. Obviously, I have no idea of the real number of fascinating people with communication skills. They do, however, need to have both something to say and be able to say it well, don't they? I haven't met all of them yet, so..... 

'Nuff said, you get the point.

Confidence is something that grows in us while we are perceiving that others are finding us interesting. Personally, I have had the most anguished times in many conversations in which I have been outlining a position and 'spiralling in' to hone a point, when I get the feeling that the listening person is thinking their own thoughts around the multi-faceted subject, and reached a strong position that is far from the one I am trying to portray.

       'Oh, please stop thinking! Just listen until you have heard my conclusion.'

Too late! My conclusion will inevitably meet a different one. A fight will then occur between the two, and because the alternative conclusion is on home ground, it is likely to be cheered and encouraged, so it almost always wins.

When we meet another human, I suggest, we consider them to be the same as us. 'What is new?' we ask, albeit obliquely. 'How are you?' means 'Hello' politely. There is an expectation that the person we have just met cannot adequately convey anything interesting to us beyond, that is, what we are hard-wired to want. We crave knowing where good food is, and how we can attain it; procreation; and where danger is. It is only recently that we want to know about the Arctic or a desert located somewhere, where we might go one day, but that visit is highly improbable.

Right there in front of us, is someone with a past, living in the present environment, with a hope for the future. "Not interested. Don't care. Just entertain me somehow, because even though I can never remember that I have a past in the present environment with hopes for the future, I absolutely think I am different to you because I am healthy." It is a default position. Overweight, elderly, unfit, and silly, we ignore all of it while our brain seeks some kind of succour from the stuff that ails it; ourselves. 

It is not you that makes me feel rough; it is me. It is me because I forget that you are only putting on a play, an act that serves to protect you; an act that modern society demands from each of us because it is a hodge-podge of all of us that creates an hegemony of ideas and solutions. Today, I had a long conversation with someone who, at the end of it, made sure that I was aware that she would make notes for someone else to get a picture of what was said during our meeting. I told her that she will only promote a conversation between someone else and my avatar; an avatar created from her notes; an avatar that I shall be compelled to comply with. Far better that I make my own avatar and comply with that one, isn't it? 

You might, by now, have formed your own conclusions to my words. 'This idiot is trying to start a revolution! He wants to change the way we think.' Dangerous stuff, when it is spelt out like that, isn't it? But, you are not wrong. Like countless people before me, I cannot fathom a way to hold up a banner that says, 'It is okay to cry' without being hailed as a softie weirdo loser, a soufflé that can stand no knocks. It is true that I have been felled by a cruel axe that cut me deeply with every stroke. I was a young sapling and easily chopped. I grew back, but not as a tree with a single trunk, like every other tree in a forest. I am the tree that hikers, no, not hikers because that presupposes possession of some interest in an environment; I am the tree that passers-by look at and point out to the other passengers in the vehicle that whisks then speedily along. That isn't a car or a train, by the way; it is the way we live our lives and the pace of them.

The hikers, fleeting as they are, tilt their heads to one side and ponder for a short while before they think about where to find food, procreation, and what is dangerous. I mentioned, before, that I want to build a zoo of stories and mental positions for hikers to visit. None of us, it seems, want wild thoughts to be roaming around biting and clawing at the safe thoughts of where to find food, procreation, and what is dangerous, so it seems logical to shape those animals and recognise the shape of them, and then, even for a modicum of validation, show off our own chimeras. In effect, create avatars that individually belong to us and can be re-shaped over and over again, but only by the owner.

       'Look! Look! This one is really weird!' 

We are not allowed to do that! the Government won't let us. How can we ever be able to understand something if the 'something' is always shrouded in secrecy, and no-one can talk about it? I am not suggesting that we pillory people and laugh at their failing or incapacity to succeed, or conform to our idea or version of success. Far from it. I am suggesting that we recognise that it is beneficial to laugh at, be amused, disgusted by, or jealous of, other people's shaped and deliberately displayed chimeras of understanding and perception, as long as we do not do this to the persons themselves. Like pieces of art works like Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' we gawk and gape and try to reach deeper into it, and simultaneously ourselves, by attempting to understand how the image came to be. Many of us might simply glance at that painting and make an off-hand statement such as, 'That's how I feel' or 'That's how I feel when.....' Why do we do that? Why don't we spend some time shaping what we are thinking? I want to 'experience' more fascinating chimera's that can live in a zoo with 'The Scream' painting hanging on a wall.

Samaritans phone number 116 123 https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help/contact-samaritan/

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