The new range

The new range

Brian was on a roll, he had picked all the low hanging fruit and was now convinced of his creative marketing genius. This was fine, there are often people like this who have a strange, usually undeserved, high opinion of their abilities. The problem came when other people got sold on the idea and started to believe Brian’s self propaganda.

      He had joined the marketing department of the Dulucks Paint Company just six months before. He had the luck to have his interview on the day that the Head of Marketing, Christopher Scroggs, had gone down with an previously unknown brand of virus. Mrs Scroggs thought he should take a couple of aspirins, man up, and carry on as normal , as she would have done but no, Chris had to go the whole seven yards. He talked himself into an appointment to see his GP, Dr P Sillin, then trot down to the chemist with a prescription for a completely unecessary antibiotic that the good doctor gave him just to get him out of the door. Chris wasn’t going to be fobbed off with some advice to ‘go home, take an aspirin and go to bed for half a day,’ that was too close to his wife’s prescription. He paid his taxes didn’t he? What do women know about man flu anyway? Any sly comments from Mrs Scroggs would be countered by a comment such as, ‘it must be serious, my doctor prescribed an antibiotic and bed rest.’ This would result in much eye rolling on the part of Mrs Scroggs and the two mini Scroggs.

      What Christopher should have foreseen was the fact that his deputy, Miss Chlamydia Bagshot, who he knew was not very good at interviewing, would decide that Brian was the man for the job. This proved his point about Miss CB in a circular logic, tautological sort of way.

      The task of the marketing department today was to come up with the names for the colours of the paints in the new autumn range. Red, green and blue didn’t do the business any more, the names had to have a feel of the shade about them and inspire a mood. This was so that a DIY customer could decide what sort of mood fitted their personality and aspirational style – as copied from a glossy magazine that cost nearly five pounds and gave advice and information that could be had for free from Fred at the local hardware store. What Fred didn’t know about paint wasn’t… This type of consultation didn’t suit everyone, partly because Fred’s favourite colour was a light beige that could be self mixed by tipping the remains of the white ceiling emulsion in the half tin of magnolia left over from last year’s burst of DIY fervour.

      Brian had already come up with ‘Spring passion’ for what a second hand car salesman would have called ‘Tart’s red’ had he been selling a Ferrari. His offering of ‘Terra Cottage’ for a sludge brown had been met with rapturous approval from his colleagues. ‘Chlami’ as she was know to her very few friends, nearly leaned over and kissed him when he vouchsafed ‘Eau de Nile’ for what Fred would have known as Dark magnolia’.

      Brian was flushed with success now, there was no stopping him. At this rate he would soon be promoted to second deputy marketing secretarial assistant. The next colour swatch was pink but Brian knew that this wasn’t good enough. He applied his creative genius at full throttle to the brainstorming task. ‘What is the essence of pink?’ He asked himself. What could pink symbolise to an upwardly mobile, aspirational couple? He thought about his own partner, Nigel. What would they call pink?

      As you may have realised by now, Brian was gay. In fact he was as ‘queer as a concrete parachute’as he liked to tell anyone who cared to listen, which wasn’t very many. Brian was nothing if not out and proud. He was now fifty five and had been out longer than most of his friends. ‘I was a  homosexual when it was just a cottage industry,’ was one of his proud boasts.’

      He had it! The essence of pink was pig. He knew this from watching Peppa the Pig, Sunday mornings on CBebees. Pink also had associations with gayness. If you put the two together, you got ‘Gay pigment.’ What a superb name for one of the new range of colours! The company would be so grateful to him for dragging the pink pound out of many a pocket. He was beside himself with joy. Chlami was delighted and thought Brian had excelled himself although he had never been known to touch a spreadsheet, he much preferred a duvet.

      No doubt Mr Scroggs would have been just a little sceptical about some of Brian’s colour descriptions but he was still at home,’suffering’ from man flue and enjoying every minute of it. So all the colours were approved by Miss Bagshot, the tins were printed in their millions, filled with the appropriate paint and dispatched to the retail trade.

      Buyers at B & K, Homebasics and some branches of Asday shook their heads in disbelief. ‘What had Dulucks done this time, had they finally lost it? How could an orange possibly be described as ‘Atlantic sunset, or a beautiful pastel green as Bileous taup? The only name that was really redolent of the colour of the paint in the tin was ‘Gay pigment.’ They knew they wouldn’t sell any though – can you see a 23 year old macho, Saturday morning football playing, pint drinking, husband with two kids, marching up to the paint counter in B & K to ask for ‘two and a half litres of Gay pigment, please?’ No, me neither. It didn’t do what it said on the tin – not if he could help it.

      So that explains how the annual gay pride march came to be sponsored by Dulucks that year, they could see no other way of off loading all that pinkness.

      What happened next? I hear you ask.

      Chris Sproggs died soon after, without ever returning to work. His ‘man flu’ turned out to be a variant of the black death, or Graphite grey mort, as Brian would have called it. He had apparently caught it from the lab rats in the Dulucks R & D department.

       Chlamydia Bagshot was promoted to acting Marketing Director. She was very good at the job as she was an accomplished actor, just not very good at marketing, directing, interviewing, choosing paint names or…She saw the hassle that Brian had caused so she sacked him – he never did get his yearned-for promotion.

      He soon found a position as consultant colourist with Andrés’ Heir Salon on the High Street where he soon made a name for himself, Rolf Waldo Emerson[1],  by constantly complaining about the poor spelling and errant apostrophe on the salon’s name board.

      If you are interested in paint, and who isn’t, can I suggest that you keep a lookout for Duluck’s new paint range next spring and see how Chlamydia has got on with selecting the new colour names? You can, of course, enjoy the names while watching Duluck’s product dry, it is nearly as much fun.

     

---

[1] "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."

Urbi et Orbit

Urbi et Orbit                                                                    16^th May 2013

Tristram was having a bad time. No, I don’t mean that he was born to parents who think that calling their first, and last, offspring Tristram was a good idea. I was thinking more of the fact that he had broken another rib, in addition to his left leg, and so was back in one of those surgical hammocks that had recently been developed  to replace the old anti pressure sore air beds.

      He wasn't one to complain, much, so I spent quite a bit of time with him, chatting about the good old days, which trips we had enjoyed most and complaining to each other about some of the rust buckets we had endured. I had it easy really. I was in a wheelchair most of the time and only confined to bed when one of the inevitable bone breaks occurred, usually caused by my own stupidity, trying to walk, or bending down to pick up a dropped pen, for example.

      I was being especially careful this month. I was due for my annual review on the 28^th and I certainly didn’t want to get bumped back down the recovery ladder.

‘Now then Captain Mullinavat, how long have you been with us?’ asked the school boy behind the desk wearing an oversize white coat. As if he didn't have all my details laid out in the file in front of him.

      ‘It’s been three years Doctor,’ I patiently explained.

      ‘And how are we getting on with the calcium therapy, hmmm?’

He sounded like a kindly old doctor from some hick town in the old United States of America, but he looked as if the ink on his practice certificate was still drying.

      ‘Not sure about you Doc, but I'm getting on very well thanks, I've increased my bone density by 37% over the last three years.’

      ‘That’s excellent.’ He rubbed his fingers up and down his plump, corn-fed cheeks. ‘I think we can now increase your calcium and vitamin D dosage a little and up your sun bed time by a third. I’ll have a word with your PT team and get them to increase your exercise intensity a little. We should have you walking in about three years time. You are one of our star retirees you know, Captain.’

      ‘I'm glad you’re glad but taking six years or more to get back on your feet seems quite a price to pay.’

      ‘Yes, but you chose your career Captain and I am sure you wouldn't go back and change that choice now would you? You have seen places and had experiences that us gravity worms can only dream of.’

      ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

I looked across the classroom at the cohort of eager young cadets, bright eyed and eager to get on with their careers. I wonder what they saw when they looked at me, hunched in my wheelchair with a couple of plaster casts still in place? Could they see themselves in my place after all too few years?

      ‘My name is Captain Mullinavat and I am here to answer any of your questions. I served for twenty seven years so I should have a handle on anything you care to ask me.’

      ‘Why did you join the Corps, Captain?’ asked a kid in the front row, a proto teacher’s pet.

I gave the standard answer. ‘I wanted to travel to exotic places, meet new people… and kill them.’

There was the expected ripple of laughter, humouring an old man.

      ‘Has it all been worth it, Captain?’

      ‘Given that I ended up here in a wheel chair for several years you mean?’

      ‘Well, err, yes, I suppose.’

      ‘The answer is a definite yes. If I cooperate with the medics here, I should be walking around after about three years and then it is up to me how much I push my exercise routine. The sky’s the limit really.’ There was another ripple of laughter, a little more forced this time.

A hand went up.

I pointed to the culprit, ‘You have a question cadet?’

      ‘Yes sir. If all it takes is exercise to keep your bones healthy, why does it take pepole retiring from the Corps an average of six years to walk again – and some never do?’

      ‘Have you ever lived in zero G for an extended period, cadet?’

      ‘No sir. I've only done ten training trips in the ‘vomit comet’ so my total time in zero G is about 14 minutes.’

      This time the laughter was genuine, to the discomfort of the questioner.

      ‘Well, I spent twenty two years in an environment where the only G was the delta V from the engines when leaving or reinserting into orbit around some planet. Yes, we all exercised vigorously every day but the exercise was in a very low G and we couldn't do it for very long – we also had work to do. Here at the bottom of a planetary gravity well, your body is working against gravity every second of your life. This means that, in space, everyone loses bone mass, no matter how hard or often they exercise.

      ‘Now if there are no more questions I would like to make a promise to you, the graduating class of cadets from the Space Academy here on Mars.

      The road to the stars that you have chosen is a hard road and the road back after your service is even harder but I can promise you that you will never regret taking the road you have chosen. Good luck with your careers.’

      ‘Ad sidera!’

The border war

The border war                                                                           31^st April 2013

The daffodils were to blame – they started it when the spring sun started to warm the soil surface. The advance guard speared their swords up through the frozen soil until they cracked their way through to the surface. More sap was pumped up from the succulent bulbs below as the roots sought out nourishment from within the warming soil

      The coy, gentle seeming, primroses used the soil cracks opened by the daffodils to push their furled leaves through the surface where they spread out and colonised what they thought was their rightful territory, regardless of other’s points of view. They were here first so it was their right. Nobody was going to stop them. The pansy shock troops quickly followed.

      The fey wood sorrel apologised as it sprouted gently through the top soils and started establishing its racing-green carpet under the shade provided by the daffodils.

      This was shortly followed by the garlic which stopped for no flower. Everyone in its path was breathed on and made reluctantly to clear the way for everyone’s unfavourite bed partner. Its bulbs expanded below ground and squirted juices upwards to support the growth of the fleshy leaves and budding white flowers.

      Cowslips started their superfast growth, two inches a day in ideal conditions.

      The clematis raced up the south facing wall – the fastest grower of them all as it grasped and clung on to anything to help it pull itself up, itself if necessary.

      The Spanish invaders had driven out the native English bluebells. They were more aggressive but did not have that wonderful depth of colour that characterised their English cousins. The tough, wide stems carried aloft the engorged flower buds, ready to burst open to expose the pale blue bells, and the odd white mutation.

      Battle was joined underground as the sub aerial flowers demanded reinforcements and supplies from the support systems below. Roots thrust into dark corners seeking nitrates, phosphates and moisture then pumped them back to the bulbs and rhizome factories for processing into sugars. The sugars were pushed up the stems to the growing tips and flowers with a fervent osmotic urgency.

      A snail yawned  and started sleepily climbing a montbretia stem, munching on the fresh green shoots as it went, happily rasping away at the first of its five-a-day.

      The underground fight for nutrients was coming to a close, the successful battalions had established their territory. There was a little juggling for elbow room between bulbs, roots and rhizomes but the war would be won above soil level as a new front was opened to harvest the maximum amount of sunlight. Leaves were spread and height was gained to shade out shorter plants. The leafy factories started the complicated, two-stage process of producing sugars from sunlight and carbon dioxide. The spreading leaves ensured that the soil surface was now covered in vegetation so slugs could emerge to start their damp, deadly depredations.

      Spring had come to the herbaceous border. It was prepared and ready to start the frantic fecundity of Summer

The seal

The seal                                                                            24^th April 2013

The second attempt was good. The pilot had given up late during the first try, mountains and clouds don’t mix well so the engines roared to full power and the wheels came back up with a clunk as we soared back up into the safety of the clear sky. We rolled to a stop on the cinder runway, just outside the small grey terminal building. Our luggage was plonked on to a trolley and taken to the door of the building where we each grabbed our bags and toted them inside. It was a first for me – an airport terminal building with a polar bear skin pegged out on one wall and a view of icebergs out of several of the round windows.

      ‘Welcome to Kulusuk,’ said Dinas, who was to be our boatman and guide for the next two weeks. ‘I suggest you put several layers of clothing on as it will be very cold during the two hour crossing to Ammassalick. Please follow me to the jetty when you are ready.’

      It was a bit of a struggle carrying all the gear the few hundred yards down to the sea where Dinas had his boat waiting for us. We were all hot and sweaty when we got there but would be glad of the warm clothing when we got out into the open sea. We slowly edged out of the small fjord, dodging several growlers in the shallow water and then accelerated as we entered the polar stream of Sermilik fjord with its majestic procession of huge icebergs, some a hundred metres long and over twenty metres high.

      We passed a long, low ‘berg. ‘Look, there,’ called Dinas, as he pointed to the ice. There was a seal laying on top of the ice, seemingly unconcerned by our presence as Dinas slowed the boat and steered nearer to give us a good look. The seal stared back as us with its big, black, baby eyes.

      It suddenly rolled over and wriggled its way frantically to the edge of the ice and dived into the sea. As he saw this, Dinas quickly revved up the engine to full power and steered us away from the iceberg.

      As we got a few metres away from the ice, there was a loud grinding noise and the mighty iceberg slowly rolled over. Dinas turned the boat so that it was pointing at the ice to minimise the rolling from the resulting wave – an icy tsunami.

      ‘I think the seal saved our lives,’ said Dinas, ‘the iceberg would have rolled on top of us and sunk the boat. Here in the wilderness you must watch the birds and animals because they always know what is coming. Welcome to Greenland.’

London to Instanbul

London to Instanbul                                                       26^th March 2013

‘Welcome aboard zis Air France flight to Instanbul. My name eez Edith, from Paris and I will be assisted today by Rhian who has just joined us from Cardiff. It is her first flight with us so please make allowances for any little mistake she make. I will now take you through the safety briefing while Rhian will point out the emergency exits and how to put on a life jacket…’

      Edith droned on through the briefing in English, French and Turkish. A few of the passengers pretended to be interested while the rest read the airline’s in flight magazine or fiddled with the seat belt. Rhian carried out all the demonstrating actions with a flourish before removing the demo life jacket and stowing it in the overhead locker. She wondered how many times she would have to do that in her new role and hoped that they would never have to ‘land on water’ as a crash at sea was known.

      Rhian had been allocated to this flight because she had asked Edith if she would mind if she swapped her duty roster place with Françoise. Her cousin lived in Instanbul so she would go and stay with her during the stopover. Edith had agreed and just hoped she wouldn’t regret it as she had experienced problems with newbies before.

      The takeoff went smoothly and as they settled into the cruise, Edith and Rhian started the in-flight service. Rhian only spilt two drinks and the passengers concerned were not too worried as it was only water so no real harm was done.

      The rest of the flight was uneventful but Edith was still glad to have got through it safely with no newbie problems from Rhian. They landed at Atatürk airport, taxied to their allocated stand and disembarked the passengers with a collective sigh of relief.

      As they boarded the crew bus, Captain Müller turned to Edith and said,’Are you happy now that you allowed Rhian to come with you on her first flight, Madame Piaf?’

      ‘Oui, je ne regrette Rhian.’ replied Edith.

Puppies in the well

Puppies in the well                                                        11^th March 2013

Two puppies were out playingone day and they fell down a well/ hole. In that well there was a dangerous body of water and a deadly cobra. The cobra kept the puppies safely away from the water and didn't bite and eat them. They all lived happily ever after (unless it was in china in which case the snake was possibly eaten. )

My two new puppies, Dodger and Bodger, were out playing in the fields at the back of our house one day when they fell down a hole in the ground. I think it was an old well as there was a dangerous body of water at the bottom.

      Like all puppies, they were curious and wanted to explore their new world so they started wandering around the bottom of the well. As they neared the dangerous body of water a deadly cobra appeared from a crack in the old masonry that formed the well shaft. They were very frightened by this as their mother had told them that snakes were dangerous, some would kill them with the venom from their fangs and others would eat them alive.

      This was a different kind of snake, not in the grass but down in the well with them. It carefully shepherded them away from the dangerous water until I heard them faintly barking and I lowered a basket down on the end of a rope for them to climb in before I hauled them up to the surface where they lived happily ever after.

      And the cobra? After the puppies were safely on the surface, I lowered the basket once more, the snake slithered in and I pulled it to the surface where I dumped it in a burlap sack and took it around to my local Beijing Grill. Not sure what they did with it but the next time I went in for a meal, the chicken pasanda tasted a little more exotic than usual.

      ‘What do you think is the significance of this dream, Doctor, ‘ I asked from my reclining position on the couch.

      ‘My professional opinion is that it will take some unravelling so I suggest we leave that until our next session,’ said Dr Fred Youngman.

*

‘Come in and relax on the couch,’ he said as he took his customary seat just behind my head.

      ‘Have you worked out what my dream means, doctor?’ I asked

      ‘Yes, of course. I think your dreaming of puppies is representing your lost youth and fear of getting older. The fact that there were two puppies means that you see yourself as a split individual. Part of you wants to bring more excitement and danger into your life while the other part just wants a quiet life while leaving all the major life decisions to your alter ego.

      The dangerous water exemplifies all the dangers you see and fear in your life while the snake who turns out to be a life saver is the uncertainty you feel about people’s motives.’

      ‘Do you think I will keep getting this dream?’

      ‘Possibly but let me tell you a story that will give you something to think about and make help you to clarify and subdue some of your fears.’

*

‘Once upon a time a sparrow was happily flying along one sunny autumn morning when a storm arose and it started snowing. The poor sparrow couldn't fly against the strength of the wind and got very cold. Eventually it got so cold that it could could not fly any more and dropped to the ground.

      It lay there slowly freezing to death.

      It had reached it’s last moments of life when a big cow walked over to him and dropped an enormous pat on top the poor sparrow. This soon warmed up the sparrow and brought him back to life so he started singing at the top of his bird voice because he was so happy to be alive.

      The farm cat heard the sparrow song and followed the sound until he spotted the bird. He quickly snatched the sparrow out of the pat, carried him over the the cows drinking trough and washed him clean. He then chewed the sparrow and swallowed him with a couple of gulps for his dinner.

      There are several learnings to be had from this little story.

1 – Not everyone who drops you in it is your enemy

2 – Not everyone who pulls you out of it is your friend

3 – If you are in it and happy to be in it – don’t sing about it.

That will be thirty three pounds and fifty pence please. See you next time.’

      ‘Thank you doctor, goodbye.’

Random

Random                                                                                          7^th March 2013

Professor Ingrid Salvesen walked to the lectern, straightened her notes and looked out at her audience.

      ‘Before we get too deep into the discussion of randomisation, I would like to ensure that we all agree on what we mean by random.

      Let me quote from the Oxford English Dictionary, ‘ Done or happening without any plan, purpose or regular pattern.

      Now lets think of a random number generator, perhaps a single die. If we roll it say, one hundred times, do you think that will give us a random distribution of the numbers one through six? Being mathematicians you will know that it will not. In fact it will result in a Gaussian normal distribution or bell curve and the more times you throw the die, the more perfect the bell curve will appear.

      The formula for this curve is, as you all know:-

Most people will assume that throwing a die is a perfect random number generator but, as we can now see, this is not the case. In fact it is very difficult to generate random numbers.

      One way is to roll a die. Yes, I know I have just contradicted myself but this time I am talking about a virtual die where the number is generated by a computer program, see:-

http://www.random.org

Those of you who have more time than I have can use this site to generate numbers between one and six, plot them on a graph and will find that they are indeed random and the resulting plot will have no resemblance to a bell curve. But, I hear you cry, ‘How can a predictable machine like a computer generate truly random numbers?’ It cannot of course, these numbers are only pseudo random.

      To get a truly random distribution you have to use a random variable, such as atmospheric noise as the original generator. You can see this if you unplug the aerial of a television set as the series of white dots or ‘snow’ on the screen.

      Please excuse me a moment as I have a sore throat this evening’

      ‘Would you a  Rowntrees  Random ^® Professor?’

      ‘Thank you Myra, that’s very kind of you. Now, to continue.

      I don’t have much more to say on this subject except that I hope you now understand the nature of randomness a little better and how difficult it is to achieve true randomisation.

      I do wonder if this is why the well known publishing group, Café Three zero had so much trouble with their recent anthology entitled Random.  If you refer back to the quote from the OED that I started with you will see that planning a random event is, in fact, an oxymoronic task.

      I will leave you with that thought as I go out to the car park and try and find my car which I parked in a randomly chosen spot.’