Category: General

A problem for the railways in the future? In the piece on transport in the 30s, I wrote of the sounds of the rails when travelling by train before they were all welded, and the trains started to move more silently. After writing it I thought back to the 60s, when I was designing the structure of a building consisting of a series of shops and flats. To support the flats and make a basis for that part of the structure I had a lintel running the full-length of the shops. It was therefore necessary that I calculate the degree of expansion of the lintel under extremes of heat. The end result was that the degree of expansion that I had to design for was such that I had to put in expansion joints or the whole thing would have cracked open. And this made me realise that with the miles of welded track that we have in Britain today, and the increasing temperatures that we are likely to face and indeed are facing, on long stretches of straight track where the expansion can’t be taken up by a slight increase in the radius of a bend, there could be serious problems.

Packaging and Instructions. There is a steep slope from the back of our house to the road, and the other day, I had to drag a three-quarter full dustbin of the type now used, up to the pavement for disposal, and it was some drag. This made me think back not all that many years, when we had a little round dustbin, which was emptied every week and never really full unless with garden rubbish. It was then that I realised what so many people have today, the tremendous waste and also expense generated by packaging. I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a theory that if you do not touch bread or cheese by hand, or put them on a contaminated board, they will stay fresh, without mould for some considerable time, proving that no matter how clean you may be and how careful you are, you actually do pick up contamination as you work in the kitchen. With this theory in mind, I still believe that the level of wrapping and boxing that we have today has nothing to do with hygiene, but to do with sales.

Where I put out a small bin once a week, I now put out the equivalent of three huge bins once a fortnight, or 1 1/2 bins a week. When you buy anything of a technical nature, it is thoroughly boxed, protected and packaged, with plastic bags, polystyrene blocks, inner and outer boxes, but strangely the instructions for use are now written so small they need a magnifying glass to read them. In the case of items for the computer, they are always accompanied by a CD, packaged in a box 6 times too large, and the instructions are not even on the CD in some cases, you have to make reference to the Internet, presupposing broadband is functioning. There is in the box a tiny, and I mean tiny little booklet of instructions, so meagre it is practically lost in the hand, and so finely written than an old devil of 80 has to scan it page by page, and enlarge it before it can be read. Surely this is all a tremendous waste of time, money and materials. This business of hygiene is now taken to its limits, goaded by RMSA, and in consequence packaging of everything, has reached an absurd pinnacle, and those in control, screaming about the environment and landfill, should realise the absurdity.

Returning to a British school in 1930 seemed totally alien from what I had experienced in Africa. The hours were different, I had to walk over a mile each way to school, morning and afternoon and the classes were bigger. When I arrived we worked with rooms lighted by gaslight in winter afternoons and, worst of all, I was out of my depth through losing two whole years of schooling. I sat next to a boy who constantly wet himself and there was a permanent aroma. We were not allowed to change seats because it saved the teacher calling the roll twice a day, as we sat in alphabetical order – unfortunately. I remember one teacher who had come from New Zealand and who seemed only to teach Maori customs. She had us making endless native huts and constantly drawing maps of the place.

There was a strong amateur dramatic interest in the school with end of term plays and it was about this time that I learned sword dancing. The swords were made in the school woodwork shop, where the woodwork master was not averse to throwing bad work at the head of the poor incompetent who had made it, and he rarely missed. The dance called for eight participants and as we danced round we put the swords to our shoulders, and with a good deal of pushing and wrestling, twisting and turning, we managed to get the swords locked together to form an octagon, rather like a large Jewish Star. The whole shape was held in the air by one sword, by the team leader; when it was lowered the swords were withdrawn with a flourish, clashed together high in the centre, like the thin spire of a church and then the dance continued. We gave exhibitions, why I never quite understood, because it was a very dull dance, every bit as dull as Morris Dancing, especially as we were too young to get well oiled before we started. I suppose that was the main difference. I also became re-acquainted with discipline. (See Sex & Child Abuse) Nowadays young people seem to think for themselves more than we did, they are more cynical and less malleable, or do I imagine that?

Believe it or not, it was an honour to be ink monitor. Can one think of any greater example of brain washing than to make a child actually want to go to school earlier on Monday morning and stay later on Friday afternoon than his compatriots, get his hands filthy dirty with an almost permanent stain and perhaps ruin a perfectly good shirt into the bargain, while he washes out a whole boxful of grungy, chipped, china inkwells of their coagulated mess, then mixes the astringent smelling powder and finally refills them. Not content with that he has to carry the trayful up several flights of stairs and place two in each desk with the inevitable spillage and further chore of cleaning up, all the time worried should this honour be taken from him.

There were the art classes where the inept were cheek-by-jowl with the insouciant, and plagued by the competent who always came just when things were going wrong, with words like ‘Isn’t that nice,’ said with all the insincerity of a street pedlar, hurriedly followed by an entreating ‘Come and see mine’, a plea for praise and perhaps a statement of insecurity. It was strange that in a school where none were undernourished, why the licence to have biscuits and hot Bovril after a swim in the swimming bath of a neighbouring school, was such a great inducement that few, if any, brought notes of excuse. That was the era of cigarette cards. No one failed to collect them, but some collected them for a strange game like a coconut shy. The boys had areas along the playground wall marked out rather like the Oche for darts. Against the wall were propped cigarette cards at intervals and the players would stand at different lines, depending on the distance from the wall, and by flicking a card of their own, from between their fingers, they had to try to fell a cigarette card leaning against the wall. If successful, one received a number of cards equivalent to the offer for each line, say two, three or even ten if it was a back line. There were tricks of course. The stall holders would bend the cards slightly so they arched away from the wall and were thus stiffer to hit. The throwers, – or I suppose, the suckers – would use stiff cards because they flew better and harder and they also adopted a scything technique so they could fell more than one target card at a time, to the annoyance of the stall holder.

There were no lollipop ladies; policemen were stationed at crossing points and held the hands of the smaller children as they crossed the traffic in flocks. The children vied for the favours of the policeman and most policemen reciprocated by giving the appearance of being interested in their stories.

Authors Note. I have discovered that it is difficult to find particular posts in the larger categories such as General. I shall publish all material in order in future, whether it is duplicated or not

Pre WW2, 1930 to ’39, in order, The 30’s. I Write – You Compare! Part 2

Life and Standards

I have always believed that until 1939. when Hitler mucked up the world, in Britain it has never been the same, the period from ’35 to ’39, when our economy was steadily improving and we had emerged from the austerity of WW1, was the most equable and relaxed time in our history. It wasn’t Utopia, but nowhere ever will be. We had the iniquitous class structure, but as we knew nothing else – so what? From my experience of education and industry over the years, people in the 30′ were less ambitious, their goals were modest and achievable, a job was mostly for life, your pension like the job was inviolate, and promotion was dead man’s shoes. WW2 changed all that, 1946 brought back a work force which had been replaced in its jobs and there was a period of re assessment – shuffle and re-deal which lasted right into the 70’s and 80’s.

Since the 50’s standards gradually accelerated in every sphere, industry, leisure, communication, and then, in the 60’s, when we had reached a pinnacle of some sort, the wheels came off and it has been down hill ever since. Chaos seems the order of the day, standards in most spheres have dropped – education, business probity, morals, mores, thrift, and above all, trust, have all suffered. Am I right? Can we rise yet again? Do we want to?

Communication

We sat round the Christmas luncheon table on Christmas day, with the cat’s whisker adjusted, the 2 volt, lead/acid battery powering a crystal wireless set, and a pair of headphones talking to us with the King’s voice, and those memorable words – ‘London Calling!’ all from the bottom of a baking bowl in the centre of the table. We never thought that one day we would communicate instantly with pictures, words and music, in every sphere. Now, unlike then, censorship, voluntary and enforced, is more relaxed, we are presented almost daily with scenes of alleged sexual orgasm, speech incrusted with four letter words, guns that fire unlimited bullets so inaccurately, the recipient of the onslaught walks away unscathed. We are told we can switch off if we don’t like what we see or hear, but is that not infringing our right to be entertained that we have contracted for, should the squeamish not be totally catered for as well as the unshockable? The latter, after all, have a section of the ether referred to as ‘Adult’ – a misnomer?

We need a solution to the problems of miscreant children and teenagers. If you have read this blog at all you will know that I was a latchkey single-parent child for a number of years, and in consequence have strong views concerning the extended family, latchkey children, and homes with two wage earners. .Everyone today seems to be on a time schedule, they are rushing, to virtually get a quart into a pint pot, with the result so many people today are not taking the time to enjoy their lives, they are too busy rushing for the next appointment, be it shopping, work or housework. Mostly, from their expression, I’m certain it’s not entertainment.

Right up until the 60s, most wives looked after the house, the children and the husband. Everyone then had time to relax, enjoy simple pleasures, and if their lifestyle wasn’t all that they would have liked, they settled for what they had, and made the very best of it. When I moved house, three years ago, our furniture from the old house was too large and to augment what we had I went to auctions. I was staggered at the quality, and the quantity of what was on sale and shocked at the prices which were so low. My daughter told me that it was common for people to change their decoration and their furniture every few years. As someone who had lived in a house for 42 years with very little change, except when necessary, I found this astounding and one of the reasons I assume people are running up debts. It isn’t as though the articles that they are buying won’t last, some fall into that category but the greater proportion, if looked after, would still last a long time. It therefore seems that the problem is basically trying to maintain a higher standard of living than one can really afford, and this means that everyone has to put their shoulder to the wheel, come what may, and devil take the hindmost. The ones to suffer from this philosophy can be the children, not from material neglect, but intellectual and psychological.

I believe the real problem for miscreant children is that they are left too much to their own devices, irrespective of how many parents they have, they behave in many cases as latchkey children. The solution therefore is for people to resist the urge for ever greater spending, relax more and spend more time with their children.. The fact the young girls become pregnant in order to leave home to have a home of their own, irrespective of the fact that this is not a solution but a step into drudgery, causes one to wonder why they were so keen to leave home in the first place and whether this was because home was only somewhere where you ate and slept, there was no companionship and no fun. Parents under stress can be irascible, and not understanding.

The Gang Culture from one who knows. If a young person needs company, it does not necessarily mean that he could choose the company that he really likes, but only the company that is available. These young people are not so much confused as bewildered, they want something but haven’t the reasoning power, nor the opportunity to obtain it, they want love and companionship, interest and entertainment. The gang culture is the only option on the block. Enter a gang and you immediately find you are at the bottom of the pecking order, it is you that keeps watch, is not included in the secrets, doesn’t enjoy the jokes because you have not the background, or you are the joke, and until you have risen in the ranks you are just as lonely in the gang as you were on your own. Later, when you have risen a little, you have to make a choice of whether you will continue doing as you are told, becoming involved in actions that go against the grain, or leave and go back to being alone. The gang is made up of people from school, so leaving the gang is not a severance, but a separation, and you are now a pariah day in and day out.

I guess it costs anything from 12 million to 18 million a year to hold the 12,000 plus ‘under 21’ prison population. Let us assume it is correct. In view of the age range, I assume that the 12,000 contains a high proportion of first-time offenders. Surely it would be preferable as well as economical to give these young people a short taste of prison life, and then put them back home under some supervision, take the money saved and put in some sensible project to help these young people, particularly the young girls likely to want to set up home – they must be costing the exchequer a bundle too.. To me standing on the sidelines, the deterioration of the situation seems exponential, and solutions seem thin on the ground.

The 30s was the era of comprehensive transport for the first time. There was everything from roller skates to the tube trains. Public transport was cheap, the railways ran on time, were comfortable and well organised. After all, there was no alternative as only the wealthy could afford to run cars. .The main mode of transport in the cities was the tram, while there were Bus Lines connecting the cities with the towns and the countryside. Post-war, cities began to get rid of the trams because there operation was so rigid, the tracks were a nuisance and they did not offer the flexibility the bus did. I find it interesting therefore, that some cities are bringing back the trams, There was a period in the 40s when trolley buses were tried, but the authorities reverted to buses.

Trams. in London in the 30s were cheap. My grandmother, during holiday times, would give me a packed lunch, six pence to buy sweets, sixpence for an all day transferable ticket, and sent me off on the trams to find my way about London, see the sights and generally acquaint myself with the city. I would ride so far on one tram, walk a bit, look around a bit, and then take another tram somewhere else. So in this way I learned London, but I think in many ways she was unique. For those who don’t remember the trams, they generally had wooden seats, some were padded, and when they arrived at the terminus, which virtually meant a stop at the end of the line, in the middle of a street, the conductor would remove the contact, spring loaded onto the overhead electricity wire, dragging down on the rope and walk the full length of the tram, with the contact following in an arc, high in the air, and re-attach it by the spring to the electric wire at the other end of the tram. Then he would walk up the tram flicking the backs of the seats downstairs and up, so that the seats faced in the opposite direction. He and the driver would exchange ends of the tram, and set off back down the route by which they had arrived. The trams were noisy, swayed quite a bit, and none too speedy. Their advantage was that they could carry a lot of people, and were plentiful. I remember sitting in school one day and heard the most incredible bang. On the way home I discovered that a tram going down Balham Hill had left the tracks, swivelled somehow and was lying on its side in the High Road, diagonally, with one end on one footpath and the other on the other footpath. Apparently no one was hurt because it happened at a time when there were few passengers.

Cars. The majority of the cars in the 30s were strongly constructied, ,not always dependable, but one stepped up into them, using a running board as a step. I was always sorry the day the running board was abandoned, because this then allowed cars to be lower to the ground, and in some instances their floor was and is, level with the footpath, making getting out a contortion. That was the era of the more sporty cars, which were basically two seaters but had two seats in the boot, which used the lid of the boot as the back rest – not to be recommended.

Trains By the 30s the trains had been in service long enough for most of the wrinkles to be ironed out, with the result train travel was comfortable, relaxed reliable, pleasurable, speedy and cheap. Luxury was beyond the imagination of most, and Third Class was the norm. There were fast trains, and stopping trains on suburban routes. The dining cars were a pleasure and the quality of service was high. For a child I found it exciting when the stewards came past, ringing the luncheon bell,, and we would wander down the long corridors, over the connecting passages between the carriages which rocked under your feet, to arrive at the splendour of the restaurant car, with all the clatter and bustle that was there. I find eating on trains today sordid. In those days gaps were left between each length of rail to allow for expansion due to sun heat – a left over from laying tracks in the Raj, giving the ride that dot dot – dot dot sound some of us loved. Round the 60’s the rails were welded together, I wonder what ghastly effects that will have if global warming reaches the levels predicted, and the cost of reverting.

I remember my first trips on the continent which we naturally took by train, as flying, in the 30s, commercially, was only for the rich. On those trains, as I could not afford a berth, I slept on luggage racks, and if we stopped at a station through the night, someone was bound to open a window to see where we were, and the draught went up the trouser legs and woke me. When I came to live in Ireland, I would travel back to England partly by what today is called a ferry, and in the 40s were cross-channel ships, beautifully equipped, comfortable and one got one’s tea and toast in bed, in a delightful cabin. These little luxuries I believe are no longer available – what a shame!

I am not an accountant, so I am totally confused. I read and hear that our internal debt is the greatest in Europe, caused through overspend, and the escalating cost of house purchase. I gather that the government is worried about this debt, but if that is the case why at every opportunity does it increase our hidden tax burden, and permit the housing situation to be such that it is becoming successively more difficult for the lower paid to obtain a house. Indeed it is now arriving at the point where people, through the rises in the bank rate, are now finding that their mortgages have increased so much that it is placing them in a hazardous financial situation, and they are possibly likely to suffer repossession and bankruptcy.

This situation is being aggravated because there is no financial security from pensions, and those who are wealthy enough are buying up houses as second homes, holiday homes, and for rent, all as investment, leaving the underclass, as usual, on the wrong side of the fence.

While I am on the subject of housing, which also has a bearing on the overall housing stocks and cost of housing, I am also seriously confused about the housing of immigrants, and illegal immigrants, which must also be stressing the housing problem. I do not believe that the meagre salaries that these people are being paid, especially the illegal ones, are sufficient for them to be able to afford adequate housing, especially as a rental. I question what conditions these people are living under, in these circumstances, and whether local authorities are looking into the matter and taking the necessary action, or is it all being swept under the carpet?

Music trends. The other day I watched a film on TV, produced in America, in which the lead in, and ending music took me back to Africa 80 years ago. Then we had a small kraal at the bottom of the garden, a collection of mud and reed huts which housed our servants and their families. At nights, and on other occasions, presumably having some African significance, the Africans would sing in that rhythmic way, without a great range but a lot of repetition. It may have been coincidence, or it may be, like Picasso, the musicians are drawing inspiration from African traditions. Even when I was young, while I found it interesting, my subconscious was not ready to accept the African idiom. When I listened to the film I found the rhythm like a heartbeat, but the repetition and the monotony spoiled the effect.

My grandson Steve Jones, is a professional musician who has played with a number of bands including Roland Keating and is now playing with Air, the famous French band. As a result it has given me an insight into the Music Industry,. from which I have formed a number of theories. Having been brought up with classical music in my youth, the big band era in the 30s and 40s, jazz and dance music, I find it difficult to latch onto the current idiom, especially rap. I get the impression some young people with an ability to play an instrument, but not necessarily a real talent, helped by synthesisers and computer programs, create their form of music and are taken up by entrepreneurs, as ‘new faces’, milked and then discarded , with the result that they make little contribution to the overall music scene, sufficiently original to induce progress. For this reason I have to admit
that while I understand and like the music of Air and some others,, much that I hear I don’t understand and don’t care for. Whatever happened to melody?

More on the new industry, global warming. One could hardly turn on the television or lift a newspaper but be exhorted to adopt some system which is going to save the world. A few days ago we were shown on TV news a series of the most ugly houses, architecturally designed, with scientific input that was the last thing in energy-saving. The problem was they were as ugly as sin and would stand out like a sore thumb in any environment. One of my neighbours has had solar panels installed on his roof, not integrated with the roof, just lying on top, and we are told that it would take him 15 years to recoup the cost. From what I could see inside two years, if my gutters are anything to go by, the area above and down the sides, and possibly underneath the unit, will be clogged with bird droppings, aerial detritus, and anything else such as leaves which are floating by. I’m sure that he had that erected for all the right reasons, but whoever guided him did him no favours. I believe the government should just slow down on the exhorting and speed up on design.

Over the past months I have written about religion from a number of stand points, good and bad. As someone who is no longer a believer, when one sees religion that really works it can give pause for thought.

In our midst we have a man, a cleric, who is modest, worldly, in that he is not blind to human weakness, but accepts it with understanding, he takes the time to explain his message in phrases easily understood and cogent. In my experience he is a man apart from the general run of life, not just religion. All who attend his church, or have met him, respect him not only for what he is, but what he does. He is generous with his time and never ceases to surprise by his approach. He does not preach at you, nor instruct you, he reasons and explains. A man who can fill a church to the doors, in this day and age, is not only unusual, he is remarkable.

This man has now moved on, I believe, if someone of the same quality fails to replace him, to some extent those he has left behind could be left rudderless. I find it incredible that the Church per se has not woken up to the fact that the empty pews are as much a responsibility of those in the pulpit as it is from a lack of belief, or laziness by the masses.. Once I was a believer, but circumstances and a bad choice of clergyman combined to change all that. All my life I have been aware of two things, to many who are bereaved or lost in some way, religion is a prop or it fills the vacuum, but its main function is to teach how to live together in harmony.

We are told that the numbers attending church are falling rapidly. .When I worked for an estate agent, responsible for the conduct of church properties throughout the land, the amount of wealth was breathtaking. Today I believe those with ability, who could previously have been persuaded to join the ranks of the clergy or go into politics, and have the talent required, fail to do so because the rewards are so meagre. It is no longer enough to ‘have a calling’, when it was, the clergy had a virtual captive audience. I have known some clergy in my time who were trying to bring up their families to their own standards on a pittance. If the standards of the remuneration of the clergy are raised in order to attract people with the ability to communicate simply, answer intelligent questions intelligently, there might be a change. It is not enough to just quote text., those days are over, congregations are bodies containing free thinkers who are sceptical and need convincing, as well as help..

It would seem so logical and necessary. A small portion of the total outlay of the sect would not be missed for obtaining and then paying well, and educating those with the touch as well as the bent. I am not aware that it has been tried to improve attendance. .Commentators are constantly raising the matter of child lawlessness. In my day the church provided places for the children to be entertained, to entertain themselves, and to learn the rudiments of good behaviour. Need I say more.

I Write, You Consider! This is a philosophical, and psychological outpouring, and having calculated that I am probably one of less than 1% of the population of the UK who has been subjected to, involved in, or rub shoulders with war for more than 80 years, I’m putting this in as a Sunday Special, because those who read on Sunday are more likely to be interested,. It started with the tales of the ’14 to ’18 war by those who suffered in it. My father and my uncle were severely gassed and wounded in World War 1, and their lives were both shortened and damaged as a result. I endured five years of World War II, followed by Israel & Palestine – I was personally due to be sent to war during the Suiz affair – then nearly 40 years of the Northern Ireland Troubles, and finally there are our current problems in the Middle and Far East.

There is no shadow of doubt that the expectation of war induces, in teenagers and young men, the sense of adventure and excitement, which is soon dampened by reality. History, which is regularly ignored, shows how the conceits and ambitions of those at the top of the heap, are allowed, unchecked, to lead the rest of us into the most frightful situations without any real mandate. ie Vietnam and Korea. I’m not only referring to politicians, but also to the military leaders and advisers, especially those whose hidebound, class and arrogance induced the carnage of WW1 – not second to none, but in the top echelons,. While the carnage worldwide of World War II was indeed second to none and to my mind not only didn’t achieve anything, it set everything back by years. The 30 odd years of sheer waste, death and destruction, that disrupted the lives of so many in Northern Ireland, was something that crept up on us at a time when the majority of us felt we were out of the political wood; and some of us, who had seen it all before, knowing what we faced, were so incensed, angry and frustrated, we joined up again even though we were far too old..

The psychological aspect of this, that I find so strange, and has been even more prominent currently than ever before in my experience, is that the population at large does not rise up, literally, and refuse to be slaughtered at the whim of a politician with his own agenda. Hitler is a case in point, who brought disaster to his own people as well as the whole of Europe and beyond, Hirohito, influenced by his warlords, was another, and leaders throughout the world are equally guilty. Clearly it is a class thing, where class encompasses more than landed gentry, as the hierarchy in Russia since the revolution has shown. I am firmly convinced, and the story of the Christmas football match in ‘No man’s land’ between the British and the Germans, – is apparently not apocryphal – was proof if ever it was needed, that the man in the street is more interested in his own parochial problems than those of the world as a whole.

I raise these matters because I feel so strongly about what our soldiers are suffering in circumstances and in social environments, where tribal interaction is endemic, and unlikely to be cauterised by foreign armies. My concern is not only general, but I have relatives and friends who have been and are out there in the dust and the blood, doing what they’re told, and not necessarily what they believe to be valid. I find it amazing that for some reason one of the smaller countries of the world is being required to risk the lives of its men as policeman, when the world politicians themselves can’t agree on a universal policy.

I realise that what I’m saying here, might sound reactionary, and would certainly be considered almost treasonable by those giving the orders. I’m also aware that the majority of people reading this have known this for a long time, but if we have all known it, why do we allow it to persist?

The convention had been an unqualified frost from the beginning. He was disappointed; there was no doubt about that. This had been his first challenge to represent the firm at one of these international get-togethers, and he had been keyed up with excitement at the prospect. He had imagined himself as an integral part of a great conclave of scientific intelligence, rubbing shoulders with men of eminence, offering his opinion, and perhaps having his opinions sought. He had thought of nothing else for weeks; had visualised the convivial dinners, the analysing working parties and study groups, and had even mentally drafted a speech so that he would not be unprepared if he was called upon to address the meeting. No one had even asked who he was. True he had been given a plastic nameplate to attach to his lapel, but this had forestalled the necessity of anyone sufficiently interested to have to ask him his name, and to his knowledge no one had even been close enough to have read the little notice board.

He trudged slowly through the dim streets of suburbia back to the impersonal lodging house. His mind wandered back to Emily. His Emily! He wished he had never left her. She would understand it. This was their first separation since their marriage 10 years previously; uncomplicated, contented Emily. He could see her bustling about the house preparing the evening meal while having one ear cocked for his homecoming. He smiled, this was one of his little indulgences, this fancy that Emily would be on tip toes waiting for his arrival; it was something that he always had to imagine because after all, if he was at home, she would not be waiting for him, and it if he was not at home how could he see her glancing at the clock and listening for his footsteps. He had often thought that he would like to peer through the curtained windows to see if his supposition was indeed fact, but the thought of being caught by the neighbours, like some peeping Tom, was too much for his courage. Anyway, knowing some of them as he did, he was pretty sure that they would misconstrue his motives and he had no intention of laying Emily open to malicious gossip.

The thought of one of Emily’s teas made him cringe at the realisation of what awaited him at his lodgings. He was not the type of man who sought comfort or entertainment in a Public House and rarely entered one, except when there was a farewell party for a colleague, or he had to entertain a client. In the normal, even run of his life, the lounge bar was an alien refuge for the unfortunate. Tonight he felt unfortunate. He would look for a nice bar in which to pass a little of the long evening that rolled out before him. It could be no worse than the convention had been and would probably be a lot better than his bed-sitter.

He decided that, as he had more time than he knew what to do with, he would be very selective in his choice of oasis, something not too gaudy, and yet not too quiet; no singing but a little life. He walked on through the streets turning his path away from the residential district where lay his solitary confinement and went towards the red glowing roof over the city centre, bright lights and traffic noise heralding life with a capital ‘L’. He glanced casually into the window of a pawnbroker shop. Where he lived such a shop was unheard of to people of such gentility, they sold things to ‘rag and bone’ men ‘to help them, you know’ but would never ‘pop anything at uncles’. The shop fascinated him. There were dozens of rings threaded on a brass bar projecting from the woodwork of the side of the window. He wondered how many broken marriages and tattered personalities were recorded there; watches, hundreds of them, fishing rods, tools, bedding and even a set of false teeth. His eyes roved over the window display like a small boy’s at a toy fair, then he stopped, stared, and finally shifted his position so that he could improve his vision through the chequered grillage that protected the window. He could hardly believe his senses. A mouse in a bottle! Not a dead mouse in a bottle of formalin, like the ones that had ranged along the shelves of the Natural History Museum; nor a dead mouse in a jam jar that arrived there by mischance during the night; but a stuffed mouse in a dimpled whisky bottle. He had seen boats and toy aeroplanes and even model cars in bottles, but never a stuffed animal. He approached as closely as he could to the window and twisted this way and that to see if the base had been cut, but as far as he could see there was no ring around the bottom to support this theory. He spent an absorbing twenty minutes trying to solve the mystery before moving on to find his Public House.

When he entered the lounge bar he knew that his judgment had not been at fault, the room was quietly lighted, warm and hospitable. He bought a drink and, seated in a corner of vantage; he surveyed the rest of the company. He tried to concentrate on them but his mind kept returning to the problem of the mouse in the bottle