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Keep your home fire burning!

We all have a fire within us that we can keep burning,

It might be small,it might be large,but it must be fed,

Fed with fuel,with the organic material of ignition,

Fires keep us warm,they allow food to be prepared,

They stoke our imagination,their very presence gives emotional glow,

But let them burn out ,and soon our living room becomes cold,damp,devoid of comfort,

No,we feed fires like we feed our emotional souls with good things ,

Keep your home fires burning,eh?




Last Address!

Shuffling his papers for the last time,Mr Jenkins addressed the board of Knights Pianos.His whole life ,from 1934 up to the onset of the war in 1939,and following his army service ,from 45 to 82,he had guided the jewel of British Pianoforte making with the family business producing their upright Pianos for distribution to the dining rooms,school halls,and village halls of old Blighty.

This year had not been the best for the firm,and the strain of competing with imported instruments from Asia was now taking its toll .It wasn’t that they were the expensive end of the upright market,No,they were the workhorse Piano,but lovingly made or ,reconditioned, and that in itself cost money in raw materials and bespoke handling.Yes,there was sympathy among those at The board of trade for their predictament,but free trade agreements tended to be honoured by Britain,and then disregarded by the government sponsored companies from Japan and Eastern Europe.Successive governments had been lobbied by Knight,Daneman,and Collard and Collard to name but three,but many were now at breaking point.Sometimes,it occurred to him that Chappell and Son ,along with Squire and Spenser could boast order books for years in advance during the fifties,and sixties but starting in the early seventies,with the onset of the state sponsored Yamaha brand ,the market began to show a seismic change towards these cheap ,but improving foreign imports.

Albert ,or Bert as he was known by his workforce,did what he could to hide the full extent of the problems,but there wasn’t any use in denying it to the board and a profit warning had to be issued.With the accountants recommending Salami slicing and asset stripping,he felt that he was being placed in an impossible situation.Knights had their market ,and it was mid range workhorse upright overstrung Pianos made for daily playing but they weren’t Steinway,Bechstein or Bosendorpher.

Bert moved from side to side,catching the eye of one board member,Roy Strong,also of Liberty,and something in his look that told him that maybe he shouldn’t try to sugar coat this..As the board members had had a copy of the forecasts,he dispensed with the formalities ,preferring to focus on the challenges for the future.Bert highlighted the risks of competition from the Japanese market and also from East Germany.As he spoke for maybe ten minutes or so,he knew that Phill Pettigrew from the Birmingham Piano store was itching to interrupt and Bert felt the pressure .If he allowed interruptions ,then where would it end?

With no new models available at present,he knew that the knifes were out for him,and the splinter group of board members had already signalled their intention to push for a merger with Squire and a moving away from mahogany to cheaper timber framed uprights that could be massed produced to cater for a more contemporary market,

As he began to conclude his last ever address,he stumbled over his words,struggling in many ways to get these difficult words out from the cover of his composed disposition.Just then, he heard the muttering from the splinter group members .They were quite brazen,energetic and ambitious,all the things that he had extolled as a young man when he had started out before the war.Although he knew the company was in dire straits,he lamented that these mountebanks were seizing their chance to put the nail in his coffin.

Just then,as if he knew he might be humiliated by Brown,Menzies,and Smith,he excused himself and headed for the bathroom.Once there,he laboured his ablutions,staring in the mirror and as he did,the reflection of his parents stared back at him,His dad had worked as a tuner and restorer all his life,teaching Bert the business,sending him to college to become a professional,His parents had given so much for him and he realised it.As he thought about it now,and the challenges to Knights,he wondered if he should walk away and let the splinter group have their way.After all,he was now an old man,tired,careworn,and weighed down with the cares of running a once thriving business but now running on a half a tank of petrol.

He decided to return to the board room and face their questions and try to save Knights Pianos because by doing so,he was saving a heritage ,a jewel that bedecked schools,living rooms and countless village halls up and down the country.

I vividly remember our school piano being a knight,and I was allowed to play it in assemblies on most days as the Maths teacher liked me because he thought I was talented at music,I still remember the action of the old upright,and I had affection for it.Its funny what you remember,

Sometimes,Just Sometimes,things are worth fighting for because if we don’t,we will regret it when it’s gone.Mow,as in the case of Knights ,they might well stop being produced ,but isn’t it better to try to save something that you value and not let it go without a fight.

This is my muse for tonight,


This evening.

It’s not quite nine thirty,not really a traditional time for bed,especially of a Friday night.Granted,an early start for me,with a trip to the railway station,up with the cockerels,sipping tea with the larks.Its funny that in yesteryear,I could just wake up ,hear the men going off to work for their shifts,the sound of their boots scrapping against the cobbles and their muted conversations ,the twang of the Cornish dialects that studded the atmosphere almost as much as the clay mounds.

This morning,with the driving rain buffeting the car,I drove along the motorway in almost isolated splendour ,just catching the occasional lorry coming off from the docks at Southampton.This hub of shopping,thus unique dock,boasting its 4 high tides ,Its industry to rival anything in Britain.It struck me that we are all specks trying to get by,just doing what we feel is important.

Now,at the end of my day,I wonder whether some of those people on the roads at just after Five this morning are tired like me,or wether they are still doing stuff,getting in,doing things.If they are still at work,then hats off to them.Well done them.Yes,I can applaud them this evening,but I don’t envy them,I don’t covert their possessions or the fruits of their labours .No,I love my freedom of thought,of feelings,of artistic expression which I hold to be of the moral zenith of all mankind,It’s this expression,nit out of economic necessity per se,but out of want and desperate need to just express through whatever medium we can what we didn’t kniw about ourselves ,but when we express it ,look at it,hear it back,read our words again,why then we start to view things in a light that surprises us in so many ways.

This evening while I can,I want to just recognise that need,nay want to express my self in words ,in jestures,In nuances.

Whilst many wish to blend into the background of life as it were,preferring the lifestyle prescribed for them by the influence of others,artists take risks with their work,their lives and emotions.Granted,it doesn’t always work,and sometimes the naysayers with their stable lives and manicured thoughts appear to hold sway,but this evening,I’m still finding that artistic joy in freedom of thought,of feelings,of just not allowing the crowd to talk us out of living.

When all is said and done,there can’t ever be another me or you.It might sound trite to write this,but we as humans touch one another in ways that can’t be replicated in any other way .Yes,the social guru as love their Algorithims ,preferring to target people and to influence us in ways that are sophisticated,but truly ,we do hold something special inside of us and that is the human challenge never to be captive by another’s ideology,no matter how well meaning they might sound.

Well,this 61 year old man is feeling his age ,and wether I should or not is another question.All I know is that I needed to recount some of the parts of my day in this muse.

My passenger has arrived at his destination,and I reckon that the vast majority arrived safe too.

My mental destination is the freedom to think ,to feel,to be,and therefore,I have much to be appreciative for this evening.

Thank you for your interest.


Behind the curtain.

From her elegant Edwardian town house,she waved goodbye to her husband and began just another day.Those days of empty hours,endless cleaning,mindless chores that caused a fracture in her soul.Dont get her wrong,she was grateful,almost obscenely descent about the whole thing,but somehow it wasn’t enough.As the early light crept through the drapes,she conjured up enough life to turn the gas on to boil the kettle.Rosalind wasn’t quite ready to start those dreaded chores yet,and somehow the mills and boon ,the stories that emotionally tied her to a fantasy gripped her more.

Not being appreciative was her parents constant moan -“After all we’ve done for you ,and you do this,how could you “.Those words ,each enunciated with venom ,fired like a burning arrow to her young heart,penetrated her.She once said that to Miles that if anyone could lick her heart,it would poison them.Her words ,naked and raw,like manure made from farm waste,repulsed him.He just couldn’t bring himself to even try to understand ,just couldn’t.Rosalind felt isolated ,an island ,emotionally ship wrecked cut loose in the gale force of an early death.Why couldnt she just move on,forget about it,count her blessings,another derivative of “you’ve had so much done for you”.

She replayed those words in her mind again and again.Although their number was etched inside her like a branding mark:Newquay 4706 -she could hear her mother’s voice ,how it would sound ,the slow high pitched welcoming voice ,”hello,New…..quay Four seven oh SIX.”.Only,those hospitable words and numbers were only reserved for her real family,and not for the black sheep that was Rosalind.Alone with her thoughts ,the crescendo of her kettle jolted her to get up and grab her tea towel ,gripping the baker light handle ,pouring the boiling water into her mug .”Oh hell,it’s still dirty “,she remonstrated with herself.As if to engage in the futility of it all,she got a replacement mug from the rack,the one she had been given by them when he was twelve.It had a picture of King Harold on it and said:”Hastings,popular with visitors since 1066”.She remembered that holiday well,vividly.She harked back you see when she had “people in her life”,before her big mistake,the time before the family curse that she had brought upon her parents.She cupped the mug like a trophy ,the World Cup of acceptance,the validation of her existence was somehow contained within this shabby bit of enamel!

Maxwell house coffee,her mother’s choice ,a step up from the camp crap her mother had made due to the rationing of wartime and immediately after.Her mother delighted in this step up,in her husbands standing ,his charity work,the round table,the handshakes.Oh,how she hated her life now and her state of rectitude?If only Miles could just ,could just,,,,,,,,as her frustrations with her existence reached fever pitch,she threw her Hastings mug in the sink,replete with the dregs of Maxwell house coffee left at the bottom.”Its no good,she scolded herself,it’s just never going to be the same”.She stared at the phone in the hallway,trying to make it ring ,but it never did,When Miles left for work ,everything just went quiet ,a deftly ,Eire solitude of enforced purgatory.Oh,that word again,like a trigger to her heart ,or what was left of it,inhabited her life ,her existence ,her energy ,everything,It wasn’t that she believed any of that mambo jumbo in the first place,but it still affected her ,somehow delivering a blow to her every time she looked at that phone:”You’ll end up in Purgatory my girl”.Those were the last words her mother had spoken to her since it happened an what had she got to show for it?No baby,no man ,or a man that loved her,just a shame marriage with someone who used her as a front for his own “alternative life style as he called it”.

She spoke to herself ,she ran through the daily cleaning rota in her head,only hers was the only name on it.She cleaned the cooker again,the Fridge ,the kitchen floor,the whole shooting match and by doing so,to cleanse herself of the phobic guilt implanted by her parents,her so called guardians.

Rosalind lost herself in her endless cleaning,her escape from the dismal reality of boredom ,endless emptiness in the pit of her stomach.Just then,a Knick came at the door.It seemed odd as she wasn’t expecting anyone as it was still not past ten in the morning.As she looked into the spy hole,a precaution taken by Miles after the proliferation of doorstep sellers in recent months,Assuming that it was just another one of them,she didn’t intend on opening the door but the persistence of the knock alerted her to the fact that it could well be a more official call.She opened the door and her suspicions were confirmed:In that split second ,divorced from anything tangible ,her heart seemed to thud inside her ,like a forge hammer ,pulverising ,pulsing,bleeding from every artery.She couldn’t control this involuntary reaction ,it was biological in its nature,but organic too,seemingly endlessly pursuing her own demise.The words spoken by the police officer were all but a blur,but the main thrust of what he said was registered,just not accepted.Words like :”It would have been instant ,and he wouldn’t have felt anything,and would you like us to contact your mum and dad dear at a time like this”.Rosalind politely refused,ensuring them that she needed some time on her own and that she would let family members know herself.

Closing the door,re-entering her existence once again,the walls of the house somehow comforted her,their solidity,their density and permanence.She sat down filtering out for a moment the noise in her head .If people but knew,she hadn’t ever loved Miles ,well,nit since she realised that Miles refused to consummate their union that fateful night when he slept in the hotel chair instead of by her side !!!!So,she was sad ,a little at sea almost,but not beside herself.With the knowledge that he didn’t suffer,and the fact that somehow through it all,he had maintain appearances as to the validity of their union.She had played her side of the bargain,entertaining Miles business friends from japan and the US whenever required gave an almost business edge to their “arrangement” as Miles liked to refer to it as.

Rosalind looked at the phone in the hallway and as she did,she wondered if she should let Miles parents know now.It would be a huge shock to them,as he was their only child,their greatest wish had been for them to have grandchildren.She couldn’t quite believe that they hadn’t suspected that Miles was gay,but they were hopeful that she would go along with the sham and that he would father children for them to dote on.She thought how amazing it was that folk could inhabit an unreal world just to look good in the real world one.They had tolerated her 8n many ways,but she knew that both of them looked down their noses at her and her “past mistakes”as they liked to term them.

As the clock struck almost twelve,she moved towards the bay window,and as she did,with almost metronomic regularity ,she carefully moved aside the net curtain to glimpse the next door neighbours son ,Robert coming home for his dinner.She had a clandestine fascination for him ,an obsession almost.He was 8 years old,quite tall,and extremely polite and so well turned out.Why,he was perfect ,just perfect.Once,when his hair looked a little scruffy,she wished that she could run a comb through it for him and arrange his tie for him .Oh,he was such a fine boy,such a fine boy.As she followed him with her eyes,she wondered if he ever wondered if he was being looked at.

Through the curtains,her and Miles were just another respectable couple ,entrenched in the solid values of hard word and thrift,extolled by millions of others up and down the land.They were never a showy couple,never left their property unpainted or over indulged it’s exterior.They were conservative in their tastes and habits.As Rosalind looked at the young boy walking up his driveway,she felt an odd calmness coming over her as if just to see him each day kept his memory alive.He would be have been mine in a couple of weeks.She still had his cloths that she had bought and some that she had stolen too from her local mothercare.Her obsession with his cloths meant that she would wash them each week,placing them discreetly in her knickers drawer where Miles would never look.In fact,Miles never took any notice of her body,let alone her lingerie.He was to her,a living link to her baby,her precious boy,and as long as she saw him each day,that link remained intact to her.

Placing a chair at the side of her bay window,she sat patiently and waited for him to return to school after his lunch.She knew that his time keeping could be irrational-a typical boy,she thought-but today of all days,he was later than normal .As the hallway clock ticked it’s solitary metronome ,the echoes of those ticks pulsed in her heart and her anxiety levels increased.There seemed no release for her today,and everythimg just seemed to be going wrong and it led her away from the curtain ,sad and forlorn ,desperate.

What if something had happened to her boy,…..a she meant ,him.Her mind went into overdrive as to the possible reason for his not returning to school.As it did,her mind conjured up all sorts of reasons,plausible and otherwise as to whyMaybe ,he had the dentist,or the doctor,or maybe he hadn’t felt well .But then her mind conv8nced her that he was never ill,that he was a big strong boy,her boy,and that there had to be another reason.She just couldn’t think.Just then,there was a knock in the door,and she for a moment went to open it without checking the spy hole,As she did,she rega8ned what little composure she had and leant into the hole ,viewing a rather dimmunitive lady who had stepped back from the outer reaches of the magnifying aperture,With that,she opened the door,and a softly spoken lady stood there,announcing that she was a social worker who worked in conjunction with the police and she had come to offer support to her because of the loss of her husband that morning,

In all the confusion as to where her boy had disappeared too,she had quite forgotten about Miles,but knew that she had to keep appearances up that she was in mourning.This lady assumed that she was in a state of shock ,offering to make her a cup of sugary tea.It didn’t seem much of a solution if she had indeed been in shock,but Rosalind was glad of the respite ,pleased to just find an avenue to cope with the present emotional hiatus.

As she brought the tea in,her voice soothed Rosalind much more than she had anticipated.There wasn’t too many people who could soothe her and until she knew that her boy was safe ,then she needed all the help that she could get.This lady was surprised that Rosalind couldn’t remember so many important things about the officers call in the morning,but still put it down to her being in shock.As the full impact of Miles death might now begin to sink in,she offered to do some of the family contacting for her.This offer was duly accepted by Rosalind and the address book was produced for Melanie to access.As the calls were made,Rosalind excused herself,preferring to sit at the window with the curtain ajar just in case her boy appeared.Rosalind heard Melanie explain the news to her mother and father in law,clocking the gasps of terror and sorrow in each.It would hit them both very hard as he was their life and they had so much pride in his achievements.Never had they missed any of his most important life events,and their home was quite a shrine of pictures of him.She couldn’t imagine what it would be like now after his death.

For what seemed an eternity,she watched at the window,visualising if her boy might yet appear.As she did,a car pulled up outside his house,quite a large one ,out of character for the neighbourhood she thought.As the driver appeared,she got out and slowly walked up to his front door.If Rosalind could incline her neck a little bit more at an almost obtuse angle,she might She more.That said,it would require pulling the curtain back even more than was safe ,as this was a clandestine observation and she didn’t want her boy to be spooked.Her curiosity got the better of her,and she just had to pull the net back.As she did,it coincided with the door being opened and her boy rushed into the arms of this well dressed affluent looking lady.He seemed to cling onto her as if he had been waiting to see her.They embraced for what appeared an eternity and Rosalind was envious of the well dressed affluent lady not because she was rich,but because she obviously had a real relationship with her boy.But what did this all mean,she said to herself?.She had always thought that her boy was the son of Marjorie and Bill Graham.As she sat there wondering,Melanie appeared and it was all Rosalind could do to enquire after her parents in law.She did after fashion,and it was clear that they were in a state of total disbelief that their son had died in an accident like that only this morning.

Melanie had enough understanding of people to know that Rosalind might need further support with all the arrangements.As it was a delicate matter,she steered clear of any provision that Miles might have made for her future,preferring to concentrate on enquiring what her wishes might be as to his internment.It seemed safer to Melanie to tread carefully.Rosalind though knew that Miles had had life assurance and that this would pay out a cash sum to her should anything happen to him.She would have enough money to pay off her mortgage and retain a measure of security.Rosalind had always insisted that Miles look after her material needs if not her other ones.

These things would come and go Rosalind thought,but what of her boy,and who really was this mystery women.?She rearranged the nets again,and thought about him,and ached in the pit of her stomach for her baby boy.Moving away from the window ,the curtains twitched at number 24 Morningside gardens for the last time.In the forthcoming months,she would sell up and try to piece together her life.Her parents would not warm to her as so many know who have known what fractures in family and feuds can do.Rosalind never saw him again because she accepted that he was never hers in the first place.

She kept her baby cloths though in a special drawer in her new flat which was all she needed.Those were her memories,her keepsakes if you like.

She never did peep out from behind the curtains again and that is the end of the story.


Along the frontal lobe of his brain,stood a place that he called “The Watermark”.Odd expression that,but still it was what he called it,and it had become as such ,an identification of sorts,to all manner of cranial activities.

As a teenager,we fell in raptures when Art Garfunkel named one of his solo albums “Watermark”,and he indulged in the sounds ,those analogue edges across his mind sent him into an emotional tailspin ,totally out of control.”Have you got Garfunkel’s new album in Age”.Yes,it came in yesterday:”Great ,what’s it called?.Watermark”.

It has shapes in my mind,just three syllables,with the two at the beginning ,leaving an almost strong imperative “mark” at the end its affects me now after decades of life,my being 61 and past surely a time when something’s nag as bizarre as the sound of a word should excite me .Words stimulate me,intoxicate me you could say to the point of them being the work of a literary Alchemist in affect.Im not sure if Ben Johnson uses the actual word Watermark,but he knew the value of wordplay and the affects of letters on humans.

Of course,Watermarks in a literal way can have connotations of a domestic kind :That murky mark in the bath that families such as mine took when the bath was a weakly event shared by 4 others.Trust me,rather than a Watermark,it was more like a rust one.Whatever emotion it conjures up,the affect is an indentation ,a mark,a Watermark Of such.

Was Art trying to be clever in his title,or was it the idea of a record mogul at CBS probably isn’t relevant,it’s more that the Album was called that and it still is a strong motivation for me to write something this morning when I haven’t offered much of a muse of late for various reasons,indolence being a factor,the need to order my words in an intelligent way that my nightmares don’t always allow.So,I digress as is my want and i must return to Art because his album has tracks on it that inspire me still to this. Day.These tracks that are in my head today act as a marker for my life and how I digest the stuff in it.”What a wonderful world,with appearances from JT ,Carly,Bishop,and friends ,just a wonderful cover of the King song ,just like Marrionette ,and crying in my sleep.This album has all the Jurassic emotions that become set in me,our stone and forment in their sonic juices.

She moves through the air,Saturday suit and paper chase.Titles that are bigger than their words and phrases.

So,I’ve braved my Watermark today,just a small thing to many,but still a mountain to me ,but as I conquer these emotional and psychological battles somehow I walk that tightrope between the apex of emotional and the Nadir But always I watch the tide,the waves ,the undercurrents.

Watermark has that contemporary folk vibe on the surface,but like a rip tide ,it speaks even now after all these decades,and while I have had ,and will have so many riptide moments with life,I still walk that tightrope ,I still survive and i have my own Watermark as you all do too.

This album was released in 0ctober 1977 and it was his third album but ,imho,his most real ,and where he sang like an angel.

That is all from me.Thank you .



Life sustaining quenching of the thirst,

Bubbling up to cleanse skins pores,

Opening its tidal doors ,

Rushing in when moon tilts ,

Ever onward,finding its level,

Quite a trauma to fight this water,

Drink from a glass,full up a bath,

Dare to ask why it’s H to O!

Oh no,that’s nit the reason,isn’t it.

Come on get up,stand erect,the surfs up,

Last one in is a dipstick .

Reach the tides with your ’tis,study them ,

Watch the waves as they dictate your survival,

Keep watching them for the tide doth change ,

Water is everywhere,but respect it ,nay fear it at times ,

For if you don’t ,it will take you ……..

Observe the sky!

Catch the sun going down,waving goodbye ,

Fly with its spectrum lights,

Dazzle ,crackle and pop!

Oh how wonderful the rays converge in a light show,

Never get bored when the colours of the setting appear,

This winter blaze of glory,telling its familiar story,

Illuminates any journey,any meditation,any walk,anything !!

This mild Winter

This mild Winter,punctuated as it has been with rain ,more rain,and heavy showers,exists in temperate climates in my locality.Why,this holiday time,in between Christmas and new year has seen the lawn dressed with a soft blanket of frost this morning.Its quite a surprise to me and one that in previous years would have been an almost daily norm,

This mild Winter, though hasn’t been marked by freezing temperatures or the prelude to a harsh Winter.It lulls us into a false sense of security to a place that we are not totally able to process as part of our historical reality.Like our country at large,stuff might be happening that we feel is uncharted,enigmatic and worrying.This stillness in the air ,briefing interrupted by the sound of a lone seagull has ,to me,some context,and that is the inland flight of this sea bird implies a roughness at sea.

This mild Winter, attracts a cautious mood among our people here in Britain as we become exasperated with our politicians,not just in a bipartisan way,but en masse.We Just,to coin a well oiled phrase:”Want them to get on with it”.Normally,life in the Palace of Westminster goes on with our knowledge but maybe not through the microscopic lens of the media that is now flooded our televisions.This Autumn has seen an almost fanatical coverage that has been,at times,almost Orwellian.

But we can’t affect as much in life as we might think we can as our destinies are rarely completely within our hands.Our politicians jaw jaw but we want more than just words and empty jesters to fuel our hopes as we strife for some sort of plan.So this mild Autumn is anything but in the word of navigating living standards.

This mild Winter at the sharp end has seen those desperate for sanctuary in this country brave the English Channel in craft that belong near ,or just out of the break water and not in the most busiest shipping lanes in the world.It struck me that these folks are indeed desperate ,victims of unscrupulous as they were carried in these crafts without lifejackets ,their survival completely compromised,their sea captains amoral.

So,this mild Winter,soft on density of snow,soft on ice ,but not so soft on the homeless,the children in hostels,the insecurities of so many regarding the future,why it has been a harsh winter .

So,I reckon that we might have to wrap up in this mild Winter as we grapple with the life we don’t know,the future that isn’t secure,the problems that life throws at us.Good luck with it though.

Driving !

4 wheels,attached to a drive shaft,connected as they are to the internal combustion engine.As the carburettor injects the fuel from its system,it unites with the electrical system ,that tried and tested circuit with coil and distributer spark plug and ignition point becomes the nuts and bolts of the basic car.With rack and pinion steering ,and maybe a sat of Goodyear tyres of radials and cross ply we head for the open road.

That paragraph first written,a mixture of fact and practicality is to me,the essence of the motor car.Nowadays,the performance of the modern engines,the computers systems controlling every aspect of the driving experience could blur the lines between the engineering and the part the driver and the passengers play .With the comforts ,the air con as standard on most models ,coupled with the superior suspensions give the feeling that your driving on a cushion of air.Gone are the days when motoring was a trip into the unknown of wether the vehicle could be relied upon to complete its journey or even start for that matter.Driving has become very crowded with precious little road space ,but the cars on the road eclipse anything that I observed as a child.

Yesterday,as it was Christmas Day,saw a car famine on the motorways leading towards London and to Heathrow airport,and it reminded me of the original concept that came with the early introductions of motorways in Britain in the 1960s ,and on into the seventies and eighties where an explosion of fast road networks crisscrossed the country linking our towns and cities .Driving along the M27 towards the M3 and eventually joining the M25 was a seamless mission that took me by surprise,leading me to arrive at the airport in bags of time.

While the airport wasn’t a ghost town in anyway at all,it had the atmosphere of less intensity,more of a holiday outing before the crowds.It struck me that there was space yesterday ,that space that we were all promised those decades ago when that more efficient road system was conceived.If an accidental bonus of picking up a family member from the airport on Christmas Day meant an observation of almost resistant calmness,it struck me that design and intent are often two separate things,If those designers could have viewed their system from afar on that day,they might have been extremely proud of themselves.

We,the practical and realistic know that the majority of people who use the roads systems around the cities and conorbations were safely tucked I

At home yesterday with the exception of those off on holiday or returning home to their families for the holiday.Yes,it was a fantasy that quietness,that space,that time to breath ,but I suppose we can’t blame the system for being such a success,can we?

So driving home for Christmas is quite an emotive thing,but the systems from the car we drive,to the network we use is a marvel of itself,especially on the day such as Christmas Day.

Shortest day eve!

Precious light refracted through clouds of darkness,

Morning dews in a bowl of muesli and toast to host ,

First cup of tea in darkness ,fumbling for kettle,

Dogs fuss at having to go out-hate the wet!!

Shaver needs a charge,shoes on,wrong foot once,

Shortest day eve ,short light,short of time,short of …….

Tomorrow is another day,another light short day,

Roll on Christmas to turn on our light source,

Tinsel,trees a glow,decorations draped to attract the precious light,

Roll on the light ,the dawn of the solstice ,bring in the light,

Christmas light anybody?