FND Dystonia update. Wet rooms and stairlifts.

It's been a while since I posted anything at all on here, but maybe it's time for an update.
Jenny's condition was diagnosed as Functional Neurological Disorder back around March, the specifics being Generalised Dystonia. We hoped that with medication it could be controlled, although it was made clear there is no cure at present. Little is known about it, and the medical profession have proven to have no understanding and little compassion or empathy with sufferers of this debilitating condition. Only one GP who has known Jenny all her life has shown any sort of care and tried to help, the rest of the GP practice have no interest, or so it seems.
The condition causes involuntary muscles spasms and contractions, leaving the sufferer unable to control limb movements, with the limbs also locking in painful unnatural positions. This is extremely fatiguing. The medication controls it to a degree, but leaves Jenny tired out as well. She is unable to walk any distance before bringing on an attack. Having tried different medications and even quack remedies and alternative medicines* we are now resigned to that fact that it is not going to get any better, and are adapting the home to make things workable.

So far I have rebuilt the front door step removing one large step and making it into two shallower ones that are more manageable. They are too large however and Jenny can't reach the grab handles that were installed each side of the door until she is on the second step, so that needs a rethink with narrower steps. The back door already has a ramp or sorts, from when she was a childminder, that was installed to allow prams in and out easier, but it now serves as a disability access.
Stairs are now a problem, and Jenny often has to decide whether she spends the day upstairs or downstairs if I am out at work. She manages the stairs on a good day, but is too slow to answer the door - although we have trained our regular postman to wait a bit now - he's a gem, a young lad only about 25 but a proper old fashioned postie, always a smile on his face and he stops for a chat with everyone. So anyhow, a means of getting up and downstairs was needed, particularly if there was a fire.
A straight stairlift is about £1500 upwards. Stairs like ours with a turn in need a wrap around stairlift, which run to around £4000. We also considered a wheelchair lift, as long term it may come to that, but that would involve major work. A lift could, just, fit in the corner of the house currently occupied by the downstairs toilet and go up into what is currently my study/home office. We would then have to look at fitting a toilet elsewhere, possibly under the stairs, although that would involve moving a major supporting wall and losing about a square meter of the kitchen. Or we could remove the stairs altogether and just have a lift, but would then need a fire escape externally. The lifts work off batteries, so in the event of a power cut they will still operate for a limited number of times. The lifts run to about £7000, although used ones are on Ebay for £500 upwards - but then I'd have to figure out fitting it and adjusting the height and drop myself. The building work would take the final bill to around £10000, so a stairlift it shall be. We had a drive down to a specialist disability equipment provider in Hull today, with Jenny able to have a practice run on their demo machine to make sure she is confident on operating it. It sounds silly, but it takes a bit of confidence building to get someone with a disability to use one of those things - the fear of falling off is however greater than the actual probability. There are many microsensors and safety switches that mean they will not trap fingers, run things over or allow operation without the seatbelt on. It took a fair few minutes for her to get in and out of the seat, with her legs refusing to co-operate, but once in operation was simple enough and reassured her she'd be fine using it. If you do have a relative that thinks they need a chair lift I'd recommend they try using one first before you spend money.
Next step was a measure and dry run at home using a dining chair to replicate the stairlift in it's various positions. This highlighted an issue with a radiator in the hall which will need to move to allow sufficient knee room. I will also need to fit another power socket in the correct position as the only outlets are all on the wrong walls, and of course trailing cables are a no no. The chairlift will park either at the top landing or in the hallway at the bottom, which are the charging docks for the batteries, and it folds up to allow people past, the good thing being it won't block the stairs at all. This also means that on a good day Jenny can still attempt the stairs if she wishes, only using the stairlift when she has to and not becoming entirely dependant on it.

Our next pressing need is the bathroom. When we moved into the house 21 years ago it had a simple bath. I installed a corner shower booth then, but later moved the door and removed the shower when we remodelled to a P shaped bath with a shower over. Initially I thought about restoring it back to allow a shower booth again, but Jenny is struggling to step into a traditional raised shower booth. A wet room then seems to be the way forward, but I'm reluctant to lose the bath - I like a good soak and often need one after my racing and mechanic exploits. Fortunately we extended the house and added an extra 3 bedrooms some time ago. One of those backs onto the existing bathroom, with water and heating able to be tapped across. So the plan is to partition that bedroom which is a long L shape to make a roughly 7 x 7 foot wet room with a single bedroom at the other end. To make that work a door and small section of wall will have to move, with a new door repositioned, and there'll be a bit of wiring reconfiguration to sort out switching for lighting, and access to what was the kids playroom will now be through that bedroom. The kids are all grown up now, so the playroom will effectively become an upstairs sitting room and craftroom where Jenny can indulge in her passion of quilting.
The wetroom will have a toilet, a shower and a sink, and the bedroom might even get a small kitchenette so it will be a sort of self contained granny flat. I've yet to get an estimate for the conversion, but it won't be cheap. It will however allow us to stay in the home we love, it's a great house with great neighbours who have been very supportive, and would be more cost effective than moving to a smaller and less family friendly bungalow.

*Reiki massage manages to relax and relieve the symptoms short term helping her relax, but it's not a cure.

Finding the fun in FND part two.

We are now starting to adapt to the situation having come to terms with things. Little things like unscrewing new jars for the first time so that Jenny can manage them afterwards. We already have an ECO kettle that boils just one cupful of water at a time from a reservoir tank, so I just need to get used to topping it up when I pass it as she can't lift it once it's full.
Having trained the kids to close the doors to retain heat all winter I'm now having to tell them to leave them open, even wedging them to make access easier.
We will wait to see how things progress before I start the mechanical building alterations to the house, and take advice from the assessor as to what is best. I had considered a ramp for the front door access, but apparently a set of small steps with a handrail might be better.
So, today it's been paperwork and making applications for things. At present with Jenny unable to walk the length of a bus (that's a stationary bus, on the pavement alongside it - a standard bus at that, not a stretchy bendy bus) it is obvious to me that we would benefit from the blue badge/disabled parking scheme. However to qualify for this you have to be in receipt of PIP (Personal Independence Payment) This is not means tested, you either qualify or you don't and you get either the lower payment of about £100 a month or the higher payment of about £400 a month. Whilst the extra money will be nice we don't really need it - although I've paid into the tax system all my life since leaving school I still feel uncomfortable claiming benefits. But without claiming for them we can't access the blue badge scheme which we do need at present. It's a strange affair, but that's the way it is. All we want is to be able to park somewhere close by where we need to be for the medical appointments she will have on a regular basis in the months to come.
Having never applied for benefits it comes as a shock to know how easy it is. They want details of bank accounts, dates of birth, maiden names and stuff, then your doctors and consultants details - but at no point did they ask about mobility. Likewise with the blue badge scheme - at no point did anyone ask what my car was (obviously a Range Rover isn't compulsory for parking in a disabled bay, whereas I always thought it was) Nor did they ask how overweight I was, what brand of tracksuit I wore, how many sovereign rings I had on each hand or the name of my Rottweiler. Experience shows me that is one stereotypical disabled badge holder. The other  type wears a Trilby, and drives a beige Mini Metro and has a small yappy dog called Brian.
Anyhow, it appears the blue badge will cost £10, and may take up to three weeks if granted, whilst the PIP may take longer.
I will point out right away that I have the same feelings about blue badge holders that my dad had. He had one in the latter years of his life due to being almost lame in his left leg, however he wouldn't park in the disabled bays unless he was having a bad day. He would point to the sign and say, "They are for people in wheelchairs." He would then park the other side of the car park in the empty bays furthest form the door s and limp across with his stick. If Jenny is having a good day, when she is physically unimpeded that is what we shall do. If she's having a bad day and needs the frame then we'll use the disabled bays Or I'll drop her off in one then move the car to a normal bay to leave it free for the next disabled driver/passenger arriving. That's the way it should work.

Finding the fun in FND

My wife, Jennifer, has suffered from chronic back pain for years, ever since the birth of our first born. It comes and goes and it's something we've both had to live with.
However just three days after her 45th birthday she was suffering more than ever and stood up to go to the bathroom. On her way back she was suddenly struck down with muscular paralysis - total refusal of the legs to obey what her mind wanted them to do. She could stand, but not walk and was stranded in the hallway. Aided by my son we managed to walk, drag and carry her to the car and get her to A & E where after almost nine hours she was assessed and admitted to the hospital. During this time her legs were in constant muscular spasm, shaking and rising uncontrollably, Naturally we were both worried. What the hell was happening? She was in acute pain and her legs wouldn't go back down, even with me trying my best to help get them into an comfortable position,
The following day when I attended the ward to visit Jenny, not only were her legs in uncontrollable spasms but her arms had joined in too, in a slow motion dance fever. Over the next nine days she had cat scans, MRI, X rays, lumbar punctures to test spinal fluids, blood tests, urine tests - they checked everything, but physically all seemed fine. There was no brain damage, no spinal damage, not even the trapped nerve we suspected with the acute hip and back pain, So what the hell was going on?
The hospital seemed as clueless as we were - some unsympathetic nurses suspected she was putting it on, or imagining it. As if! The last place she wanted to be was in the hospital. If you've ever had to spend even one night in hospital with the heating to hot, the air conditioning too dry and the noise that other patients seem able to create then you know where we are coming from here. When you are ill the hospital is the last place you want to be!
After 9 nights Jenny was discharged with "some sort of psychological issue" and the promise of some psychotherapy appointments to follow. Not exactly the reassurance you need when it looks like you're having a stroke and a fit at the same time.
She was discharged with a Zimmer frame to walk with, and over the next three weeks or so she progressed from walking with this, to walking with a stick, to walking unaided again. Things we looking good. Whatever had affected her, maybe it was just a temporary blip. She was tired, and sleeping a lot and very tired but getting though the day. We put the fatigue down to the medication she had been prescribed.
Then one Sunday she woke late and had skipped breakfast and was feeling tired and her legs had started trembling a little. She sat down to make a sandwich, and I was watching as she tried to butter the bread - her hand was rebelling and she was fighting it, the butter knife swaying back and forth but not quite reaching the bread. Something wasn't quite right for sure...… and moments later she called my name asking for help, but her voice had dropped in tone and was slurred. Her face had dropped on one side, her speech thick and slurry, and her arms and legs had begun those dance gestures again. Our daughter Emma was home from University for the Easter break and she and Thomas our teenage son helped me get Jenny into the front room and onto the couch. A call to 111 NHS lead them to call out a paramedic as I described the symptoms and history. I had expected maybe a home visit form the on call doctor. Instead I got two ambulances and four paramedics!
A trip to A & E followed  although this time we were expressed through Majors instead of going through Triage on the Minor injuries side of the hospital, and Jenny was quickly admitted to the Acute Assessment Unit.
Over the following days she was reassessed and suffered further episodes of these weird muscular spasms. They looked like a cross between a stroke and a slow epileptic fit, with chronic muscular fatigue and general tiredness thereafter. Speech was affected, although Jenny was fully aware of the events during and afterwards. By pure chance the Consultant Neurologist was doing his rounds and was examining Jenny, then her normal self, when one of these strange episodes began. From his observations he was finally able to diagnose the problem - Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), specifically Functional Dystonia.
In  explaining this he likens the brain to a computer, which is what it is essentially. In this case, Jenny's Hard Drive has become either full or corrupted, and the ROM is full with the RAM trying to take over all tasks, but without sufficient processor power, hence the scrambled signals being sent out to the limbs.
So, now we have a diagnoses, what is the prognosis? Well not good news. The condition is untreatable via medication or surgery and may last indefinitely. Or it may cure itself tomorrow, or next week or in ten years. Who knows? Retraining the brain to operate the ROM and RAM differently and defrag the hard drive to let the processor work more efficiently is the answer, but how do we do that?
For now Jenny is left with muscular pain and weakness and bouts of seizures and muscular spasms lasting anything from 15 minutes to 15 hours, with speech also affected. When she comes out of this she is her normal self, although tired. During these bouts I feel helpless to do anything to aid her, except giving reassurance and holding her hand - that seems to help, just that human physical contact and stopping her hands rising up of their own accord seems to have a calming influence. FND temporarily takes away the beautiful young woman I fell in love with, leaving the twisted and frenetic body of a stranger, but Jenny is still there beneath it all and rises above it at the end of each episode.
So returning to the title of this episode of my blog, Finding the fun in FND. Well we are maintaining our sense of humour to help us through these difficult times. A few years back Pete Postlethwaite and Thora Hird starred in a film called "Lost For Words" in which Thora suffered a stroke and some mental health issues which her son, Pete had to come to terms with. Thora's character had picked out a care home called Springfield where she wanted to spend her last days, but after her stroke, with her speech and cognitive functioning affected she couldn't tell Pete the name of the place she wanted to go, the word always came out as Spongo. It's a sign of Jenny's sense of humour then that even as she struggles with her speech she refers to her episodes as her "Spongo" moments.
I have decided to write this blog in the hope that it may help anyone else struggling with the early stages of FND to diagnose and understand their condition as it is little understood by the medical profession and difficult to diagnose.
More to follow soon.

I have been neglecting my blog and getting older

Looking at the blog history it is over two years since I last posted, and therefore time for an update on what has been going on in my life.
Firstly I have updated my front page - I am no longer a thirty something, I am now 50. In the old days they used to say life begins at forty. Well, it doesn't. It doesn't even begin at 50, so it seems to me. The older you get the more you stay the same age, and in my mind I am still about 20, maybe 25 on a bad day. Regardless of how the mind ages though, the body ages in normal time.
This explains why recently, coming down a steep descent on a mountain bike at about 25 mph a combination of age, gravity and a large boulder caught me out, sending me over the handlebars, landing on my shoulder and knocking me unconscious. In my mind I was still 20, but suddenly old age caught me by surprise and threw me off the bike. Or so it seemed. Did I also mention I was on my own and almost exactly half way into a 12 mile round trip route in the middle of nowhere? Anyhow, once I regained consciousness I realised that not only me, but my bike were badly hurt. The bike had a badly buckled wheel and I had a suspected discombobulated shoulder. This left me with a problem. I was able to fashion a makeshift sling for the affected limb using my waterproof jacket but had to somehow make my way back to my car with no real idea how far it was or in which direction. My mobile phone told me roughly where I was, but in my groggy state I couldn't relate that to where I had started from. After walking a mile or so down the well marked track I was fortunate enough that another lone cyclist chanced upon me and saw my predicament, with a wounded shoulder pushing a disabled bike with a buckled wheel. This gentleman, Mike, from nearby Boltby, kindly lead me back to a gateway where he then picked me up in his car taking me back to mine at the Sutton Bank car park enabling me to drive home. deposit my broken bike and get myself to casualty for a check over. There I was dismayed to find I had no broken bones, but torn ligaments instead. Experience has taught me that bones can heal in about 6 weeks whilst ligament damage can take 8 to 15 weeks and still not be fully recovered. The collar bone had displaced by about an inch outwards and upwards. Not good. But it could have been worse. I have written elsewhere about my solo experiences as "the Walking Fool" and the risks that involves, but it doesn't stop me from going out hiking alone. Nor will this experience put me off solo cycling. We are here but once, and have one life to live as Land Rover owners frequently proclaim. I could die on my bed aged 100 with a safe but dull life to look back on, or die in a ditch aged 51 with a bent mountain bike over me, a twisted autograss car, or a burning rucksack and a story to tell. I know which account I'd rather give to St Peter.

The Three Peaks - In November? In the snow? Are we mad?

3YP2016 the Three Yorkshire Peaks Challenge – report

Well the day finally arrived for the 2016 challenge, Saturday 19th November 2016. Normally we do this in summer or early autumn in midweek but for various reasons this year we did it in November on a weekend. For the first time I was actually trying to raise money for a good cause, instead of just doing the hike because it's there and we can, which is our usual reason. The good cause in question was the Castlebrae Police Treatment Centre at Aucherarder, Scotland. This is were I went for much needed rehab treatment and physiotherapy following a bad leg break and damaged ligaments in September 2015, the tale of which is documented elsewhere on the blog. I owe much to the wonderful staff there who literally got me back on my feet, teaching me to walk properly again, and without the limp that the NHS physio promised I would have. They are trying to raise £42000 for a zero gravity treadmill, which will help police officers and staff with lower limb and hip injuries maintain a level of fitness during recovery from injuries, preventing muscle wastage and speeding recovery by allowing them to exercise with up to 70% of their body weight reduced, avoiding stressing the injury. It is a most worthy cause and you can still donate if you are inspired by this tale to do so, simply visit https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Y3PC2016 or https://www.justgiving.com/campaigns/charity/tnpctc/castlebraealterg?utm_campaign=20161031_83763&utm_medium=email&utm_source=ExactTarget to make a donation online, and don;t forget to Gift Aid it if you are a taxpayer as this makes an extra £2.50 for every £10 donated 

Right that's the begging bit done, back to the story.

The only remaining team members taking part from our original line up of 8 or 9 years ago were myself and Dave Selby, with relative newcomer Supermarket manager Pete also on board - Petes done it probably four times with us now. Dave had roped in a team of unknowns from the police training department to join us so we had sufficient hikers to make a decent team. In the event, with poor weather forecasts and the usual last minute drop outs only a few turned up.

The Humberside Police team then consisted of myself, Dave, Peter, Charlie, John and Kevin, the latter three being trainers. Statistically that gave an average age of 47, John being the oldest at 54 with Dave and Pete the youngsters at 39.

Arriving at the bunkbarn that would be our overnight accommodation there was snow aplenty on the hills and a fine dusting had covered the roads making the drive up through Selside on the ungritted roads entertaining, a little mini rally stage, which was fun. With more snow forecast throughout the evening, overnight and into Saturdaythe hike was going to be much tougher than usual.

Once we had booked in we met Martin and Joe who were sharing the bunkbarn with us. They had arranged to do the walk with workmates from Andrew Page motor factors, but like us they had been let down at last minute by people dropping out and afraid of the weather. Although both had walked the Peaks once before and were well equipped they were considering aborting rather than tackling it as a pair, simply due tot he bad weather, so we suggested they tag along with us – safety in numbers and all that. Joe was raising money for a Prostrate Cancer charity, a cause he felt strongly for having had many of the male members of his family touched by the cancer one way or the other. 

After the customary few beers it was to bed for an early rise on Saturday morning.  A 5 a.m. alarm call allowed time to park the safety car at Ribblehead and a quick breakfast before setting off, in true "Top Gear" style at exactly 0609 hours to complete the first leg up to Pen-Y-Ghent in the dark. At ground level in the Bracken Bottom valley there was just a dusting of snow, maybe 1/2 inch to an inch, but as soon as we left the metalled road and started up the ascent we stepped into two inches of snow, which got steadily deeper as we climbed higher. The temperature was hovering at about zero, and windchill took this down considerably, but all dressed for the weather we were warm to the point of Dave and Pete removing layers and continuing in shorts! Where the path meets the Pennine Way that changed as the winds increased and the temperature dropped further. The south eastern face of Pen-Y-Ghent always catches the wind, and it was bitter to say the least.

Pen-y-ghent has a long relatively shallow ascent with an abrupt climb to the summit. In the summer this can be achieved from Horton In Ribblesdale in under an hour. It took us at least an extra half hour, nearer three quarters of an hour and the sun was breaking through as we reached the sharp ascent, which was a challenge all of its own. The track is indistinct there at the best of times, and it is a case of picking your way up with the best handholds and steps you can see. It is in effect a climb rather than a walk, albeit only for a short distance, with three points of contact recommended at all times. With the entire outcrop covered in snow it was a two hands on climb, checking each grip and foothold before daring to transfer weight, and with both feet and hands slipping sending the heart racing. The very real risk was of a slip sending you down and it’s quite a drop, with jagged rocks and the sheer height no amount of snow depth would have prevented a serious injury. Regardless we all made it to the top, but John was clearly finding it hard going. Martin and Joe later admitted that had they not had us to guide them and coax them on they would have abandoned at that point.

Arriving at the trig point the entire summit was white over with a fine mist of snow blowing. With only the wall and the trig point it was a case of using experience and instinct to know which way to go, the map wouldn’t help without a reference point although we could have used compass bearing. John tried his military grade Magellan but due to the thick cloud cover couldn’t get a fix on any satellite. It really was hopeless at that point everything was white, with the sky merging into the ground. We struck on regardless, picking out clues to the route as we went along, the old trace of a footprint here, a trace of the trail there and within a mile or so had lost enough height to get under the cloudbase and see familiar landmarks again – and we were spot on course. Instinct and experience, knowledge of the route and terrain had seen us through. Dropping past Hull Pot we soon reached the T junction where you can turn back to Horton in Ribblesdale or continue along the new track towards Ribblehead. The going was still tough, and everybody had ended up on their backside at least once with the slippery conditions.

  

We continued to the second bail out point and here John made the sensible decision to retire gracefully back to Horton In Ribblesdale via the 1 ½ mile route. Although making better progress and thoroughly enjoying the hike Kevin also decided to bail out at this point. Being diabetic he was concerned he was burning up so many calories that he could be in trouble later. No shame at all in achieving only the one peak though, and both have already declared their interest in returning to take part 2017 – but in the summer.

Having ditched the wrinklies and with the average age slightly reduced we were down to a group of six but could pick up the pace a little. The hike across to Whernside was relatively uneventful, each participant taking the lead and the rear at various points as strengths and weaknesses came to the fore. I am fine on the flat and level but due to the ankle injury and a pre-existing knee injury I struggle on downhill stretches particularly where it is loose and rocky surfaces. When it comes to the upwards slopes I aren’t the fastest, but not the slowest either, and can plod on indefinitely – well almost. We made good progress and despite the snowy showers and the cold even Dave wasn’t cursing repetitively, he actually seemed to be enjoying it.

Arriving at Ribblehead Viaduct we were amazed to see the refreshments van there and grabbed a warm drink whilst we changed into dry socks from the backup car and replenished water supplies. A heavy shower of sleet accompanied our lunch, and looking at Whernside was spirit dampening too. A thick black snow laden cloud was settling over it, and Ingleborough itself was banked in snow and fog, the little of it we could see had snow blowing up and over the sides and top, bring some doubt as to whether it would be safely accessible without ropes and crampons. Ingleborough has a very steep climb up the edge of a waterfall – which we couldn’t even see in the conditions.

After a 30 minute R & R we set off up Whernside, again suffering a blast of sleet which tapered off as we turned into the wind and started the ascent. The path was discernible at first but as we made the turn towards the first of its many false peaks it became more and more difficult to see any track at all – it was just a case of following the drystone wall – except the wall wasn’t visible, only the fence posts and wire netting that stands on top of the 3 foot wall could be seen; the snow was drifting, covering the track with anything from 18 inches to 3 feet or more of heavily packed snow. Besides a hard pack of snow where previous hikers must have tread the snow was softer, and more than once my walking poles slipped in deep, sending me off balance. At one point I tested the depth with my fully extended pole and didn’t reach the bottom – around 3 ½ feet minimum of snow. By now we were again loosing all reference points the white foreground of snow merging seamlessly into the white grey sky. A single foot width track had been beaten through the snow by other hikers and it crossed the wall to take advantage of the shallower snow on the other side. As Dave and I took it in turns leading it began to snow again, and the wind picked up drifting the snow and smudging the trail. Charlie, in the middle, a short distance behind later reported that our footprints were disappearing almost before he got to them. He was only around 30 feet behind us, and I couldn’t see the other Martin and Jo at the back, although we kept stopping for them to catch up. As conditions worsened further we agreed that we needed to slow up and keep in visual range.  With the poor visibility it was difficult to gauge how far we were walking and we were beginning to think we had missed the trig point when I saw it looming out of the fog.

    

Time for a Bovril and a few photos before we set off on the right side of the wall this time, the drifts not being quite so steep but still tough going. We passed through a gate that neither I or Dave remember being there last time we did Whernside, last year, but on checking the map it was there, so that’s just our memories playing up.

The descent down the steep unevenly spaced steps down Whernside is always a killer for my left knee joint, but this year the right was worse. Slippery snow and slush meant foot placement was critical, and several times I slipped, either jarring the knees or the ankle or falling over completely. Dave and Joe meanwhile had decided that the quickest way down was on their backsides. It looked like it might be fun, but I didn’t fancy walking the remainder of the hike with wet trousers, so I soldiered on with dignity, if at a somewhat reduced pace.

Once back on the flat it was simple a case of following the trail which was pretty clear of snow by then. By now it was 3 pm and the chances of completing Ingleborough in daylight were nil. Knowing the decent from Ingleborough to be a boulder field I didn’t relish the prospect of crossing it in the dark with a thick layer of snow covering the rocks – it would be like crossing a minefield. Looking across the valley at the steep ascent we could see snow blowing in drifts up the sides, the trail was covered in a deep layer of snow and ice and visibility was nil. I just didn't want to risk snapping a leg or ankle and ending up back in a wheelchair again. That settled it, and we reset course for Ribblehead again and the prospect of a warm by the fire and a pint in the Station Pub. Ingleborough will still be there in the summer when we take the challenge again next year.

The walk back to the viaduct proved uneventful except for a flooded gateway on the path just ½ a mile or so from the finish. With the choice of a detour around it or wet feet I opted for the later and waded through, the depth coming just over my boot tops. Dave waded through with aplomb at top speed ahead of me, whilst the remainder detoured a short distance to a lower section of dry stone wall and climbed over – why didn’t I think of that?

The final time was 8 hours 55 minutes for 18.77 miles of the 26 mile total, and we were losing daylight as we arrived at the pub, 200 yards from the safety car. Given the conditions the energy expended is probably akin to doing the full walk in decent weather anyway. We normally finish in around 10 ½ hours, but there is no way we could have done Ingleborough in under an hour and a half to match that, there was still a good 3 hours walking and climbing in those conditions.

It remains however our fastest time for two out of three in heavy snow wintry conditions, and that is something of an achievement.

At the time of writing we have raised around £135 so far, towards the Castlebrae Appeal, which with the gift aid contribution added equals around about £170, and by encouraging Joe and Martin in the own endeavours have inadvertently helped towards their cause the Prostrate Cancer Research charity, raising a further £100 or so. 

If any of my sponsors feel cheated because I didn't complete the three peaks then they can rest assured I will be back to do it in better weather conditions, and I might well go back and do Ingleborough in the snow in daylight just for the hell of it. Had it been achievable I would have done it, but in the conditions we had it would have potentially risked lives, not only of those taking part, but of those brave and selfless souls who thanklessly take part in rescues when things go wrong. The hills have been their for centuries, and they'll still be there next year - as will I.

Finally a big thank you to all those who donated, and a thank you to the team for their support and encouragement on the day.

Coffee

Todays sermon is about coffee.

About this time last year, or maybe a little earlier I suddenly found myself with time on my hands due to having less time on my feet, more specifically my left foot which was temporarily detached from my leg due to an accident with a trailer which is well documented elsewhere. Whilst we all dream of having extended periods of time away from work the actually reality of that time off is somewhat depressing, particularly if one is confined pretty much to the house as I was. After you have arranged all your books and CD’s into alphabetical order, completed your imaginary ideal 10 car garage, then your imaginary 100 car garage, completed the jigsaw and made a wonky model of a Hawker Hurricane that genuinely does look like it was shot down, although by the USS Enterprise rather than a Messerschmitt, time does start to weigh heavily upon your day. Daytime TV is no help. Initially you enjoy the repeats of old Top Gear episodes on DAVE, until you realise that they are repeating the repeats that you watched only yesterday. Heartbeat and All Creatures Great and Small filled the nostalgia slot for an hour or so, but then to my horror I found myself looking forward to Jeremy Kyles show. Enough! So I broke out the box sets of Breaking Bad, Life on Mars, Ashes to Ashes and when I ran out of them I even watched Flambards.

And then boredom set in. Normally I would take a bath at this point, a long hot relaxing bath with a glass of red wine, a good book and good music on the background. This, with frequent top ups of both wine and hot water could easily while away an afternoon. Sadly with my wayward foot held in place with a cast a bath of his nature was completely out of the question, an unsatisfactory flannel wash and half a shower* was all I was allowed.

*yes, half a shower, with the plaster encased limb prohibited from entry into the cubicle to prevent it getting wet.

It is at this stage that an Englishman would mull things over with a cup of tea. Arthur Dent intergalactic time and space traveller has a lot to say about tea. He famously threw his plastic synthesised cup of tea at the Nutrimat Machine that had provided it saying “Take it back, it tastes filthy.” Having an inbuilt mechanism that rejects tea, i.e. it makes me vomit, I can empathise with this. Arthur Dent, however, liked tea. He enthused about tea. He could write a sermon about tea, and could also make sandwiches although he didn’t know this at the time.

I perhaps digress slightly on the tea thing, because what I did was have a cup of coffee. As I drank it, I realised how entirely and totally unsatisfactory it was. To misquote Arthur, it tasted almost, but not quite entirely unlike coffee.

There are two types of coffee. Well actually there are many types, more of which I will go into later, but two common methods of preparation; instant and not quite so instant.

Instant coffee can come in granules or powder and varies in quality from the very finest like Dowe and Egberts, and Kenco, through the middle ground Nescafe and Maxwell House, through supermarket own brands, and down literally into the gutter, where they sweep up the dust and spilt grounds from the premium brands and sell it as the “Smart Value” range. All have the same thing in common. They are like having sex with a girl from the local council housing estate – cheap, quick, tasteless and ultimately unsatisfying, no matter how sweet it may seem at the time. With very little preparation you can even do it behind the bike sheds – make the coffee that is.

With time on my hands I decided to have some proper not instant coffee. This was my road to Damascus moment. Well, it was the road down to the local COOP actually, a journey which took many minutes, and much hardship and on which I faced much peril, particularly when a car nearly hit my wheelchair on the Zebra crossing. The journey was worth it though, because there, on the shelf just above the level I could comfortable stretch to was a row of Taylors of Harrogate coffee, ready ground and beans in a variety of strengths and flavours. Being a morning I chose a strength 3 morning coffee, ready ground and a cafeteria in which to make it.

Back home my epic journey into coffee began. I decided from the outset that quality mattered over quantity. So where I had been drinking seriously silly volumes of instant each day I would limit myself to just one or two cups of real coffee a day. Perhaps three, maybe four as a treat. You get the picture. I didn’t want to get addicted to Columbian powders, that’s the main thing.

It occurred to me that experts at law are called Barristers. Experts at coffee are called Baristas. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Lesser qualified legal people are called solicitors, and people who solicit are prostitutes, so logically people who make cheap inferior instant coffee are hookers, right? It brings back that sex thing again. Making good coffee is like making love to a beautiful woman. You have to take your time, and make sure the whole thing is a beautiful experience.

So, I start by putting the right music on. It is possible to make coffee to Rock and Roll, but only if you are also flipping burgers. Classical is the way to go – Vivaldi, Holst, Elgar, Glen Miller, the theme from the Deer Hunter or anything by a brass band is could, although not Terry Wogans Floral Dance. Next take a coffee grinder and fill it with beans. Oh yes, I went from ready ground coffee right back to beans, because they are better, fresher and make the experience much more involving. You see it’s not just the drinking of the coffee, it’s the whole experience, you have to involve yourself in the making it.

Savour the flavour, the smell and the look of the beans. Inhale deeply. What joy. Try that with Nescafe and all you get is brown powder up your nose.

Now to the grinder. The grinder must be mechanical, use an electric grinder and you detach yourself from the experience. Now grind those beans, not manically like a dervish, but gently, smoothly, almost caressing the grinder to split and grind those beans. Once you have sufficient grounds pour them into the cafeteria and pour on boiled, but not boiling water. Leave them to infuse with the plunger just settled on top, touching but not compressing the still. Now you need to pick a mug, not a cup.

Just so there is no confusion here a mug is not a mug unless you can get at least three of your finger through the handle. Nobody of any worth ever drank coffee from a cup. Cups are for tea drinkers, mugs are for coffee – end of argument. The American idea of “bottomless” cups of coffee with free refills is just silly. Use a mug in the first place. Have two mugfuls if you like. Just don’t use a cup.

Sweetness of your coffee is purely to your taste. You may add sugar, but it must be brown Demerara sugar, not white. White is purified, and bleached, brown is natural, earthy and wholesome and sometimes has little bits of grit in it, which is fine. It’s like Real Ale tastes better when it has bits floating in it. The sugar goes in the mug first before you add coffee, never the other way about.

Milk or cream is a difficult one. Why would you want to add something squirted out of a cow into something that is pure and perfect? Real coffee is black. But if you do want to add milk or cream it is added to the coffee in the mug, not put in first.

Now comes the moment to savour, the plunging of the coffee. Don’t rush it. Many make the mistake of pushing the plunger all the way down straight away in their rush to get to the finish. Instead, take your time, plunge gently and slowly about a third of the depth, at a snails pace. Watch the grinds swirl and mingle as the steep darkens to an inky blackness. Then pull the plunger back up and immediately return to two thirds of the depth, pause, bring the plunger fully back up and then finally, with satisfaction, push the plunger fully home. Think not of a 1950’s steam engine as you do this, but more of a freight elevator in a 1960’s NHS hospital – slow, but smooth, no rush, dependable. Raise the plunger just a fraction, maybe half an inch to let the grinds breathe and leave to stand for a minute or two before pouring. Coffee perfection.

This brings us to the issue of coffee bars. Not coffee bars as in confectionary bought from Thorntons, which are actually cappuccino, but coffee bars as in the likes of Café Nero and Costa Coffee. As I have said, part of the whole coffee experience is the making of it. In fact it is entirely possible to enjoy a cup of coffee without even drinking it. So why you would want to miss out and have someone else make the coffee for you? Another problem in these vast commercial coffee houses is that they simply cannot make a simple mug of coffee. There are many problems to be honest. Some want to serve your coffee in a take out paper cup, which just doesn’t work. Coffee only tastes right in a proper mug. Put it in a plastic or paper mug and what you get is plastic or paper flavoured coffee. The next problem is Health and Safety, which for some reason, the irony of which is not lost on me, they must serve the coffee at temperatures akin to those in the core of Jupiter. This prevents bacterial growth which might give you a mild tummy bug, at the cost of the risk of third degree burns should you accidentally spill a drop, or take a sip of it at any time within the next 24 hours.

The next problem arises from the increasing multiculturalism in modern society. In the 16^th century when the British East India Company brought coffee to Britain we drank it straight and black. No messing. Gradually we added a little sugar and to make it more palatable for southerners milk or cream but basically that was it for four hundred years.

Now however our coffee shops have a bewildering menu of Espresso, Cappuccino, Moka, Mocha, Frapacinno, Ristretto, Guillermo, Café Crema, Cubano, Americano, Antocinno, Cortado, Galao, Macchiato, and Vienna. None of which mean anything to me, as I just want a straight mug of Joe. Given that most of these end in “o” I blame the Italians. Italian life is all about style, and making something look better than it is, rather like a Lambretta. A Lambretta is a machine of beauty, it promises style and speed and a good time right up until you open up the throttle and strip away the glamour, and only then do you realise that underneath its pretty skirts it has a wooden leg and is wearing clogs. The FIAT spider is the same thing, a stylish sports car, open topped, wonderful to look at, but lacking substance and it melts in the first shower of rain. Italians it seems could polish a turd and make it beautiful. All these variations of coffee are the same, just coffee with something added and a shiny name bolted on. Even the French are at it, with their exotic romantic sounding Café au Lait, which sounds wonderful until you translate into English; Coffee with milk. But give something an exotic name and we, the public are fooled into paying extortionate prices for it. This is why I shun Costa Coffee and look for the small independents which also sell bacon and mushroom sandwiches and usually have trucks parked outside. Provided they aren’t making instant their brews are usually far better than any chain and the drinks menu is simpler; Tea or coffee.

Finally, as a general rule coffee should have nothing added to it, except maybe a tot of brandy, rum or whiskey at Christmas, when it will be acceptable to add some proper cream to it as well, but not the stuff squirted out of a can. A sprinkling of Cinnamon is then also acceptable.

My coffee sermon is prompted by an email I received today advertising a new Wi-Fi enabled coffee making machine. This is simply the work of the devil himself. To take something as pure as the coffee making process and reduce it to pressing a button on an App on your phone is pure evil. It may save time, but it takes the pleasure out of the process.

Coffee making and drinking is not just a way of passing the time away. It is a way of toning up, invigorating, chilling out, de-stressing, taking time to contemplate, reboot, relax and renew ones soul. Nothing else should get in the way.

To quote Forest Gump, that’s about all I have to say about that.

Cheers.

A Walk on the Wild Side

My regular readers (both of them) will no doubt know from my previous reports that every year for the last 8 or 9 years I have hiked the three Yorkshire Peaks of Pen-y-Ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough. This is not for any charitable cause or any great quest, it is simply because they are there. It is an annual escape from the pressures of work and the city life to somewhere calm and restful, where I can drink good beer, enjoy good food, in good company and if I'm honest I even enjoy the hiking. Well at the start I do. And usually at the end. It's the 26 miles in the middle I don't enjoy quite so much.
Anyhow normally I try to hike a decent distance once a month, even through the winter to keep match it, so to speak. This year however, work, life, injury and ....well everything really, has conspired to prevent me doing so, and I have to admit I have put on weight and am not feeling quite so ready as I would normally for the challenge in just over a fortnights time. I have this long term progressive ailment called "ageing" which means that things I did easily 20 years ago are now getting to be a bit difficult. And when I go to bed fully functioning I cannot guarantee that everything will be in working order the next morning. My left knee injury is a long term issue which for legal reasons I am not allowed to talk about, but lets call it my old war wound - that plays up awful first thing. And now my feet have joined in - one or other, or both will be very painful to walk on for the first two minutes of any random day, for no obvious reason. I have the mind of a 22 year old but in the body of a 47 year old who has aged an extra 20 years due to 28 years of shiftwork in a very physical job.
So, this month has seen a crash course in decent length hikes to get me up to speed. So far I've done Halsham Round, a local hike of about 8 miles, and Kiplingcotes to Eton and back on the old railway track bed. These are both fairly flat walks however - well living on the Holderness Plain we are a little short of decent hills around here. But I do have a cunning and devious plan that gives the knee and calf muscles a similar workout - Spurn Point.
For those living elsewhere who have never heard of it, Spurn point is the little finger of land that sticks out into the North Sea just above the Humber, in geological terms it is a relatively unique feature, a hooked spit, caused by erosion of the soft boulder clay between Bridlington Bay and Easington, the deposits from which wash around to the mouth of the Humber where the form this strip of land. It is a curving belt of land with a spatulate end, 3 miles long and as little as a few metres wide in places. It has the sea with a beach to one side, and the mud flats of the estuary on the other. This means it is a great place to hike, as not only is it beautiful with diverse wildlife and fauna, but it also has many different surfaces to walk on - mudflats, stony beach, grass meadow, concrete road and heavy going soft sand. Or at least that is how it used to be.
Allow me to elucidate. The natural process that causes the point to build up is cyclic, and over 100 years give or take 10, it should build up, then breach so that the end becomes an island, then wash away as it builds up again, slightly south of it's previous location. This has gone on for thousands of years until the Nepolionic Wars, when the military importance of the Humber Ports meant the estuary had to be protected. So the peninsula was reinforced and not allowed to breach. During the two world wars it was further reinforced, with concrete bunkers, pill boxes and even a light railway being installed to supply munitions from Easington to the gun battery at the tip of the point. The upshot of this interference is that the breach has been overdue for the last 120 years or so. Of course once the war was over all military interest was lost, but the defences have lasted a good seventy years since their last reinforcements. Indeed many pillboxes remain and with a little work could still be used for there original purpose today. But winter 2013 finally saw what nature had been battling to achieve for over 200 years, and the sea broke over the narrow section, washing away the road and separating Spurn Head from the mainland. We now have Spurn Island - twice a day. High tide sees the land cut off for a couple of hours at a time. Now there are other islands that have this same sort of status, Lindesfarne Springs to mind. But Lindesfarne, otherwise known as Holy Island has a permanent and well maintained causeway linking it to the mainland. Spurn simply has land that is there and then not, and each tide changes the route of the "road" that will re-link it once the tide recedes. Today the road diverted along the beach, because the original road has long since washed away. It takes a proper 4x4 to get across, by which of course I mean a Series Land Rover or Defender. Other than an Argocat style six wheeled machine three Land Rovers were the only vehicles I saw on Spurn Head today, in stark contrast to my last visit when cars were allowed the full length and you could, should you be stupid enough to own one, take a Smart car to the lifeboat station.
Much of the road is concrete, built by the army long ago, but the more recent sections over the narrow neck of the point were made of blocks that fitted together like a jigsaw, such that as the land moved the road could be lifted and replaced easily. Even this only delayed the inevitable breach and the land eroded from under the blocks, which now lay scattered and broken, destroyed by the power of the tide and nature.
The Lifeboat Station of course is one reason why a road was maintained along the land in recent years. I believe that Spurn Lifeboat Station is the only fully manned 24 hours station in the country, and this reflects it's importance on the coast and for the Humber. Inaccessible at times due to weather conditions even before the breach it is even more isolated now. Housed at the end is a small community of full time Lifeboat crew and their families.
When I worked as a Coastguard I once plotted the locations of telegraph poles into our GPS to assist in mapping searches. These poles are now gone - the telephone wires either run underground or no longer connect the houses and lifeboat station. I suspect they must now rely on mobile phones and radio for contact with the outside world. Whether or not they are connected to the National Grid for electricity is anyones guess.
But is it a remote and desolate place? No, far from it. Their housing has a homely if somewhat utilitarian look and feel. Spurn is tranquil, quiet, peaceful, restful - a beautiful place of solitude, great for reflection. As I walked I found myself in a state of heightened awareness, without the need for chemicals or alcohol to assist me. It was as though the silence accentuated the remaining senses. Deprived almost of any sound, my eyes were picking up Painted Lady butterfly's, brown tailed moth caterpillars, little white moths, - at this point I wish I had more knowledge of nature, because I can only describe the birds as hovering hawk like things, and whilst I recognised Gorse and Bracken there were other things and blue flowery things, and stuff. Rabbits abounded, and although I didn't see any today I have seen deer roaming wild. I once came around a bend in the track to be met face to face by a young stag, a matter of 10 feet away. So startled were we that he forgot to run away and I forgot to get my camera out, we just stood and looked at each other for maybe a minute before he turned and strutted away. Just over six feet tall, handsome, lean and muscular, a prize specimen I must have looked to him.
Crossing the point where the tide breaches daily I could see how thin the strip of land is - it was always thin in the past but now it's as little as 30 feet, and only a few feet above the low tide line. The point is owned or certainly maintained  these days by the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust, and a good job they make of it. They could promote it a bit better and it could do with a bit of a clean up - some of the litter could be removed, and there are a few buildings they could put into service as holiday lets for example, but other than that they are doing a decent job. They post the daily tide times and a warning of when it is dangerous to cross to the island and back. For the very stupid, they have provided a shelter in the form of a hut, which seats four, where you can wait until the tide turns. I suspect that four seats will not be enough during the summer, when people from Barnsley and Bradford with no knowledge of how the sea works come to visit. I was once astounded to learn as a coastguard that the most successful fundraising area was the Midlands, where grateful landlubbers dug deep to provide funds for those hardy souls who looked after the coast and had rescued them when the boat they won on Bullseye capsized.
Stepping past the breach point, the land widens out, but you still get that unnerving sensation that you are now on dangerous ground. The tide can, and will cut you off if you do not keep an eye on your watch. There is, in fact plenty of time to walk the three miles to the tip and three miles back before the next tide, but it is noticeable how much the tide has moved when you return to the pinch point. It certainly makes you realise this is a walk on the wild side.

Smeetons Light, the old lighthouse to the left on this picture currently stands on the mudflats, but was on dry land when it was built. Matthews Light, the newer lighthouse has recently been awarded Heritage Lottery funding and is now surrounded by scaffolding as it is under renovation to become a new visitor centre. Click here to read more about the plans to renovate it
http://www.hulldailymail.co.uk/Work-start-Spurn-Point-lighthouse-restoration/story-25967975-detail/story.html

Returning through the pinch I was passed by one of the Land Rovers used by the lifeboat crew and river pilots who operate from the jetty at the point. As skilful as the driver was I noted he was only marginally faster than my walking pace as he traversed the shifting sands on what is now effectively the sea bed between the wannabe island and the mainland. Only a Land Rover or possibly a Toyota Landcruiser could have achieved it, but lets be honest, the Toyota would look out of place.

My walk was most enjoyable and I'm pleased to say the knee stood up to the terrain nicely, dry and soft sand, wet and sucking sand, concrete road, meadow and pebble strewn beach. bring on the Three Peaks, I think I'm ready for you.

Naming your car is just silly

People who name their cars. What is that all about? Calling a chunk of metal and plastic Boris, or Herman or Cecilia or whatever it's just stupid.
But the manufacturers are more guilty than the end user. At least the man in the street, or let's be honest, it's more likely the woman in the street gives his or her car a proper name. The manufacturers have run out of sensible names and are now making them up. Hence we have the Vauxhall Zafira, the Nissan Qashkai, the Suzuki Celerio, the Renault Kadjar..... the list goes on. These are just made up names, a random selection of letters designed to be globally acceptable and inoffensive. But they are just complete bollocks.
Some car makers refuse to get involved and just use numbers and letters - BMW, Volvo and Peugeot generally just use numbers. But the others just get silly.
Am I the only one who wants car names that mean something? The Cortina, and the Capri evoked images of exotic foreign destinations. Okay, there was a period during the 80's when car makers simply looked to the top shelf of W.H.Smiths for inspiration, and we ended up with the Fiesta, Escort and mini Mayfair. But by and large they made an effort using proper English words. Thus we had the popular, the prefect, anglia, sceptre, scout, victor, ensign and such like. We also got the Viva, meaning long life, which was a contradiction and most rusted away quicker than the customers could file a warranty claim.
So, we are left with a future of random vowels and consonants to describe your latest transport, which means that you will soon be driving a dsfghjk and it will be your own fault. Personally I will call it Herbert.

My car has a cold.

One of the problems with my Vectra has always been the lack of heat. In the past cars were inefficient beasts that turned petrol into a little bit of power and a lot of heat and noise. Engines however have been getting more refined and efficient over the last few years partly because of the environmental argument (which is nonsense) that they damage the atmosphere, but mostly because of the price of fuel. The result is my Vectra will do up to 70 miles per gallon but generates little heat from the engine, certainly on my 22 mile commute to work a candle on the dashboard would be more beneficial. The problem is a big lazy engine turning a tall geared gearbox, resulting in the engine barley ticking over in 6th gear for most of the route. I could of course thrash the balls of it in third, but then all the efforts to maintain fuel economy and keep it quiet would have been worthless.
What it needed was an old school engineering solution - i.e. a bit of cardboard stuck up in front of the radiator. This would restrict airflow causing the radiator to heat up quicker, and thus the cabin heater would warm up quicker too. Clever huh?
A little too clever for my own good. Pulling out onto the main road today I noticed a distinct unwillingness to put power to the wheels, even though the throttle was wide open. Slipping into neutral revealed the engine would not rev past 2000 rpm. Examination shows that those clever boffins at Vauxhall made two air intakes, controlled by a thermostatic valve. In summer it sucks in nice cool air, and once the car has warmed up it also takes in warm air. But for cold running it takes air from behind the radiator, where it is warm. I think you can see where this is going. Yes, I had effectively strangled the car by blocking off it's air supply.
The effect is akin to hiking with a cold. It is not pleasant, but you can just about breathe between sneezes and snuffles, right up until someone asks you to sprint up a hill, which quite frankly just isn't going to happen. Air cannot enter your lungs, because the filter is blocked. It is of course well known that you don't catch a cold because you are cold, you catch a cold because it's a virus, and virus thrive in the warm if you dressed in summer wear you wouldn't catch a cold, you'd catch hypothermia.
And the same is happening to the Vectra - by trying to keep it warm I have given it a cold.

Christmas shopping without the zombies

I have spoken before, last year to be precise, about the phenomenon known as the Christmas Shopping Zombie, so I won't go into it again in detail. Read last years post if you want to remind yourself. Needless to say I was keen to avoid them this year.
The nearest large town to my home is Hull, which has been designated the UK city of Culture 2017. I have spoken on this subject too, so will say no more, other than that Hull will need to improve an awful to in less than 3 years if it is not to disappoint. Don't get me wrong, it is, or rather could be, a great city. It is let down by a minority of the people that live there, a road infrastructure that doesn't work, (rather like the minority of people) and a depressing backdrop of buildings which have never been repaired after the Luftwaffe used the city as a dump for all the unused munitions they had left over from anywhere else they failed to bomb. This means that a shopping trip into the city is not a prospect I look forward to.
Firstly there is the hassle of getting there. Whilst there is a bus, carrying many bags of shopping on it isn't really feasible, so it's the car then. Which means a slow arduous trek of 10 miles that should take 10 minutes but takes nearer 30.
Then you have to pay £7 to park near a derelict church with the very real prospect that your stereo and wheels may be missing when you come back.
Next you have to walk past the tracksuit clad chain smoking unwashed hanging around outside the shops selling stolen chocolate bars or begging for cash.
Then the shops themselves are full of the aforementioned zombies. And nothing worth buying. So what to do?
The wife suggests Meadowhall, but this simply means driving a lot further for pretty much the same shops, more expensive parking and similar zombies but with different accents.
York was tempting, because it has historic little gift shops and lots of street entertainment - jugglers, musicians, magicians, mimes and people who stand still for a living. And, last time I was there, Darth Vader and C3P0. But York is also full of students who irritate me by speaking in tongues. If they are bright enough to be studying nuclear physics or whatever York University teaches, why can't they speak English?
I might end up stuck in Hull after all. But then inspiration struck. It meant driving 60 miles each way, but I made a day out of it all and heading for a different North East Coastal town. I will keep the identity of this town secret, because when it comes to Christmas shopping it is a little gem. Nestling on the clifftops it has a variety of shops selling all sorts of trinkets and gee-gaws, just the sort of tat that makes ideal Christmas presents. And in a shock move that took me entirely by surprise North Yorkshire Council has suspended all parking charges until 1st March. Free Parking. Yes, Free! Hull could learn something from this.
I parked near a derelict church, but had no fears of my car being attacked, because the church in question had been vandalised by someone called Henry almost 500 years ago, so there was little chance of him coming back. Apart from this, there were no tracksuited unemployed idle youth to be seen, probably because the car park was at the top of a very steep hill and they were too lazy to walk. But that was not the case, even when I got down to the shops there were no layabouts to be seen. The shops were devoid of zombies, indeed devoid of almost any customers at all, meaning that I could browse at my ease, and had the full attention of the friendly, welcoming and interested sales assistants. The whole experience was a delight. Topped off with Fish and Chips from an award winning outlet, instead of Bob Carvers greasy spoon in Hull, I then enjoyed a relaxing drive over the moors and enjoyed the beautiful scenery and sunset.
A grand day out, Grommit, and not a zombie in sight.

How to replace the nearside headlamp bulb on a 2006 model Vauxhall Vectra.

So many enjoyed my entry on how to replace the offside headlamp bulb on a 2006 model Vauxhall Vectra, that I thought I might write up the other side, having just done that job too. So here goes.
How to replace the nearside headlamp bulb on a 2006 model Vauxhall Vectra.
1. Weigh up the work involved in removing the battery and fusebox that appear to be in the way. Note the water bottle filler neck also positioned right behind the headlamp. 
2. Having learned your mistake from doing the offside headlamp, do not fall for it and remove the cover for the easily accessible main beam lamp, instead attempt to reach the cover for the very inaccessibly dipped beam lamp. Graze the back of your hand on the sharp edges of the moulding of the washer bottle filler neck. Curse loudly.
3. Take a small child, preferably your own and attempt to explain what is required. After fifteen minutes and several attempts, accept that whilst their hand is small enough, they do not have the wit or the strength in their fingers to remove the cover, which was put on with superglue, by an ape, at the factory.
4. Measure your own hand, and the space available, which will be smaller. Work out how much more space would be available if you could just get the washer bottle filler neck out of the way, which is almost, but just not quite enough.
5. Remove the plastic clips that hold the washer bottle filler neck to the front slam panel by snapping them gently. Curse in Latin whilst doing this.
6. Get your hand to breathe in and hold its breath whilst you remove the cover from the back of the headlamp.
7. Working blind again, pull off the electrical connector (the bulb will come with it) but unlike the offside headlamp there will be no mysterious metallic “ping” noise and nothing will fall into the engine bay. This is normal.
8. Replace the bulb noting the specially shaped backplate which will only allow the bulb to fit in one way etc etc blah blah see instructions for offside headlamp, steps 7 to 11.
9. Drop the cover for the headlamp into the most inaccessible part of the engine bay ensuring that it either snags on something halfway down just beyond reach, or falls all the way through to the undertray which is held on by about a million screws all of which you will have to remove to get the tray off to retrieve the headlamp cover.
10. Having replaced the headlamp cover and the engine undertray replace the washer bottle filler neck attaching it to the front slam panel with a zip tie.
Job done. Estimated time 10 minutes. Actual time 1 hour, two cups of coffee.
Difficulty rating. ****king annoying.

How to replace the offside headlamp bulb on a 2006 model Vauxhall Vectra.

How to replace the offside headlamp bulb on a 2006 model Vauxhall Vectra.
Since the Haynes manual doesn’t cover this seemingly simple task, here is a step by step guide for those undertaking this job.
1. Disconnect the battery using a 10mm spanner for the terminals. Use a short spanner which will not accidentally arc against the wing, causing a spark.
2. Using a blunt screwdriver, carefully break the fiddly little clip that holds the connector to the Mass Airflow Sensor on the air filter box. Curse loudly. Swing the cable away to one side.
3. Using a 7mm spanner which you don’t have, or a pair of pliers, gently round the nuts on the jubilee clips that hold the pipework to the mass airflow sensor, cursing as you do this. Constantly push aside the wiring that keeps falling back into the way.
4. Having removed the airflow sensor and related piping attempt to pull the air filter box of the rubber retaining bungs and lift it out of the engine bay. Graze the back of you right hand and tear a fingernail on the left – any will do, as you will be ripping them all off eventually.
5. Grow the fingers on one of your hands by an extra inch, then reach behind the headlamp in the space you have now created and twist the wrist to an unnatural angle to remove the cover from the back of what turns out to be the main beam headlamp. Reverse the process to replace this, then repeat on the even more inaccessible dipped beam headlamp cover.
6. Massage life back into your fingers and suck the blood from any deep cuts. Now using a torch in one hand, use the other two hands to gently pull the connector from the back of the bulb. Curse as the bulb comes out with it, something goes “ping” and an unknown but mercifully superfluous spring metal wire part flies off into the depth of the engine bay.
7. Spend five minutes with the torch familiarising yourself with exactly what it was holding the bulb in, and work out the bulb orientation – it will only fit in one particular way due to the shape of the base plate. This position is hidden by the shadow of your hand in the torchlight whatever position you hold the torch in, so you will have to work blind. Once you have found the position, apply firm pressure to push the bulb in place on the spring clips.
8. Grope around the bottom of the engine bay, in the inaccessible gaps and retrieve the bulb and try again.
9. And again.
10. With the bulb now in position replace the wiring connector (a push fit) taking care not to unseat the bulb. Reseat the bulb.
11. Test the bulb works. Puzzle at why it doesn't until you recall that you disconnected the battery at step 1. Reconnect the battery and test the bulb again. Do not miss this step at all costs, or you will be starting again from the top, when you get to the last step.
12. Replace the headlamp dust cover, using a small childs hand on an adult arm.
13. Attempt to refit the air filter box. Marvel at how something so large could have come out of such a small space. Graze knuckles, preferably your own, but use a bystanders if available, curse loudly without hesitation, repetition or deviation as you wrestle with the air box until it finally surrenders and goes back in place.
14. In a loud voice shout “For crying out loud, you bastard” as you realise the wiring for the mass airflow sensor is now trapped beneath the air filter box. Remove the airfilter box and repeat step 13 as many times as it takes, before eventually using gaffer tape to fix the wiring out of the way so it can’t fall again.
15. Replace the mass airflow sensor and associated pipework. Drip blood gently onto the rounded nuts securing the ducting to make them more difficult to turn with the pliers you have now lost.
16. Refit the electrical connector on the mass air flow sensor, replacing the clip you broke earlier with a new one made out of a paper clip, or use duct tape to hold it in place.
17. Attempt to replace the battery connections and realise you already did that at 11 above and have been working on live electrics since.

Job complete. Estimated time 10 minutes. Actual time 35 minutes. Why not change your airfilter at the same time and get two jobs doe in one?

The tax spiral

"Unto Caesar pay the taxes," one man famously said when questioned about paying taxes "for it is his face upon the coins." Shortly afterwards he got nailed to a tree, which just goes to show.
It is indeed right and proper that we pay taxes. But do we have to have quite so many of them. And whilst I don't mind paying a fair tax, I object top paying tax on a tax for something I paid tax on already.
The newest tax to be proposed is the Mansion Tax, which will be aimed at those who own houses worth more than £2 million. These are obviously rich people, who should be taxed for being successful. I expect most footballers will be happy to pay this tax, and they can certainly afford it. But what about those unfortunate people who have lived in houses which through the governments ineptitude, assisted by greedy property developers and town planners have risen into that band whilst they stay on the same income? Other people made their house worth more, not them.
My own modest plot falls nowhere near the £2 million threshold, but he's the rub. In the North of England it could be any house worth more than £400,000, and mine might soon come quite close. it's nudging towards £300,000 already.
So far as I see it I have earned money by working, and I have paid income tax on that money. I bought a house with what was left and had to pay Stamp Duty tax for the privilege. Then I had to pay council tax to live in it. And now I might have to pay mansion tax as well to keep living in it. There is of course a plan by the Labour Party to ease that burden, so that you don't actually pay anything towards the Mansion Tax until you are dead. Brilliant - now they've even found a way to tax me after I'm dead. Up until this they relied on my beneficiaries paying inheritance tax on what I left behind. But of course they'll want that too, although they will deduct the value of the Mansion Tax from the estate value before inheritance tax is calculated. No doubt they will want VAT on the tax as well.
Of course you can avoid the tax entirely by being rich and then renting a house. Or you could just be poor and never pay any taxes at all.
Tax on cars is equally strange. Again you earn money and pay income tax, and with the bit you have left you are allowed to buy a car, on which you pay purchase tax, and VAT. Then you must pay vehicle excise duty, which is a tax on ownership of the car, and if you intend to drive it you will need fuel, on which you pay fuel duty and some more VAT. And you must insure it, which is tax in disguise, and pay some more VAT on the insurance. If you choose instead to simply park it, then you must pay a parking charge, yet another tax in disguise, probably with VAT as well, and if you forget to pay or overstay you get a fine (tax?) with VAT on it. And if you are unfortunate enough to live or work in the capital, there's yet another tax to pay for the congestion that has been caused by turning half the road into "special users lanes" for those on buses and riding cycles who don't pay tax. And don't be tempted to use those bus lanes either, or you'll be taxed/fined for that too. Even if you go green and environmental and buy a G-Whiz electric car you'll still be paying VAT on the electricity.
It's all enough to drive you to drink - but there's tax on that too.
Income tax was of course originally charged to finance a war with the French. We should have stopped paying it years ago, we just got used to it.
I found some comfort then when they announced on the news that Britain was being charged an extra £1.7 billion by the EU for being so successful in managing our economy. Cameron was furious, and said he will not pay it. Good for him .But then it dawned on me - they'll only find a way of making me pay it.

Why Cops eat Donuts

Why do cops eat donuts? Well truth is they don't, at least not as much as they are portrayed to do by the media. I can count on one hand the number of donuts I've eaten this year, and it's six.
Cops do tend to eat sugary foods and fast food though, and it's not purely down to the shift work and inability to eat regular meals, although that does play a part. What it comes down to is genetics. It's in our DNA. How can this be I hear you ask? You aren't born as a cop. And that is mostly true too. But our DNA and genetic make up means we are all designed to eat at regular intervals, but any shiftworker in the emergency services will tell you that is impossible. Except for firemen, who rarely have their meals, or sleep disturbed.
It is to do with STRESS and how our bodies react to it. In ascending order here are the top ten most stressful jobs in the UK.
10. Schoolteacher. (except for during the thirteen weeks of holiday they get - they must be pretty unstressed, particularly after that six week summer break)
9. Social Worker (Not sure how they get stressed with all the camomile tea and Japanese Peace Lilies around the office)
8. Newspaper Reporter (You're kidding right? I suppose if your the war correspondent in Afghanistan it might get a bit hairy)
7. Emergency Dispatcher (Passing the buck to other people to deal with the real problem is stressful? Really?)
6. Nurse (I've been in A&E often enough to know this is true, but it is't quite like they show on "Casualty" - I've never heard them shout CRASH yet)
5. Police Officer (Eating doughnuts can be stressful - see below)
4. Pilot (I am amazed at this, because it is basically driving in 3D, and I find driving quite relaxing. Plus I once spoke with a pilot, who told me modern planes could take off, fly and land themselves without him being in the cockpit, and he was only really there as public reassurance. I suppose there is always the worry of a Taliban on board, but it is quite rare really. And if your a light aircraft pilot that must be quite stressful, you have one engine, and if that goes out.......)
3. Firefighter (How is sitting around the station polishing your fire engine and driving round town on a Friday evening flexing your muscles for the girls and pretending to check hydrants stressful? Why is essential hydrant maintenance always scheduled for a Friday night anyway? The average fire fighter goes to around 3 real fires a year, and maybe ten or twelve traffic incidents were he will usually cut the battery cables and hose away evidence causing stress to number 5 in the list)
2. Surgeon (It must be very stressful taking a person apart, then putting them back together again and hoping they still work afterwards. I did this once with a Mitsubishi engine and it was never the same afterwards - and I had bits left over, so all credit to Britain's second most stressful occupation. They must be on a knife edge the whole time waiting for their bleepers to go off and the nurses to shout CRASH - which they never do, see above)
1. Military personnel. (I have the utmost respect and admiration for our armed forces, who are understrength overworked and under equipped. Although you have to remember they all volunteered knowing there was a good chance they would be sent into combat, unlike their fathers who joined in the cold war when there was little chance of anything kicking off anywhere and were taken by surprise when the Falklands War broke out. That must have been most stressful, when you were enjoying a career consisting of simply driving a Land Rover around Salisbury Plain and then suddenly were sent out there to be shot at.)
So being a cop is the 5th most stressful job in the country. And even more so in the city I would hazard. When subject to mental or physical stress in a potentially life threatening situation the human body responds by producing adrenalin, to allow "fight or flight" responses. This is where we either deal with the issue by punching it, wrestling it, killing it, chasing after it or running away from it. In the days of the cave man the problem causing the stress was usually a predator, and you either killed it then ate it, or you ran away from it or got eaten. The problem for cops is they are not allowed to run away from whatever is causing the stress, and in most cases are discouraged from eating it either. This means that a chemical hormone called Cortisol produced at the same time as the adrenalin flooded their body to give them the energy to fight or flight builds up in their system. This causes sugar imbalance, leading to potential diabetes. Cops are already at high risk of diabetes due to the shift work, poor sleeping patterns and irregular or skipped meals. Once the sugar balance is disturbed the cops get sugar cravings, both mental and physical. If they have to suddenly expend energy and rapidly deplete their energy reserves the Cortisol causes a sugar crash, hence the desire for a nice sugary donut and a mug of hot sweet brown. Because they have missed a meal the hormone adiponectin is low. Adiponectin is what helps burn fat rather than store it. Missing meals the body believes it will starve, so it stores the energy from the donut as fat, rather than burn it as fuel.
Whoa! This can't be right I hear you say. Marathon runners expend masses of energy but don;t eat donuts or get fat. And you'd be right. But runners have the opportunity, like all athletes, to warm up prior to their exercise. They don't get that flood or Cortisol, and they don't have the adiponectin deficiency because they had a stack of high energy slow release oatmeal or whatever for breakfast.
Of course once in the cycle, the cop is likely to put on more weight, no matter how much he exercises, thus becoming borderline diabetic with erratic blood sugar levels and the cycle continues, with more donuts. The only way to end it is to retire, and do something less stressful. I have checked the list and quite fancy emergency dispatcher.
There are of course two other reasons cops eat donuts. Because the can, and because they like 'em.

Happy New Year

With a third of the New Year now passed, it seems I owe all my readers a somewhat belated Happy New Year wish. Where has the time gone? This my first blog of 2014, which suggests that either nothing of interest has happened since January 1st, or, given my usual frantic lifestyle, so many interesting things have been happening that I haven't had time to write about them. This seems more likely.
I can't think of anything specifically, but I'm sure there must have been things going on.
Perhaps I should liven things up a little by tempting fate, or poking Death with a big stick? I'm sure that will liven things up a little, and give me something more interesting to write about next time.
If you were expecting my usual witty vitriol, or a rant, then I apologize. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

Life on mars wallpaper from back to the future

Living near a city the size of Hull, one would expect there to be a plethora of wallpaper outlets with a multitude of designs to choose from. Not so.
Our local DIY store used to supply wallpaper that you could choose from a number of sample books, but apparently their supplier treat them like a third world country because they didn't buy enough, so now they have stopped supplying at all. That leaves a small independent trader on one of the city high streets, who has apparently closed early for Christmas, and the usual suspects who for commercial reasons I will refer to as Q & B and Basehome. Oh yes and a local cut price chain called B & M, who for commercial reasons I shall refer to as .............. oh bugger, I've said their real name now, too late.
No matter, all of these stock exactly the same wallpaper. There are currently three wallpapers available. Well okay, there are more than that, but to me they all look the same and fall into four categories, which are retro 1970 psychedelia, huge floral designs, Indian Restaurant flocks and the sort of thing your gran would have had in her front room in the 1970's. It was like walking onto the set of Life on Mars.
After an exhaustive search of all four potential wallpaper emporiums and an hour of deliberation we settled on something which was at best a compromise for our dining room. Why are wallpaper designs suddenly so stale and restrictive? Is it the financial recession? Is paint taking over as the wall covering of choice? Or is it a fashion thing, whereby "designers" are dictating what they think we should have on our walls?
In these modern times where we can manufacture objects on a 3D printer I think we have missed a trick. There must surely be a market for a large wallpaper roll printer on which we, the general public, can design and print our own wallpaper, to ensure we get a sensible design of what we want, and not what "they" want to sell us.
Dragons Den here I come.