notes: March 2006

God save our gracious Queen

I've just written to my MP (using WriteToThem), voicing my concerns about the Legislative and Regulatory Reform Bill, now making its way through Parliament.

If passed into law, the Bill would permit ministers to make changes to any existing legislation without recourse to Parliament. Just by having a meeting and signing a piece of paper, a government minister (elected to Parliament by constituents, yes, but made a minister - and therefore granted this power - at the whim of the Prime Minister) could make drastic and far-reaching changes to the laws of this country.

More information at Save Parliament. Write to your MP today.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
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Unhooked thinking

Unhooked Thinking is a three-day conference about addiction that takes place down the road in Bath in April. It covers all manner of thought and experiment in the field of addiction - all kinds of addiction, and all manner of things we can be addicted to.

My friend Alan will be one of the key speakers, and his theory is the most challenging (to the mind) of all: all our addictions, be they "classical" addicitions to drugs or alcohol or gambling, or "modern" addictions to materialism or exercise or self-improvement, are all manifestations of one single, original addiction: to conflict.

Alan's theory is just one of many being presented at the conference. Asked why it's a three-day conference, Alan reponds simply: "Addiction is a big subject."

Among the many speakers on the conference programme is Julien Temple, one-time director of mid-80s Britfilm Absolute Beginners, and Gilles MacKinnon, director of Winslet-starring Hideous Kinky. There's also a bunch of psychologists, sociologists, historians, doctors, and yes, addicts.

I'm trying to get my head around it all and wondering if there's an article to be written, and to which publications I should pitch my thoughts.

Thursday, March 16, 2006
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Statick majick

At the end of the day, take your fleecy jumper off in a darkened room. Look for the blue sparks. That's 10,000 volts of static electricity trying to find its way out of your body and back to the earth. Can be painful, can't it?

We're all staticked-up chez Turnbull right now. The combination of a new laminate floor (main ingredient: plastic) in the kitchen, plus several weeks of electrical work which has left the property better earthed than it has been for years, has resulted in blue sparks flying everywhere.

It turns out there's not a great deal you can do to avoid static; it's something that nature does, and you just have to learn how to deal with it.

Our electrician, Warren, advises us to slow down a bit as we move round the house. Stand still for a few seconds before taking that fleecy jumper off, or before touching anything metal after walking around on the laminate floor. It only needs two or three seconds, but that's long enough for much of the voltage to dissipate; once it's below two or three thousand volts, you won't feel a thing.

Elsewhere, I discover some additional useful advice: touch the bodywork of a car before stepping out of it, and you'll avoid getting a shock when you close the door. Avoid any activity which allows two electrostatically charged materials to rub together, such as wearing two fleecy tops on top of each other (something I have been known to do on particularly cold days). Static itself is unlikely to hurt you; most injuries come from people jerking their arm back suddenly after getting a strong shock, then dropping their heavy load of bricks / falling off the ladder they were climbing / jabbing the person behind them in the eye with their elbow.

When I have finished writing these notes I shall stand up, walk across the room and get a shock from the kitchen sink. Zap. Ouch.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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Finding Floyd

Ian and Steve were a couple of musical misfits, fixated on Pink Floyd, Hendrix, and oddly, Chris de Burgh.

They took me under their wing (I'm not sure why I needed to be taken under anyone's wing, nor why they thought it should be theirs) and we hung out at break times, talking music. There was a Pink Floyd lyrics game they played:

Q: "Fourth album, side 1, track 2, line 12, word 3."

A: "Rabbit" (or whatever the answer was)

They were surprisingly good at it. Whole lunch hours would pass by playing this, just hanging about and talking rubbish. The other two knew a lot more about music than I - they'd started exploring at an earlier age - and passed on their recommendations to me.

The two of them introduced me to progressive rock, power ballads, heavy metal and the concept of a "band practice", which involved driving out to a house on the edge of a village, wolfing down sandwiches made by someone's mum (we were only about 13 or 14 at this point), and mucking about in the garden for hours before spending the final hour randomly playing chords and bashing the drum kit about.

"You should play bass," they said. They needed a bassist. "It's piss easy, you'll pick it up in no time." I should've tried, but fear kept me back. They probably didn't mean it, anyway.

Thanks to Ian and Steve, I ventured away from the the first records I'd listened to, a bizarre combination of my brother's taste (Billy Bragg, David Bowie) and my mother's (Niel Diamond, ELO, folk and jazz). I began exploring other ideas and broadening my tastes.

I lost touch with both of them after leaving school. I've no idea what happened to Steve. Ian Betts is now a world class trance DJ, so I hope I'm not embarrassing him in public by mentioning his early interest in Pink Floyd. And I'm pretty sure the Chris de Burgh LPs were Steve's, not Ian's.

Labels: life, music, writing

Monday, March 13, 2006
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The Biscuit Tree (a story for small children)

The biscuit tree grows at the end of our garden, just next to the compost heap.

When we moved in it was only this high, and I could jump right over it if I wanted to, though mummy kept telling me that if I did I'd bang my head on the fence. So I didn't. But I could've.

But look at the biscuit tree now! It's higher than the fence, it's higher than daddy! It's higher than Paul-next-door's big toy dumper truck!

In a few years, I'll be able to climb up the biscuit tree to play pirates, and I'll be able to look over the fence into Paul-next-door's garden.

None of my friends at school believe me when I tell them I've got a biscuit tree. They say things like

"Don't be so stupid!"

and

"Durr! You can't get biscuit trees!"

and once, Sarah Sarah said

"So? I've got a biscuit tree too, and it's bigger than yours."

But she must be telling fibs, because our biscuit tree is the Only Biscuit Tree in the whole wide world.

Some of my friends from school came round for tea. Tommy, Nicky, Sarah Bean and So-so Jo.

Mum made scrambled eggs, baked beans, and potato waffles. We had pink milk as a special treat.

It was warm and sunny so we all sat outside round the garden table.

My friends didn't talk about the biscuit tree, but they kept looking round the garden trying to find it. I knew they wanted to see it up close.

After tea we played hide-and-seek round the house, and it was great fun because So-so Jo hid behind the pipes in the cleaning cupboard, and no-one could find her for ages and ages. Tommy started to get a bit cross so mummy called her to come out.

Nicky said: "Let's hide in the garden this time! So-so's on it!"

So-so Jo started counting and we all ran off to hide.

I ran straight to the biscuit tree, but that was a silly thing to do. It's big now, but not big enough to hide behind.

I didn't know where to hide next.

Just then Paul-next-door poked his head over the fence.

"Need a hiding place?" he said. I said yes. "Climb up then!" he said.

I tried to climb over the fence but there was nothing to put my feet on. My trainers scraped on the wood. Paul-next-door was leaning over as far as he could, trying to grab my arms, but he couldn't quite reach me.

"Coming, ready or not!" So-so Jo had finished counting. Where could I hide?

She came running out the house and saw me straight away, but instead of shouting my name she slowed down and stopped next to me.

"Is this it? The biscuit tree?" she asked. She was looking at the branches.

Tommy and Sarah Bean came out from behind the holly tree. Nicky's head appeared behind the compost bin. Paul-next-door was still hanging over the fence.

They were all looking at the biscuit tree.

I didn't want to tell them. I wanted it to be my secret, forever.

But I did want to tell them at the same time. I wanted all my friends to know about the biscuit tree.

I couldn't decide what to say. I went all red.

Now everyone was looking at me.

I opened my mouth:

"It's -"

"It's time for a biscuit," said my mum's voice, right behind me.

She made everyone jump.

Then everyone spoke at once:

"Is this the biscuit tree?"

"Can we have a biscuit? Please?"

"Where are the biscuits? I can't see any."

"Can someone help me get down from this fence?"

Mum was smiling.

She told us all to help Paul-next-door to get down. So-so Jo and Tommy made a base, and Nicky and Sarah Bean climbed on top of them, and Paul-next-door reached down and grabbed their hands and -

WALLOP!

everyone fell down in a big pile at the foot of the biscuit tree. We all laughed. Even though Paul-next-door had some bruises and a cut on his knee, he was laughing too.

And when we stopped laughing, Sarah Bean pointed up and said

"Look!"

Hanging from the biscuit tree was a biscuit, attached to a tiny twig that twinkled like a piece of ribbon.

"Biscuits!"

There were 12 little biscuits dangling from a branch, all of them on shiny ribbon-twigs.

And before their mummies and daddies came to take them home, Tommy, Nicky, Sarah Bean, So-so Jo, Paul-next-door, and me all sat down and crunched the fresh biscuits from the biscuit tree.

Mum was there too, but she didn't have one.

She just watched us. She was smiling.

Labels: fiction, writing

Saturday, March 11, 2006
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Haiku towards the end of a difficult day

i am listless and
frustrated yet oddly left
relaxed by it all

Wednesday, March 08, 2006
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