And They Shall Fear My Tread (1)

Today's supermarket scam seen in Tesco Extra, Havant. Subsidiary and partially obscured display Tetley teabags 240s, £3 a packet. On the main aisle where all Tetley sizes were together, no shelf edge ticket for the 240s promotion but large eye catching promotion for 160s - 2 for £6. So, to summarise then, that would be 320 teabags for £6 or, erm, 480 teabags for £6; that takes some thought doesn't it? Remedial action, theatrical demonstration to Produce Manager who visibly winced. He should; I waited for the end of a meeting of 10 managers - that's about the same number of people who were on checkouts at the time. Go figure. Yup, I know I'm an asshole but I am an asshole with proper motivation and a heart in the right place. It is actually wrong to want things done properly and fairly?

There were small clusters of people on Havant's pavements today. They were all affected by the same fraud perpetrated by banks and building societies across the country. Yes, it's the old 9.30 opening for 'training' trick. Having a nice chat and a cup of coffee is not 'training'. And 9.32 isn't 9.30. If you're going to open late, do so on time, thank you.

The Hyundai i10, a small car driven by people with low budgets and marginal driving skills. I don't know if there is a hybrid version but I am fairly sure that the one in front of us this morning runs on 4 AA batteries - which needed recharging.



Today's prize for sheer magnificence, the day after I passed my medical, goes to Marks and Spencer All Butter Cheese Twists.

Baiting

To separate Rant from Restaurant, I am writing more than one blog entry today. This is the rant, a short one; your beans on toast won't get cold reading it.

Baiting is a common feature of supermarkets today. Unfortunately, even the Consumer Association in a recent review of supermarket tricks conceded that is difficult to prove as an intentional strategy. Nevertheless, there is no doubt in my mind. Baiting, in case you don't know, is where a retailer publicises a special offer which, in fact, is not available and anticipates that you will instead purchase a strategically located and, naturally, more expensive alternative - another size or another brand. When challenged on availability of the alleged offer they will give you all sorts of disingenuous waffle about stocking difficulties, awaiting delivery or even completely wrong information about the offer dates.

Today it was Princes Corned Beef in Tesco. Theoretically 49p off and £1.49 for a small tin. Amazingly it was out of stock but adjacent to the resulting space was Princes LEAN Corned Beef in the same size for only £2.49. Funny that. You will find countless examples of this across all the leading supermarkets.

I think we can agree that they are all master baiters.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Had I written this yesterday, the day of most of the events recorded, the prose might have been much more heated. As it was I arrived home from London exhausted and a little deflated. I like to get things done and, at a late hour, I knew I could not process all my photographs (to my satisfaction), write a blog entry and get smart on Facebook. Without my notebook I could not even have held all my thoughts from the day. I am a great list and note maker. My mind is a little overactive and thoughts sometimes get lost. The weather on Monday was unsettled but excluded an early return to Mottisfont where, it appeared, lighting would be similar to yesterday. It was time to gamble; the first gamble was that it would be brighter later and further inland. With Ai Weiwei's 'Circle of Animals' at Somerset House closing on June 26th and my Norwegian Fjord Fiesta about to intervene, it seemed important, almost urgent, to get to London. I did not want bright sunshine in the Fountain Court; the harsh shadows it causes are not conducive to good photography of sculpture. I was tempted to go all the way by train (from Havant); it was as well that we did not. We drove the familiar A3 noting that the next time we do so we shall probably benefit from the soon to be opened Hindhead Tunnel. A journey to London these days is an expensive proposition with train fares on the one hand balanced by the congestion charge, parking and probably Travelcards on the other. We both thought of the same compromise at the same time, to avoid the congestion charge and seek lower parking charges by parking outside central London and using a Travelcard to complete the journey. We chose Kingston and this, at first, brought a bonus. Parking was fairly easy albeit in a typical NCP poorly designed and maintained edifice. Our choice of location brought us across David Mach's uplifting 'Out of Order' an installation of 'tumbling' telephone boxes which will shortly appear on my Flickr photostream. The challenge in photographing something so popular is to try to do something a little different. I have at least avoided the clutter some people don't seem to mind in their pictures. When you are using the viewfinder/EVF or LCD you can not cease to be aware what is going on at the periphery of the intended image or allow oneself to concentrate on the subject itself to the exclusion of what else will appear in frame.

Time was evaporating and we stayed in Kingston for lunch at 'Little Italy' which was not busy but, I think, deserved to be. Penne Arrabiata was a degree beyond a desirable al dente but the sauce was very good. Lunch prices make this centrally located Italian restaurant worth a visit. There are, improbably, some architectural gems in Kingston which I might previously have thought a potential candidate for Betjeman's 'friendly bombs'. These range from Quebec House to the old (1864) Police Station, now in alternative use. Now we were to learn why people are reluctant to use public transport. Kingston station is well presented and maintained but the journey from it was excruciating. The loop services are not fast anyway but our progress through London's dull suburbs seemed for a while to have the alacrity of an Indian hill train. The graffiti fom Barnes inwards is as shocking and depressing as any on the notorious approaches to Paris Gare du Nord. At least we picked up speed for a while but ultimately to no avail. We ground to a halt after Vauxhall, tantalisingly close to our destination. It took about 20 further minutes to reach Waterloo with only the 2 Class 08s in the Railway Children set of the former Eurostar terminal to distract. The guard gave us frequent but futile updates - about 'earlier signalling problems' - and these provided little comfort in a train with neither intercom nor toilets. Trains were moving all around us and we seemed to have been pathed for the least available platform at the terminus. Such was the need for a toilet on arrival that there was no time to berate the staff of either Network Rail or South West Trains. Sometimes piss comes before pissed off. To my considerable surprise the barriers in the toilet were open and the 30p fee waived. I would like to think that was in deference to the desperation of the delayed arrivals but it was more likely due to the fact that another small part of NR's shabby infrastructure, the change machine, was out of order. The return journey presented us with two options; return to Waterloo which clearly would not have recovered from the inept bumblings of Network Rail or, using our still decent knowledge of London's transport options, seek an alternative route to Kingston via Richmond. Unfortunately, we did both. Waterloo, although well provided with 'Customer Service Representatives' was chaotic. Trains were running but no-one knew the exact departure time of any. It defies belief that NR do not simply reset their timetable. It is utterly meaningless to run the 16xx to Shepperton 'one hour and four minutes late'. I was able to determine from a calm but ineffectual manager who had ventured onto the concourse that there had been a major power failure much earlier at Walton-on-Thames. There was no evidence of diversity or contingency and plenty of evidence of a significant engineering failure. If airlines ran like NR they would not last five minutes. We made various connections across a typically overheated Underground to reach Richmond where we could be more confident of identifying a Kingston bound train and completing our journey. This had all taken a lot of time (I felt glad that we had not had to return to Havant by train) and we now needed supper. Pizza Hut is an established comfort zone for me and service was quick. That turned out however to be at the expense of the pizza dough. I felt that they had changed their pepperoni and not for the better but was impressed by the free unlimited salad with a main course. On balance it is a sad reflection on Pizza Hut when the strongest menu item is the tortilla chips from the salad bar. The toilet there was borderline insalubrious with an astonishgly claustrophobic cabin and a flush with the strength of a vegetarian Liberal Democrat handshake. The taps in the hand basins appeared to have been placed rather than plumbed in and rotated freely. I imagine Prince Phillip might have been able to suggest the origins of the plumber.

All this transport related trauma rather detracts from the underlying success of the day. The 'Circle of Animals' exhibit in the Fountain Court of Somerset House was well worth the trip. In truth it is the setting which is brilliantly conceived, for the zodiacal sculptures, whatever significance the oppressed Mr Ai might attribute to them, are precariously mundane with some considerably less striking than others. It is being seen together and with the fountains that makes the whole thing work although, paradoxically, the individual heads most lend themselves to striking photographs. The freedom afforded the photographer by the exhibition host contrasts poignantly with the current (presumed) living arrangements of the artist.

Between the recumbent telephone boxes of surprising Kingston and the animal guests of elegant Somerset House lay one more surprise. 'Urban Fox' at the South Bank is a smile provoking feature of a Waterloo Bridge crossing. As artful as the eponymous creature itself, it deserves a place more permanent than its construction and intent (celebrating the 1951 Festival of Britain) make likely.

As Twickenham's A316 became the dull ribbon of the M3, I silently composed the blog to come as Greg drove. Only two weeks from the longest day and where there should have been a vibrant, light evening, thick cloud seemed to reinforce the failings of the day. The task then was to place those in the context of the greater successes. With a rebuke for Network Rail only half-formed I slept grateful for art and the ability to enjoy it.

Literacy

I am not the perfect grammarian nor do I always spell correctly even after checking. I struggle with things Stephen Fry would digest in his sleep and frequently resort to a dictionary or question a common usage which has distorted the true meaning of a word or phrase. Blatant illiteracy, however, infuriates me and nowhere more so than on Flickr. Is it not worth taking the time and trouble to title, caption and tag correctly? How is it possible for example to reproduce (or in fact fail to reproduce) a word clearly visible in the photograph itself? If you can see 'Phoenix Buses', why caption 'Pheonix Buses' - more than once. This is not a typo, it is stupidity. Even more frustrating are examples of the phonetic but completely wrong reproduction of words in such a way as to completely alter their meaning. Recently I have seen:

'here here' - [hear hear]
'well-healed' - [well heeled]
'duel-braked' - [dual-braked]
'breaking' - frequently for [braking]

Whatever happened to English language education?

Wet and Wasted

It is hard to say which is the worst, the Highways Agency or Transport for London (TfL). The Highways Agency brings ineptitude and mismanagement to our roads but TfL are empowered to bring these 'qualities' to all forms of transport within their area. There was plenty of evidence in London today. The current euphemisms for disruption are 'improvements' and 'upgrades'. 'Improvements' are to be seen at every turn and feature prominently on posters advertising  a widespread lack of this, that and the other at weekends and evenings. I did notice one poster surprisingly referring directly to 'Tube disruptions'; I imagine that got past the TfL proofreading thought police. What amused and annoyed me simultaneously were two notices on the Underground which serve to illustrate the stupidity with which works are planned and the attendant publicity generated. On a Central Line train, Bank on the route map is appended 'Major escalator works. Avoid changing at Bank' - one of the system's busiest interchanges. Similarly, at Oxford Circus - probably consistently busier than Bank - where two entrances are already closed for escalator replacement, notices advise that (the remaining) entrances may be closed 'at busy times' to prevent overcrowding. How helpful can they get?

I was reminded on my arrival today at Tottenham Court Road of fears reported yesterday in The Standard that the Paolozzi tiles may not survive planned refurbishment of the station. If they do not, I shall not mourn them not because I especially dislike the art but on principle. I remember their installation and, at the time, they were a fatuous distraction from the fundamental inadequacies of the station which remain to this day. They are, chiefly, an unduly claustrophobic interior and persistently unreliable escalators in a deep station. During the years I worked at Centre Point (above) I corresponded frequently with London Underground (before TfL) on these and other subjects. Today, one escalator was behind hoardings; I don't think they have ever had them all serviceable. Eduardo Paolozzi is an interesting and proficient sculptor but the tiles were and are a propagandist misdirection.

Forecast rain set in even before we left our Bexleyheath hotel. Blackheath and its approaches, a notorious bottleneck on the A2 into London, have not improved at all. Changes to the New Cross one-way system are welcome and very effective. London Bridge presented a nightmare cacophony of noise levels significantly elevated by construction of The Shard. This was particularly unwelcome upon emerging from the increasingly scruffy Snowsfield car park into heavy rain. I saw my first gas bus and many possible architectural shots all of which could be photographed in more clement conditions. One should, I suppose, applaud developments but the problem for me is that they are never ending; there is always something going on. Crossrail, increasingly visible in, or I suppose under, Oxford Street will cause disruption for years.

I resent the time wasted at hospitals whether for myself or when accompanying Greg or Mum. Greg was at Guys today for a routine appointment and, almost inevitably, was seen 25 minutes late. There are so many clinics which just run later and later as they proceed. More consultant discipline is needed. With the hospital behind us and lunch ahead - important for Greg who had been fasting - and ignoring the rain, we headed for Oxford Street. Rasa Sayang Express offers an excellent selection of Asian food. The food was very good but they let themselves down on service. Greg tried to pay by credit card and the machine repeatedly 'failed'. I felt strongly that this was contrived by an outlet that did not really want to accept cards. I told them plainly that if they want to deal in cash only, they should do so openly. The rain was now making a protracted stay pointless but we continued to our main objective, a Mapplethorpe exhibition at the Alison Jacques gallery in Berners Street.

Jake Shears should have been more careful what he put his name to. Having used a Mapplethorpe image for their potentially controversial cover for the recent 'Night Work' album, the exhibition is curated collectively by Scissor Sisters. I must say I don't 'get' Robert Mapplethorpe whose work I find variously to be gratuitous or irrrelevant and usually lacking in any obvious photographic merit. In this exhibition, a variety of his works are interspersed with a few by other artists. Alison Jacques occupies two spaces in the same street with the exhibition in both. None of the work is labelled thus failing to distinguish Mapplethorpe from the others, or indeed to identify artist or work in any case. This is the failing of the exhibition which Shears promised to curate carefully. It appeared to me that it has not been curated at all.

As a parting shot, I noticed on our mercifully swift exit from the city via the A3 that so much has been spent on the blue paint about which I previously posted, that scant attention has been paid to the basic engineering of the roads it adorns. In heavy rain, there was substantial flooding.

This may seem a very carping post but the British remain inadequate at complaining, lacking either the courage or articulacy to do so. We should not accept the sub-standard or inept nor should we remain silent. A lot goes on around us which simply should not happen. Think about it and what you are going to do about it.

The Supermarkets Never Sleep

Regular readers will know that the supermarkets are frequently the target of my ire. Careful readers will know that this is not without cause.

Today the duty manager in Tesco, Havant received my attention and gratifyingly crumbled when faced with the indefensible.

A large yellow ticket annotated 'Special Purchase', drew attention to Tetley Tea Bags (160s) at 77.6 per 100g. Above on the shelf, stood 240s at 70.4p per 100g. Thus, in no way can the smaller packet be construed as a special purchase. This is exactly the kind of practice which drew the attention of consumer groups and Trading Standards last year. It is exactly the kind of practice which must be eradicated. Supermarkets put a lot of effort into misleading us. If you don't like it, complain to the manager and, if you are not satisfied, contact Trading Standards.

Although these practices are not unique to one supermarket, note also that Tesco is also selling its diesel at an unecessary and greedy 132.9.

Restraint

With diesel costing up to 133.9 in my area and quite possibly more elsewhere, it was gratifying to see continuing restraint at my local ASDA.

The oil companies started to insidiously raise their prices in the period BEFORE the application of the latest fuel escalator and the VAT increase. The greed of the oil companies has compounded the ineptitude of the previous government. As ASDA probably do not sell fuel as a loss leader, it can be argued that prices of 130.9 and above reflect ruthless profiteering well above the impositions of the present tax-hungry coalition.

Southampton

Visiting a pharmacy is like watching one of those episodes of Springwatch where nothing actually happens. You know the ones; where they are waiting for the tits to come back to the nesting box to feed their young but they do not because they do not want to see themselves on television and are at a neighbours watching Emmerdale until Kate Humble goes to bed. If you think I've gone all Eddie Izzard on you, it's about the pharmacist's lack of movement. Any there is can be captured only by time-lapse photography; in previous ice-ages they have been overtaken by glaciers. This means that in a 10-15 minute visit you can not expect to see any actual activity. In the time it takes to get a prescription, new drugs are invented and fully trialled. I think that gets my message across. We had been to see Mum, who is stable. I took her to the doctor, a visit which inevitably resulted in another prescription so that her repeat sheet is now similar in both length and contents to the BNF.

Mum wanted very little shopping and there was some brightness so we took full advantage and went to Southampton. I shall gloss over the bit where I lost £40 on the machines at Rownhams and just hope that there is someone to resuscitate Matthew at this point of his bedtime read. We saw three cruise ships; Artemis, Saga Pearl II and Boudicca were all present with the striking Anvil Point across the water at Marchwood. We went on to Ocean Village where I got exactly the photographs I wanted. As a development though, I don't get it. It seems very dull, lacking vibrancy. Perhaps I am becoming more curmudgeonly if that is possible (although I prefer to thing of myself as misanthrope rather than curmudgeon, if only to get 50% of my colleagues running for a dictionary). We went to the Hall of Aviation and I was, at first, not impressed with its slightly gloomy and very cluttered interior. I have to admit though, on balance, and although this is far from the best aircraft museum, I enjoyed myself and relished the challenge of shooting in available light.

With my stomach sending messages about lunch we went to West Quay now relatively tranquil on the first day of a new term. Lunch at Giardinos was very good but a little adventure lay ahead. I was photographing the Christmas decorations when Greg made me aware that I was being gesticulated at across a void by a security guard. I dealt with the challenge swiftly, confidently and unflinchingly. The guard and his companion had moved on by the time I reached their original location but I caught up with them. I asked if he had a legal basis for the hand signals by which he had indicated that I should desist from my hobby. The security people were in fact extremely courteous and effective but also uncomfortable applying flawed management policies. I had the Data Protection Act quoted at me and crushed the argument with my superior legal knowledge. I was concerned that the guards have been asked to use spurious and unfounded justifications to explain why photographs may not be taken. To Greg's very well hidden delight, I decided to see the duty manager. He was very professional, an effective communicator and after a civil and worthwhile discussion, also very helpful. I should be able to arrange to take some more photographs in the future and they are in no doubt now that I don't take kindly to the complete misapplication of the Data Protection Act.

VAT went up today just to make life that bit harder for all of us. For those shops which have not adjusted tickets or tills but are charging the higher prices - there is no excuse. There was plenty of warning and software changes should have been implemented overnight. I must congratulate ASDA in holding diesel at 128.9 which was a relief after the journey from Southampton was marked with prices ranging from 131.9 to 133.9. Less praise is due for the reliability of the printers at their pay pumps. Neither was working today and the rather ineffectual intervention of a fleece-clad ASDA-ette did not seem likely to change that. Quite apart from anything else she was roughly the same height as the pump (so still taller than Dave B. then) but, even standing on the plinth, not well placed to delve into the innards of the printer. Bizarrely, in order to attend the errant receipt paper, she had chosen to close one of the two pay booths which was enthusiastically received by the full forecourt.
If I have made you smile today please say so. Autographs are free as is viewing of my (mostly) fabulous photostream at www.flickr.com/photos/johnoram

Compare and Contrast

In a morning at work I was part of a supervisory team which oversaw creative but effective staffiing and led to not a single minute of delay to any of our customers. Quite the opposite; the reduced number of aircraft which operated today will have enjoyed direct routings, expedited climbs and shortened approaches. All this was achieved without our staffing arrangements at any stage diminishing our ability to provide a service. This means the number of staff was at all times appropriate to the demand.

When I got home I went to ASDA. I wandered amongst ravaged shelves sorely in need of re-stocking, bought what I could and waited in straggling lines at checkouts of which about 25% were closed. A supervisory team of, at times, four seemed to be observing but  not mitigating and certainly not fulfilling bullet #1 on the adjacent placard which aspirationally referred to opening more checkouts when queues form.

Compare and contrast.

Havant A Chance

Havant is a shabby place. I can say that because I come from there, return occasionally, more frequently indeed than I should naturally like and because it is. In the post-ice apocalypse, the semi-cleared surfaces only added to the mean appearance of a meanly run town. Havant is a corpse which has not been buried, its few remains rotting slowly for all to see. Those that feed on the corpse still are understandably undernourished. Reconstruction is not for Havant; it is a dying, living proof that there is no afterlife. A heyday of sorts began in the late 60s but that construction is now falling progressively before the onslaught of demolition and closure to be replaced only slowly or not at all.

The mean-minded operation of a key but rarely manned car-park, a potentially useful multi-storey, demonstrates as much as anything the architectural and adminstrative sulkiness of this ex-town. It routinely closes at 6pm for no obvious reason other than to deprive a trickle of restaurant and pub goers (Havant does not do late-night shopping) of useful covered spaces. Over Christmas and New Year there will be two long closures of 4 and 3 consecutive days. This year in particular people might have appreciated spaces protected from the elements. It won't be one of their presents.

The neglected pavements required careful passage to reach a MacDonalds which was serving as slowly as the last time I snarled under my breath at it; perhaps even serving some of the same people. It is extraordinary that, challenged with no more difficult task than churning out a limited number of pre-defined breakfast items, they should do so quite so lethargically. I was on a solo shopping expedition as Greg was indoors nursing a cold which my immune system (touch wood) seems already to have beaten. Deeply frustrated by the crushing gloom of all three days off, I was trying hard not to drown in my unique brand of self-pity as it became incresingly clear that I would not pointfully be able to go farther afield. Tomorrow, the solstice will cry out to my heart and I shall feast on every extra minute of daylight.

With tasks at Mum's behind me I set off in the general direction of home with further stops planned. ASDA filling station was inexplicably closed having recently twice run out of diesel. As we are not in Inverness I waited at the customer service desk to find out why. I would also be able to ask, I thought, why their postbox was completely full. It was actually impossible to insert a single item more. I think the two women on the desk were moving but it was difficult to tell until one decided, in spite of a growing queue, to go to lunch. She moved then; so did I. I gave up. There was, of course, after a weather related part-hiatus over the weekend, the mandatory panic buying in progress. ASDA, after all, like Tesco is closed for as much as 24hrs over the holiday.

Wanting to be assured, at least from the fuel point of view, of getting to and from work over the next few days, I went round to Shell, Stubbington to find that they had no diesel. I made the unusual decision to fill with their outrageously priced V-Power diesel at 10p a litre premium but made very clear my displeasure at having to do so. I imagine Alex Ferguson's hairdryer blows cool compared to mine. Even on a normal day there is absolutely NO justification for a premium of this size for a product of dubious scientific credentials. The V-Power pump had been mysteriously returned to service 'only minutes earlier', whilst the others remain unsupplied due to a pump problem at the refinery which apparently has lasted for four days. At times like this I wonder if it is possible to do anything legal which might be impressive enough to 'encourager les autres'.

By now the weather had turned to heavy rain so my inevitable thought as I turned towards a usable postbox and home was 'we're fucked if that freezes tonight'. Happy holidays everyone.

When Defense Is Indefensible

The lead story in The Times of Tuesday 14 December has to be read to be believed. On pages 1 and 6-8 the paper reveals contents of a report by Deloitte on incompetence, ineptitude and profligacy in the MoD on a scale almost too large to grasp. Ten key and equally disastrous projects are enumerated. These are Nimrod MRA4, QEC aircraft carriers, Chinook Mk3, FSTA, FRES, Landing Ship Dock, Eurofighter Typhoon, Astute nuclear subs, Type 45 destroyers and A400M.

It is impossible to reproduce the article here but I hope you will want to see for yourself even if you need to use the Times online service which, scandalously, they charge for. Our service personnel struggle in far-flung combat zones for lack of appropriate equipment and, occasionally, supply whilst the most appalling decisions are made by politicians, civil servants and industry here in the UK, in Europe and in the USA.

The government (and previous governments), the MoD (past and present), contractors and suppliers must all be held to account. They must be made to explain how a toxic mix of incompetence, dithering, political expedience and greed led us to where we are today.

Some Thoughts About Food and Railways

Much though I enjoy my days off, I rarely want to fill all four to the extent that I return to work exhausted. This then was the day in these four for rationed activities. There was little incentive to stay out in the cold and grey and every incentive to stay in during the afternoon with my new haircut, new magazines, a full stomach and a blanket round my legs. We had been to Fareham and then to the Abbey Garden Centre where lunch was very good and deserved praise. They have devised a series of filled baps (turkey in my case) with garnish and the whole was generously filled, tasty and good value. Whilst I have no complaints about my privileged life, it may yet be that the garden birds occasionally eat better than us. They gained £82 worth of food today and it will be used carefully as it is evident from experience that, if we emptied our 12.5Kg sack of peanuts, the pigeons and some of the other large birds would simply eat them there and then. On this occasion we did not buy worms - does anybody know why they are so expensive?

The afternoon and evening afforded opportunities to peruse Railways Illustrated, a good magazine which would benefit from improved proof reading. I read two or three railway magazines a month for entertainment and information. The contents allow me to formulate better notes for my photographs as well as furnishing ideas for subjects. It seems to me (perhaps my memory is clouded) that stock movements are far more volatile than they used to be. Under TOPS, which has been with us now for more than 40 years, many changes require renumbering which, frankly, frequently annoys me. London Overground Class 378s have hardly been in service as 3-car units and are now being renumbered as fourth cars are added.

In preservation, my views on identity changes are well known. In a particularly bad and avoidable example Class 11 12082 is to move to Mid-Hants Railway and be renumbered as 12049 the shunter lost in the 2010 fire at Ropley. So wrong; right to replace the rare loco, completely wrong to renumber. Wrong, pointless, annoying, wrong. In an even more extraordinary development a group has for some reason decided that we can not live without a Class 23 Baby Deltic. None was preserved after 1977 so, bizarrely, they have decided to build one FROM A 37! If ever there was a cause for the use of WTF? WTF? This is a ridiculous and pointless idea which I do not support.

Fortunately my motive power motivated dyspepsia did not spoil my enjoyment of my ASDA Thai Green Curry. Another success for the often maligned green supermarket. I have suspended the use of their card (as has a special friend of mine) after an outbreak of ineptitude by new provider Santander. Their food, however, continues to offer many delights and surprises.

New On The Shelves

Anathema though shopping is to me I cannot help but notice new things when I am in shops. When there is a recession as indeed there is visibly in Palm Springs and, presumably, the wider US, it must be difficult to stimulate the economy through the consumer. After so many years of human existence, it must be difficult to come up with anything new at all so I admire enterprise even in the form of things I would not buy. Soon after our arrival, I noticed Starbucks branded ice cream in flavours which will be familiar if you frequent the eponymous coffee house. These were in California supermarket Ralphs and, lo and behold, only aisles away, were non-frozen branded offerings in the beverage aisle.

More attractive to the tea drinker if not the lover of  traditional books is 'Nook' by Barnes & Noble. From a purely technological point of view, I was interested but I cannot imagine a time when I would surrender the tactile experience of reading a real book for this or any other e-book. It is attractive, keenly priced and comes in several variants but what would my house look like without the 1500 volumes it can replace? One of the selling points is, apparently, the download price which brings me neatly to my next discourse.

Book prices are and have for a long while been largely arbitrary. When does any hardcover or paperback, certainly any popular title, sell for its cover price? A Nook download costs, apparently, typically 50% of the book price but only feet away from the Nook display at B&N were new hardcovers at 40% discount to members. What concerns me far more here and elsewhere is the morally unsound misuse of the adjective 'new' as in 'new in paperback'. It is common now for this to mean no more than 'new jacket/cover' on a very old novel. I am certain that this designed to confuse and sure that many fans of serial authors have rushed into a purchase without checking back mentally or otherwise through their 'read' list.

Today in the desert was everything the UK is not this time of year. Not to appear ungrateful, I would say that acclimatisation is the problem which follows on and overlaps jetlag. I love the desert heat but after weeks of much lower temperatures at home it takes some getting used to. We had lunch at Baja Fresh, the thinking man's answer to Taco Bell (with mango salsa) and went home to rest. The only disappointment was that the Martha Stewart Holly Punch has not yet been delivered.

Things Americans Don't Get #1 and #2 in a series of 1,000,000

For the first 24hrs of each visit to America, which ultimately I enjoy, I find myself at the wrong end of my love-hate relationship with the population at large. It is not about being British (or European) and therefore right. It is about being right, period (as they say here), about doing things better.

#1 When did Americans lose the use of their arms and hands? How CAN they stand at the supermarket till, watch the shopping going through and do absolutely f**king nothing towards packing it? They might feel I suppose that they are depriving the invariably slightly deficient packer of a role but that role is a prime example of job creation where none is needed. Quite apart from anything else shopping should be packed coherently, for example keeping the chilled items together, not just randomly hurled item by item into countless carrier bags. It is perhaps because the mental capacity of the shopper would frequently not challenge that of the packer, not to say that they have no social awareness whatsoever that they are completely oblivious to the fact that their minutes of entirely avoidable inertia keep everyone else waiting longer. The only thing that comes out of my tortured minutes in Ralphs is my Mum gets more bin liners.

#2 Elsewhere and in many shops Americans just don't get Chip and PIN. Perhaps they won't do it because they didn't invent it. They will however ID you for a crummy $30 and that is supposed to be security. They find this acceptable because there is a widespread belief even in established tourist areas that no-one in America could possibly be not American and that they therefore all carry ID and bank with American banks. So there is almost universal use still of signatures with all the risk that entails but, ironically, there is also widespread use of those electronic tablets to sign on (the kind UPS use in the UK when they don't give a shit who they're giving a parcel to). Those tablets are completely incapable of accepting anything resembling a person's actual signature thus rendering the signing process completely useless.

I'll probably calm down soon. I am severely jet-lagged and disoriented but there was so much we had to do on arrival in Palm Springs.

Supermarket Scams

Supermarket scams, like the number of decimal places in Pi, may well go on for ever but the chances of that happening are now fewer. I am delighted by the recent interest of both TV and print media in supermarket tactics. Some of these are blatant enough to interest Trading Standards and I would be more than pleased to help them or any other interested party in bringing the retailers into line.

Today I was in a supermarket and wanted mineral water. They had no multi packs and we bought four individual bottles at 34p for 2 litres according to the shelf edge ticket. At the till I was charged 35p; a small difference but jolly profitable if enough people are caught out.

At this stage I should like to differentiate between mistakes and intentional tactics. Neither is acceptable, both are widespread. Today they blamed it on their refurbishment to which they would probably also attribute the lack of multi packs. I expect the price really is 35p now but they had not changed the shelf edge ticket. This is about process. If you are going to change a price, you change it in ALL parts of your system. Whilst there is in this case an underlying error, I am sure that they are very happy if it goes unnoticed by the majority of customers.

Far more disturbing are the intentional tactics now extensively revealed in the media and, not to be immodest, previously revealed in my earlier blog versions. Some, such as the misdirection on some 'Bigger Pack, Better Value' labelling are, essentially illegal. Most are far more subtle but equally unacceptable. It is the responsibility of all shoppers to their wallets if not to society, to challenge the supermarkets and to do so at every opportunity. Have you noticed how often a 'special offer' is accompanied by a conspicuous lack of stock? Have you noticed that comparison of similar products is hindered by the use on shelf edge tickets of different units of measurement? The supermarkets will be very pleased if you have not but their psychological warfare will be coming to an end. A new era of honesty and transparency is due. At the same time that these dubious practices are curtailed they must improve in-house processes to reduce and eventually eliminate avoidable errors.

In the meantime, watch the till like a hawk, check your receipt especially for the correct processing of multi-buy offers and try not to be in such a hurry that you can not identify and rectify their mistakes. Our haste, part of the plan, is making money for the supermarkets.

Owed To Joy

For a while today in the autumn sunshine and chill air, I thought I might be able again to enjoy being in London. A part of me can; the larger part can not. There are too many pressures, too many irritations and these most often weigh against the attractions.

The hotel air-conditioning had dried my throat and it felt a little tight as I drew the curtains in our suite to view the sunshine splashing across the Houses of Parliament. I saw it immediately as a photograph, substantially unoriginal but a photograph anyway and not everyone takes theirs from the third floor of the Marriott.

Our plan was to move the car to the Trafalgar Square car park but that plan died as soon as we drove past the sign warning of today's march which had the potential to be very disruptive. We drove instead to Russell Square which would be convenient for our later plans and our eventual departure from the city. We tubed to Kings Cross and I noted cool air blowing in the passageways which would likely be missing in July when most needed. The underground concourses have been substantially upgraded but the station above is another matter. London is a city of extensive and seemingly perpetual construction offering jam tomorrow and jams today for both pedestrians and vehicles. The north London station was the first building site we came across today and here the bulk of the work is inexplicable. There is much fanfare about the installation of lifts, escalators and  a footbridge at a station which already has level access. The 45 bus from outside was a convenient way to get most of the way to Tate Modern but I soon found myself locking horns with a ticket inspector. I had a ticket of course but this pointless individual boarded the bus behind us to check tickets. I don't know how he thinks anyone on board got past the driver without one. He was in plain clothes, had an aggressive manner and was not showing his ID properly. Incredibly there was a colleague on board and when they disembarked, they joined a third. I think I could spot a few more cuts George.

At the south end of Blackfriars Bridge the protracted development of the station has created another building site and caused the diversion of the Thames Path and a longer walk to Tate Modern. From the capital's bridges every horizon is a forest of cranes. Closely observed though - and I nearly took photographs today - the key activities of the workmen appear to be, in no particular order, smoking, using their mobile phones and leaning on things.

I expected disappointment at Bankside and I was not disappointed if you follow. The removal of access to and interactivity with Ai Weiwei's 'Sunflower Seeds' has sucked the joy out of the work in the way that so much outside and around sucks the joy out of the city. An essentially monochrome work within a near-monochrome environment and one on which you can no longer sit or walk, is a work without soul. Its predecessors, Doris Salcedo's 'Shibboleth' and 'How It Is' by Miroslaw Balka, exuded joy and bound you to them through interactivity. This doomed work is dead or at least in suspended animation. To reflect this I have produced many of my photographs in b&w and my images of the explanatory placard show only fragments of its text as we now receive only fragments of the work's original intent.

Within paces of Tate is the Millennium Bridge and this was closed today for a maintenance inspection lasting and incredible four days, a period of time in which you could inspect the Grand Canyon or, perhaps, the moon. This inpsection appeared to involve a handful of men in hi-vis jackets phoning their wives in Krakow and occasionally prodding something.

Crossing Southwark Bridge takes one into one of the most architecturally dense parts of the capital and still building continues. Most notable amongst the developments is Cannon Place creating yet another buidling site of considerable proportions around Cannon Street station. It is outrageous that London Underground have used construction as an excuse to close their ticket office leaving passengers to rely on machines. The Underground is an environment which would fascinate Stephen Hawking - to whom most of the networkwould be ironically inaccessible - and Brian Cox, who has the good fortune to work in Manchester. There time stretches. Dot matrix indicators are used to presage the arrival of trains. In this subterranean parallel universe a train which is '1 min' away could be almost anywhere. A minute is used as a unit of distance rather than of time. Thus a train which is stationary - much favoured of Circle Line trains - could be '1 min' away for ever and those which follow at '3 mins' and '4 mins' might never appear. The dot matrix indicators give an impression of a service interval which simply does not exist. On the matter of accessibility my more attentive fans will recall I berated the Piccadilly Line some while ago. Today, whilst my train limped to my destination, I counted on the combined District/Circle/Metropolitan Line map 10 stepless access stations out of 55. I guess Professor Hawking won't be investigating in person. Even for the able bodied person lift and escalator service has improved not one iota. Unserviceable examples of each litter the system.

From Cox to cocks; after lunch at an adequate but unremarkable Italian restaurant near Russell Square tube, we forayed to The Horse Hospital and 'Hung' a curious low-key photographic exhibition of male nudes. It took little of our time and we were due in any case to hurry to West Drayton to collect my cousin for a lift. I should have liked however to linger longer in the unusual building.

More culture behind us, Californian sunshine ahead. For now we enjoyed the slightly chilled version of UK autumn.

Aftermath

Night shifts, espcially when infrequent (but often enough) devastate the middle-aged body and fog the mind. They limit the appetite for food and the ability to digest it; they limit both the appetite and opportunity for sex, still unexpectedly important after 54 years. I  am writing a day late having had little of the former and definitely none of the latter unless my mind is more fogged even than it feels.

Yesterday was a day of mixed feelings and fortunes. Once I had had some small rest it would have been immoral and frustrating to waste a beautiful day. It had been 2.5 degrees C on the way home but warmed up enough to validate the sunshine. We decided to go to a Pizza Hut  for lunch and were there for under 10 seconds before wishing, on balance, that we had not. There was nothing wrong with the food or the service but the average age of customer in a near full restaurant was about 7. Shrill boys and girls, vocally indistinguishable from each other at that age and in a state of perpetual pizza fuelled motion between mouthfuls. Somewhere on a list of top ten nightmares I did not even know I had made. I was so downcast I could not face the trio of pannacotta. That is not really true. Actually I was full up but I wanted to write something as fatuously pretentious as Michael Winner.

The beauty of English which, frankly, is wasted on many of my colleagues is that that can be read two ways. 'As fatuously pretentious' as Michael Winner, the person, is or 'as fatuously pretentious' as what he writes. His quasi restaurant review in today's Sunday Times was in fact a report of his 75th birthday party at The Ritz. The guest list was possibly designed to facilitate subsequent name-dropping and the consequent article an inadvertent and ironic aid for a bulaemic. You're never going to need goose feathers or a tactically long finger when MW is around. I did not even read the centre spread in this week's Top Gear supplement simply because A A Gill is not Jeremy Clarkson. My routine, whether you are interested or not, is to buy the Sunday Times, complain if necessary about the latest price increase (the last was 10%) and then dismantle it in a predetermined order.

The supplements of interest are (in ascending order) Money, Top Gear and Travel. I save Culture for later and focus on the book reviews via any interesting theatre or exhibitions. In Money I read 'Fame and Fortune' possibly because I have achieved neither but am willing to take advice. In Top Gear I read only the centre pages and only if they are penned by the delighfully provocative if nicotine stained Jeremy. Whereas A A Gill suffers only rejection, I am tempted to shred Jay Leno, another occasional substitute,  rather than simply recycle him. In Travel I read almost everything and find myself strangely and sympathetically drawn to Readers' Rants.

Today's supplements lasted fortuitously about the same length of time as the pizza and the sun still shone which meant that the attraction of nearby Portchester Castle was all the greater. Braving a busy car park, I found my aspirations far exceeded by the photo opportunities available. To my very considerable annoyance the roof level of the keep is closed until further notice. This, it seems, is due to a recent suicide and a further attempt by a different individual within a week. As a consequence the police have imposed upon English Heritage a restriction which brands us all as potential suicides. I have to say that as our police come up with one repressive and irrational measure after another I begin to see attraction of tall buildings myself. Being fairly wealthy though I shall probably travel Club Class to Zurich for my glass of green liquid. Having quieted my anger I used my remaining reserves of patience, which tend to be lower than the national average, to wait for each of the many photographs I took. The castle, its grounds and immediate surrounds are a popular leisure area. I should not begrudge the enjoyment of them to others but I was especially grateful to the couple of people who showed some awareness of my camera.

My own pleasure impinged somewhat on potential rest but, at home, I balanced sleep with processing and my pictures are now on Facebook and Flickr. Also on Flickr, by kind permission of an enlightened management, is my contribution to the 4am Project (http://www.4amproject.org/) . It is, in itself, an unexciting image but, together with its notes, is indeed my view of the world at 4am on 17 October. It received an encouraging 32 views on the first day of posting. I would like to thank the one person who viewed it 32 times.

Culture comes to life for my days off. We travel to London tomorrow to see Lea DeLaria sing David Bowie at Pizza Express, Dean Street. Staying overnight we have the choice on Wednesday of any or all of two photographic exhibitions and the latest Turbine Hall installation at Tate Modern, the now inadvertently infamous "Sunflower Seeds" by Ai Weiwei. I feel sorry for Mr Ai; it is difficult to make political or social statements from behind a roped perimeter whether physical or metaphorical.

I shall report on my experiences later in the week to my surviving readers. Spread the word (please).

By The Letter Of The Law

A personalised numberplate, I think, says something about your priorities if not your personality and neither message is likely to be very flattering. I have thought about this entry long and hard and decided to go ahead with restrained language. My dilemma is this; I am enraged not so much by personalised numberplates as such, which can be regarded with amused tolerance, but illegally formatted examples. These, I think, utter the message rather more loudly and less flatteringly. I know several people with (properly formatted) personalised plates and they are, undeniably, lovely people. I can only say that if I had some spare money, I would not be giving it to DVLA for the motorised equivalent of an amuse-bouche.

The illegally formatted plates are another matter. A car number plate is a functional item, not a toy or a tattoo. Number Plate Recognition is a widespread and useful tool at large in the country today. At Heathrow's T5 they have harnessed the technology via a touchscreen so that you can find your car when, inevitably after two hazy weeks in the Caribbean, you have forgotten where you put it. I doubt that I would need this assistance myself but it is a good idea. For this reason and many others of greater legal significance, the many fonts, spacings and strategic placing and colouring of rivets are completely unacceptable. They say, frankly, TOS 5 A or, more up to date, AT 05 SER. A car is a tool not an emblem and its numberplate is not a decoration. The legal position is widely known and the plates to which  I object are intentionally in breach of that. Transgressors should expect to feel the full force of the law.

Bournemouth

When the sea air had cleared from our lungs and we had shaken the chill of the evening air, we went to our local chip shop. We do so only rarely but their food is good. The advantage of a Friday night is that as trade is so brisk, all the food is fresh. It appeared to be cooked in clean fat at the correct high temperature. It was a calorie loaded thrill.

Even in ones fifties it is perhaps best to listen to ones mother's advice. I ignored her yesterday when she asked me not to lift a plant tub for her. When I did so, I felt my back go and imagined I might have set back its recovery by about a week. I was certainly in pain this morning and, for the first time ever that I recall, I walked with a stick. Old, fat and grey on the outside; old fat and grey on the inside. Nevertheless I would not be deterred from my plans for the day. We went to see my Mum first as she has not been well. Today's heaviest lift was the mug of tea she provided. We continued to Bournemouth where, as I have written, we sought Greg's Halloween costume. It should cause a stir when we publish the photographs. It's pretty much the kind of thing Madonna might have worn if her on-stage moral decline had continued indefinitely.

Bournemouth in my life is more distant even than Bedford. My memories are hazy but not all happy. I studied there from 1974-77 and always returned with great enthusiasm but also lived some of my most difficult times. There were uneasy relationsships with my peers many of whom are now stable colleagues. In those days I was disliked for many reasons, perhaps for being both brash and aloof at different times. Those around me formed an opinion of my sexuality long before I did and, apparently, promulgated it quite widely. I had never felt the need to label myself in any particular way and my coming out late in 1977 and after my cadetship, marked only the beginning of any certainty about my identity. I was the original 21 year old virgin and I can't say it bothered me a lot. In retrospect it bothered me a lot more that everyone else had decided I was gay long before I had joined the debate. Whereas I lived in Bedford for six continuous years, I lived in Bournemouth for only three and periodically. My varying roles over the years which followed took me back there infrequently. Not being a very social animal (drinker) I never formed the emotional attachment which is evident in some of my younger colleagues today, at that level with the town.

Today, I saw its buses which are interesting but did not feel the enthusiasm to photograph them. Without enthusiasm, good photographs (of any subject) are not made. Bournemouth is not a town of stunning architecture but I enjoyed the library visually and the striking car park (Avenue Road) opposite; they made it into my photostream. The police were very active - perhaps they always are there -  and some vehicles seemed to be going round and round in circles. The bus activity, however, was even more intense with 'More's' frequent services in particular, heavily patronised.

We ate lunch at Pinocchio, Poole Hill http://www.pinocchiosbournemouth.co.uk/ . The food, whilst unexceptional, was of good quality and flavour and served swiftly and accurately. We ate outside where it was warm but the persistent gloom of the morning did not even start to shift until 1pm. The skies later could not be described as blue as the afternoon sun shone through a clinging high haze.

I saw two Mitsubishi L200s today. It is a car which has absolutely no reason to exist. There is no possible use for an L200 in the UK. It is offensive to the eye in every aspect of its style and every facet of its appearance says 'gross'. You expect every driver descending from its ludicrous cab to drip tattoos and possibly be carrying a baseball bat between gold-capped teeth. Some models bear the legend 'Animal', an apt description, I am sure, of both vehicle and driver. The latest model is called 'Barbarian' at which point my vitriol, however righteous, becomes almost superfluous. The swept flatbed cover which adorns some examples makes a nasty vehicle look even nastier and anyone who fits such an unnecessary accessory to an unnecessary vehicle should be removed to a place of safety.

Redundancy does not start or end with 4WD planet killers. As a parting shot I shall ask you to reflect on todays archery in Delhi which you might have seen. Those are not BOWS. Those are pieces of machinery whose use has nothing to do with the historical makers or users of the bow. They look ridiculous and their competitive use should be outside the mainstream perhaps every ten years in Antarctica.

Please view my photostream at www.flickr.com/photos/johnoram and check out my new if somewhat niche group on Facebook. Hasta luego!

Goodwood

My friend, colleague and furtive aesthete Mike Turner was the inspiration for today's visit to Goodwood. On a day (or at least half a day) of glorious weather sandwiched between what is more usual at this time of year and has, as I recall, been usual for much of this year to date. 'Make haste while the sun shines' may well be the correct version of something misheard hundreds of years ago in a more agrarian age to which my wanderings seemed to return me today. The whole Goodwood area is absolutely beautiful and all that I saw whether of this age or not, uplifted me although I was to be deflated later.

I went first to the aerodrome and received a warm welcome which facilitated photography. I was particularly interested to see the number of aircraft from the Manx registry there. With a Mum and a boyfriend waiting in the car I promised myself a more lingering visit in the future.

Our main objective was the Cass Sculpture Foundation http://www.sculpture.org.uk/ and I was excited before I even reached its gates. It has outlying displays at The Goodwood Hotel and one can hardly imagine a sculpture more exciting than Diane Maclean's 'Encampment' - especially in this morning's light.

The park setting of the Cass is stunning and, although lighting can appear difficult for some pieces, the sylvan setting serves to provide different lights at different times of the year and ignites more in the photographer than it defeats. Unfortunately the paths do not lend themselves to the pushing of a wheelchair and Mum was again in the car as my recovering Gregory joined me on a surprisingly physical culture trail. I became culturally and physically exhausted and we had covered only half of the park to which we must return in its next season. I can  not praise it enough and, as if there were not enough within its boundaries, the views across the Sussex countryside were wonderful. At the time of writing I have to complete my latest Flickr set 'Cass Sculpture Foundation' but it is already well worth a visit at www.flickr.com/photos/johnoram . I have produced a body of work worthy of that in the collection.

Sadly it was a bit downhill from there. Goodwood House, an edifice of great beauty, has limited opening times and today was not one. We had hoped to eat there but landed instead in a Chichester Harvester where the food was value for money but the prices were low. Our waitress was quite charming in a thronged restaurant but we all felt let down by the mass produced fare. It appeared to me that tomorrow's weather - certainly the cloud part of it - arrived prematurely and there was an early end to the sunshine. With Mum safely at home our last stop was at the site of Bus Rapid Transit - also extensively documented on my Flickr - but my latest photography was curtailed by rain. It was nearly curtailed rather more dramatically when I discoverd that wearing my hi-vi jacket did not stop me walking into a (rapidly) moving car.

As I was not actually run over I shall be at work on Saturday.