Great British Institutions

There has been much talk this week about Britishness, Chancellor of the Exchequer - and soon to be Prime Minister - Gordon Brown has been talking about the need to teach Britishness to potential new citizens of the UK. I thought I would take the opportunity to examine some of the things that the British do.

A slight increase in my mobility has meant the opportunity to get out, so out we went - shopping. So we'll start by examining one of the great bastions of the British way of life: Marks and Spencer. Because I do not have optimum shopping mobility I had the opportunity to dispassionately observe what makes Marks, as we fondly call it, so special (some may argue that the role of dispassionate observer is the default setting for a male shopper).

Our choice of Marks is a large out of town affair, on a large retail park accompanied by an Ikea, Toys 'R' Us and a B and Q. In addition to its other merits, the one level layout suits me at the moment. Our shopping strategy was well thought out; V. parked me on a thoughtfully placed chair by the door while she went on reconnaissance to identify potential purchase targets.

Sat in the poor-mobility seat it was easy to observe fellow customers and form some idea of what makes Marks. My crutch and Frankenstein's boot marked me out as an object worthy of sympathy, this delivered by way of indulgent smiles, nods and encouraging comments: "You won't be buying socks then".

That was the first thing that defined the Marks' experience: people are so nice - and that is the, very British, word that sums up the Marks and Spencer experience: nice; like a good cup of tea is nice, or a day out at the seaside is nice; understated, comfortable and pleasant, just nice.

But these nice people seemed quite narrowly defined. Their clothes may well have been the result of the last trip to Marks'. For men: shoes not trainers; trousers not jeans; shirts not tee-shirts. For women: smart trousers or skirts; if jeans are worn they are designer jeans (not Marks' jeans interestingly; though if men wore jeans I think they would be Marks'). The women have nice make-up and nicely cut hair - not obviously stylised, but nice. Both sexes wear good coats rather than waterproofs.

The whole experience of Marks and Spencer is pleasant, no music just the click and swish of coat hangers on rails; and muted conversations as people have relaxed discussions with good diction about possible purchases. There are accents but they are accents with rounded edges.

Yes, shopping at Marks and Spencer is a distinctly comfortable experience, there is non of the subliminal aggression you get in town centres, where groups of lurking youths bristle with latent menace making passing shoppers feel uneasy. Dissatisfaction with anything at Mark's is expressed with with a polite reprove or mild sarcasm. There is no pain in shopping at Marks - and here is perhaps one of the clues to its character - there is no apparent worry about spending, no anxious checking of price tags - shopping at ease for people at ease.

Wandering around the purchase targets V. had identified made my foot ache so, while V. tried on a couple of selections, I sat again. This time I perched on the edge of a display, it wasn't until I had been sat for a few seconds that I noticed the smiles and looks of fellow shoppers - I was sat beside three slender manikins wearing only lacy lingerie (size 10 - I checked). I must have made an amusing sight - an apparently benign middle aged man, obviously lame, sat beside these teasingly dressed dolls.

And perhaps that is the overriding feeling of the Marks and Spencer shopping experience, safe and benign: nothing bad can happen, women can be sexy but in settled relationships; men are not racy or dangerous, it's all so very nice.
I was left wondering though, whether this niceness doesn't extend into smugness; and I wondered too about what happens when people who are not 'Marks and Spencer' people wonder in with loud voiced mobile phone conversations and vulgar manners.

A British icon but, perhaps, not for everyone.

A lifetime's learning....in seconds!

Thanks to Urban Cowgirl for introducing me to Mr Picassohead. It takes seconds to create a masterpiece like today's featured picture - have a go and send it me as a link, I might even feature it on the blog.

My left foot: update

The plaster cast is off my foot and my peacock post was every bit as justified as I thought it might be. More of that shortly, but first a musing on my insistence on being right.

Getting around with the plaster cast on my foot was pretty impossible; the process of moving anywhere on one leg using crutches is surprisingly exhausting. When we arrived at hospital V. remembered that an x-ray was necessary before my appointment; she also remembered that we were told to go there first. I remembered differently and because I'm Right, insisted that we book in at Out Patients reception first. We walked the 100 metres along the corridor to Out Patients, passing X-Ray Reception on the way.

I explained to the Out Patient receptionist that I had to have an x-ray before my appointment. She did very well not to say "What are you doing here then?" but couldn't resist one of those sisterly looks with V. that said "Men!" as V. failed to resist the temptation to say "Told you". In total my insistence on being right added an additional 200 unnecessary metres to my walk - I felt every step.

I found the x-rays fascinating, you could clearly see the gap where my heel has been removed and reattached; reassuringly the gap is filling with new bone, though there is a way to go yet. Even more clearly you could see the 6 cm screw up the centre of my foot that is currently holding my heel in place - it looks like any old screw from the tin in my garage! But of course there are non in my tin made of titanium.

The plaster was cut from my foot using one of my favourite hospital tools: the oscillating saw. The blade looks nasty, but, rather than revolving, actually oscillates back and forth, thus it never cuts the flesh. The foot exposed beneath was not mine, but rather the foot of an alien: lizard-like, puffy and showering powdery skin scales. Despite my distaste at its appearance, my surgeon was pleased with it and announced that I could start putting some weight on it.

Having not stepped on my foot for eight weeks, and never having stood on it with the heel in the place it ought to be, I am finding myself reacquainted with an aspect of the surgical process that I had forgotten: pain.

I now have to wear an Aircast for four weeks whenever I am out of bed. This does the same job as a plaster cast but you can remove it; and importantly, you can take it off while submerging the limb in hot soapy water: bliss!

I've noticed on some of the better blogs that it's de rigeur to share favourite products, here are my new faves:





This is my brand new Aircast, the photograph doesn't really do it justice; it is huge: like Frankenstein's boot!








This is one of my crutches, still in use until I am more confident at walking with Frankenstein's boot; and walking with less of a wince.





Boots BPC Aqueous Cream: contains no natural ingredients, (unless you count water), no essential oils, no SPF thingies, no pro-retinol wrinkle removers: but it feels absolutely fabulous smoothed into the reddened scales of my foot; and it's really cheap - £2.25 for this huge tub.

My inner peacock

Peacocks are beautiful but haughty. St Epiphanius knew this when he told his peacock fable. His fables were published in 1588 in Antwerp by Christopher Plantin in the catchily titled Sancti Patris Nostri Epiphanii, Episcopi Constantiae Cypri, ad Physiologum. Eiusdem in die festo Palmarum sermo, or stories about St Epiphanius for short. The fable tells how the Peacock lets out a cry of horror when he catches sight of his appallingly ugly feet.

Tomorrow I go to hospital to have the plaster cast removed from my left leg. I have not seen my foot for six weeks, nor has it been washed, nor has the natural process of skin shedding and regeneration been allowed to take place. I have glanced with trepidation (and a torch) beneath the plaster on my foot - what I have seen is scaly, reptilian even.

I am not known for having a particular pride in my appearance but if, on Thursday, you are driving along Rochdale Rd, Oldham near to the hospital and hear a scream shortly after 14.15h do not be alarmed; it might just be me getting in touch with my inner peacock.

Sounds of Sunday

This post title sounds a bit like a Radio 2 Sunday evening show with Reverend Roger Royle: it's not. Yesterday I sat in the garden and, as an exercise, listed the sounds I could hear as a way of contemplating what the day consisted of. I've been thinking about soundscapes recently; thinking about the sounds that create the backdrop for our lives. Sound has always played a big part in my life, not least because music has always been important; but birdsong too is important; and I think I am more likely to be able to remember and describe the sound of something than its appearance . I'm struck by how many blogs are highly visual; in fact I doubt I'd do a post without a photograph to catch the eye. I guess that's the nature of our computers: the screen is a purely visual interface between us and cyberspace.

So, what did a Sunday in suburban Oldham sound like? Here are the sounds of Sunday:

• Birdsong- building up to the breeding season many birds are warming up their syrinxes to impress potential mates; particularly, there was a young Mistle Thrush who is learning the song of his species but hasn't got it quite right yet.
• Ice cream van with an electronic chime of Colonel Bogey that sounded like a bad mobile phone ring-tone
  
• The sound of gardening: this was a nice sound, a trowel crunching in earth as V. weeded out ornemental grass that has germinated inappropriately over the winter (this sound is accompanied by the lovely smell of freshly turned earth)
  
• Jet aircraft banking overhead on the incoming flight path to Manchester Airport
• Off-road motorcycles in the distance, over at the disused Springhead quarry I guess, better there than on the nearby bridal paths that they sometimes go on, annoying we dog walkers
• Pressure washer nearby - a neighbour washing his car; the washer is not the run of the mill DIY size washer but is a substantial professional affair; one that gives sufficient potency to the pressure lance to match the symbol of virility it is washing (even though the car is gleaming already)
• Lawn raking: the sound of a neighbour who, like me, is a little incredulous at having to start thinking about the lawn this early in the year
• The rustle of Eucalyptus leaves in the breeze - a neighbour's tree that I always wish was a native one

I found this process quite relaxing but was also surprised at how much it made me think about the distinction between noise and sound; I guess noise is simply unwelcome sound but it also defines a view of life too: I found the power washer intrusive, but perhaps my neighbour hates being woken early by birdsong.

What sounds define your life?

Ask me one on sport

I am the black sheep of our family. Born and bred in Manchester, a city divided into blue and red, by rights I should be a passionate football fan (that's soccer for US readers); my brother and father each have a season ticket to Oldham Athletic FC, our local team; I was brought up a Mancunian Blue and colleagues rave or spit bile (dependant on loyalty) about the fact that Manchester United's Old Trafford home ground dominates the view from our office.

But I don't like football.

Why does that confession make me feel like a man standing up to confess his addiction for the first time at an narcotics anonymous meeting? Why do I imagine I can hear a sharp intake of breath and the incredulous exclamation "You don't like football?" as people read this. The fact is that football-fan-failure is a social handicap; Monday mornings can be hell without a modicum of knowledge; the simple task of getting a hair cut is complicated by the lack of the common social denominator of team loyalty to kick off the blokey chat; and what if your boss is a keen fan? It just won't wash to answer the question: "See the game last night?" with the response: "No, I watched a documentary that highlighted the plight of Guatemalan basket weavers faced with a depletion of reed supplies due to a rise in world water table levels."

I have developed a survival strategy over the years that might help anyone struggling to deal with the social isolation caused by football failure. It is based on my experiences of preparing short briefing papers that condense facts about key issues into understandable chunks.

Firstly we football-failures need to get over our aversion to any newspaper page bearing a number higher than forty, to scan the back pages for key facts and figures. Key points should be noted for inclusion in future conversations; once in a conversation it is the work of a moment to steer the talk to safer waters. Take this example; the only live match on proper television (not cable or satellite) on Wednesday evening was Bolton vs Arsenal, so it's almost guaranteed to crop up in conversation:

Barber: See the match last night?
Me: (skilfully avoiding a lie) Good result for Arsenal
Barber: Yes, but Bolton gave them a run for their money didn't they
Me: They did but were outclassed in the end, Arsenal could have put two or three more away - fancy missing two penalties (note the key facts)
Barber: True enough...
Me: And Ben Haim getting himself sent off so late in the match was stupid. (another deft use of a match fact)
Barber: Yes, a silly foul that
Me: (skilfully steering the conversation) Don't you think it's that sort of cynical foul that's setting a bad example to young people?
Barber: Yes it's no wonder there's so much anti-social behaviour, take the kids near where I live...(and the conversation gently glides out into the safe open waters of social decline)

As you can see, the conversation was saved by the application of only a few key football facts. This time it was only a hair cut, but next time it might be a job interview; start compiling key sporting facts now.

Incidentally, we are not in a total sporting vacuum at chez Crofty. Along with millions of others on a Friday evening we watch the TV quiz A Question of Sport. We have, however, introduced a few custom rules to our viewing. In the picture round, where competitors are expected to identify well known sporting figures, we allow ourselves a point if we can identify the sport. Similarly in the video-clip round we allow ourselves points for any pertinent fact whatsoever, this might include pointing out an interesting looking person in the crowd or the fact that the referee has a scar on his knee; I'm sure you get the idea, great fun!

A right good send off

Crazy coffin maker Vic Fearn can build you a custom casket to reflect exactly what you want to say to the world as you take the journey from the mortal realm. He has made cars, guitars, skips and Egyptian themed burial boxes to ensure that the final send off is as spectacular or symbolic as one could wish.

Anita Roddick the founder of The Body Shop tells The Independent today that when her mum dies, she has asked to have her ashes rocketed into the stratosphere on a giant firework to the theme tune of The Godfather.

I'm a keen composter; it suits me to have a fully biodegradable coffin, so that my rotting remains can feed the roots of a yew tree that might grow for hundreds of years with a bit of me inside.

How would you like to go?

How to impress girls: A St Valentine's day special

I found this cracking example of what every modern love-lorn man is missing in his bid to impress girls: a ukulele. Enjoy watching my favourite Lancastrian icon schmooze a lady in this short clip.


Footnote: The following conversation took place between my son and I on his return from work yesterday:

Me: I've had a good day, your cool dad has been on YouTube finding cool videos
Son: Don't say cool dad, you're forty-four
Me: Sorry I'll try to be older
Son: What have you found?
Me: A coo...sorry, really good George Formby clip
Son: What? the guy with the grill is on YouTube, cool.

Ten Years Younger

I've been thinking about getting older; I mean as a subject, not a life choice. What is it that makes us older, what makes us look at someone in the street and think of them as an 'old man or woman'?.

On Thursday evenings we enjoy the Channel 4 programme Ten Years Younger. Nicky Hambleton-Jones takes some poor wrinkled wreck whom time has not treated kindly and, using a combination of expensive surgery, expensive dentistry, posh hair, costly cosmetics and cutting-edge clothes, transforms them into a much younger version of themselves.

We debate the serious issues raised by the programme and make pertinent observations like: 'I'll bet a night in bed will put a few of those years back on' and 'How many hours do you think it will take to get ready to go out now?" Actually, thinking about it, both of those pertinent comments are from me.

I'm generally of the opinion that ageing is not about appearance, but rather a diminution of our abilities and confidence in them, that does the deed. Let me use an example:

As you know I am still on crutches, unable to put any weight on my left leg. A week or so ago I watched a fabulous production of Swan Lake on television. I had forgotten why I love ballet: the incomparable combination of grace, strength and beauty. So enamoured of the whole thing was I, that I allowed my inner-idiot to have a moment's free reign.

Picture the scene: in the lounge I test my strength carrying out balletic moves, deftly balancing my weight between crutches, gently swinging between them in a graceful arc. All well and good. Then, in need of a refreshing cup of tea, I progress to the kitchen, still moving with the poise of Billy Elliot, overwhelmed by my dance muse, I repeat some of my better gymnastic moves in the open space of the kitchen. The floor is tiled, it was also slightly wet in places. Do I need to explain what happened next? My poise disappeared as I landed with a clatter of crutches. Fortunately I was alone (this is how you know I'm a man: the thing that mattered most at that moment was that nobody saw me make an arse of myself), I regained my crutches, my pride and my vertical position without fuss or pain.

Here is my point: each step I took after my fall from grace was hesitant and awkward; I didn't dare place a crutch more than a few inches ahead of me; and only when really sure, did I put my weight on it: I was walking like an old man.

We become old not when we start shaving our ears, plucking three inch hairs from our eyebrows or marvelling at hairy patches in new places (you don't do that?), but when life's knocks take their toll. My theory for being ten years younger is to be personally resilient in life: take the knocks and get over them. We don't need the fashion fascist Nicky Hambleton-Jones to go through our drawers with sneering forensic fastidiousness to look ten years younger.

Talking Heads

I've been enjoying Alan Bennett's book Untold Stories and, because I've gone all trendy and discovered YouTube, entered 'Alan Bennett' in the search field. I found this lovely Talking Head with Patricia Routledge, it's only about ten minutes long, so get a pot of tea and enjoy!

The Hedgehog

A recent building society advertisement, that stars a hedgehog, reminded me of a wildlife incident last year. First though, a confession.

Some years ago I was returning home from work in the early hours. Tired and impatient to get there, I turned into our street; a hedgehog was crossing the road ahead of me. He stopped, sniffing at something on the road; I waited; he waited; I waited again. Becoming impatient, I decided he wasn't going to move so drove on slowly, carefully positioning the car centrally above the hedgehog. He found the presence of a throbbing 2.2 litre, two-ton diesel estate car distracting; he moved. I didn't know he had moved until I looked back to ensure that he had completed a safe crossing behind me. It was dark and I had to look quite hard to see unpleasant evidence of my impatience on the road. I still feel the guilt.

Now cut to last summer, but first it's important that you know we live at the top of a very steep hill - remember that.

Imagine the scene: a warm summer evening, I reverse the car off our drive and set off to collect Tom from a brass band rehearsal. As I descend the steepest section of the road towards the junction below, a hedgehog crosses the road ahead of me. He stops; I wait; he waits; I wait again; but this time guilt prevents me from risking a repeat of the, too horrific, earlier incident.

I need a plan, but in the absence of any cunning one springing to mind, I alight to see whether I can offer some encouragement to the hedgehog. As I round the front of the car the hedgehog finds my presence distracting; in fact it frightens him; so he does what hedgehogs do. Some of you will, by now be way ahead of me: like my spiky friend who has a quick lesson in gravity.

The ball of spines rolls down the hill, with increasing velocity, towards the junction below. With cat-like reflexes I dart ahead, blocking its path with my instep in a true footballer's move (those who know me will be surprised to read). With the hedgehog saved I review my position; my car abandoned with the door open and the key in the ignition some twenty yards up the hill; me with an unmoving spiky ball resting in the V of both feet. What to do?

Access to the footpath below us is prevented by the high curb; after a tentative prod, I decide I cannot pick the creature up. The only route is back up the hill. By trial and error I find I cannot gently roll the spiky ball upwards - the prickles prevent an even roll; the only method of making progress is to give it a shove with my instep, catch up and repeat the process. I press on with enthusiasm; there is a need for rapid action before another car comes along or a neighbour peeks between the curtains to see me playing football with a small native wild mammal.

Using this method I successfully manoeuvre my prickly companion onto the footpath. The footpath is smooth: a perfect rolling surface. This again requires an athletic dart back down the hill to catch the spiny sphere before it rolls off the curb. We start again and eventually I direct the ball into the soft earth beneath a neighbour's hedge.

Returning to the car I sit watching anxiously for a moment - but success! After a few seconds the creature uncurls and makes its way off - though I'm sure its path meandered more than is usual for a hedgehog.

Whilst searching for a hedgehog picture for this post I came across the UK official website for children and road safety. Guess which cute creature they have chosen to pass on the road safety message? Not the best choice in my view.

A Treat

If you've seen the music section of my blog you'll know that John Martyn is one of my musical staples. Regular visitors will know that I have my left leg in plaster so I was gutted to learn that I was going to miss Martyn at the Lowry at Salford Quays; but look what I've found on YouTube:

My left foot on tour

When I wrote the post 'Saturday a game of two halves: second half' I hadn't downloaded the photograph. Here is my foot on tour:

Look what I found!

Do you remember the music from Trumpton? After a guitar practice I was browsing for a recording of it and look what I found, watch and enjoy:

Trumpton

Incidentally I have a celebrity moment to share. When we were kids the family went to watch an episode of the comedy series 'It Ain't Half Hot Mum' being filmed, I sat next to the Trumpton narrator, Brian Cant in the audience, good eh?

Saturday, a day of two halves: second half

Seeing how fed-up I was of being stuck inside V. staged a logistical coup - on top of all the other things she is doing in the house, because I can't do my share - she got me, the dog, and a folding stool ( with a green plastic seat) in the car and out into the beautiful afternoon.

A ten minute drive, north up the A62, left behind suburban Oldham for the Pennine countryside; the cultivated green meadows soon giving way to bracken-brown, and olive hues of moor grass and heather. We drove through the carved 'V' in the sandstone Standedge cutting, beneath which the engineering miracles of the rail tunnel and canal tunnel join Lancashire and Yorkshire. Constructed during the industrial revolution, the building of the canal tunnel brought V's ancestors across the Pennines from Hull; they arrived as labourers and after the tunnel was completed in 1811 settled in the Saddleworth area.

At Marsden we turned and climbed back over the Pennines to park up at the Castleshaw reservoir. I perched on a picnic bench with my leg on the stool while V. and Max walked down to the reservoir. The afternoon was crisp and crystal clear, both refreshing and relaxing. I was happy just to be out with my binoculars; not even the sound of off -road motorcycles from somewhere on the other side of the valley could spoil the moment. Simply by being still I was visited by a Robin, Wren and Dunnock who were completely oblivious to my presence. I reflected on a metaphor of the moment: that we see more if we take time to be still.

I was too far from the actual water to see many birds in detail, but made out a Coot, a Great Crested Grebe and Little Grebe together with a flock of mixed gulls.

Before the reservoir existed this site had it's place in history: the remains of a Roman fort still exist, it was an important staging post for Roman traders on route between York and Mancunia (Manchester). Although it was a beautiful afternoon I couldn't help thinking that it is a bleak and desolate place to live - especially if you have to wear a toga. There is a local story of a ghostly Roman centurion who still rides the area; looking down at one of the few houses in the valley, I wonder whether there are other hauntings, the date stone on the house marked 1713.

This morning on one of the other blogs I like, Urban Cowgirl, I read an account of a fabulous wilderness trip she took in New Zealand around the volcanic scenery that Howard Shaw used for Lord of the Rings. I don't think her stunning adventure could have made me any happier than my own Castleshaw expedition.

Take a look at the Urban Cowgirl site if you get chance, there are some fabulous photographs.

Saturday, a day of two halves: First half

I'm getting tired of being stuck inside: there are three more weeks before I have the plaster cast taken off my leg. Saturday morning was beautiful: cold, crisp and sunny. I sat with the patio doors open watching garden birds. The photograph - as if it's not obvious - is from summer.

I love being outside, especially in the countryside. I love wildlife, particularly birds, so - at the risk of being dramatic - am becoming a bit like a caged animal (told you it was dramatic!).

Already the change from winter (albeit it's not been much of one) to spring is taking place, many birds are pairing away from their winter flocks and appear very much as couples on our feeding stations. Blue Tits and Great Tits are investigating the nest box high in the crab apple tree and magpies are to be seen carrying long twigs - almost as long as themselves - these will form the foundations of their substantial nests.

Because the morning was cold, the small birds were particularly active on our seed feeders and fat balls - when it's cold like this, small birds have to eat almost their own body weight in food.

This morning I watched:

• Blue Tits (one pair)
• Great Tits (one pair)
• Greenfinches (flock of seven)
• Chaffinches (one pair)
• Blackbirds (three males having a territorial battle and one oblivious female feeding)
• Dunnocks (resident pair)
• Robin (singing from points on the boundaries of its territory)
• Wren
• Goldfinches (three)
• Redwing (landed at the top of one of two alder trees that are popular with the birds, came from the south - left towards the north, going home? Redwings (illustrated) are a winter visiting flock bird, this one may have been ill or injured and become separated from the flock as they started the return flight to Scandinavia)
• Magpies (one pair)
• Wood Pigeons (one pair Hoovering up seed from one of the bird tables)

I enjoyed the first half of my Saturday, but I'd rather have been out. More on the second half tomorrow.

Purple Pain, Purple Pain

It dawned on me today that, during all my talk of surgery, I hadn't mentioned pain. The explanation is that, boringly, pain wasn't much of an issue. That said, pain relief was quite interesting.

I've never really been in to drugs; as a teenager I was too scared to experiment - a justified stance as some of my more adventurous peers fell by the wayside with various chemical accidents - and I was quite happy to follow the Guinness route to enlightenment. Looking back, that failure to be adventurous perhaps explains my lack of imagination; I find it really difficult to imagine things in any detail. This is a typical conversation about the décor in our house:

"Can't you just imagine how cool the burnt aubergine is going to look on that wall?"

"Hmm, yes it'll look great (I hope)"

I've been in communication workshops where exercises have involved imagining things in myriad colours; while colleagues enthuse about their rainbow-worlds, all I can manage is an insipid watercolour version.

Now safely in middle age, I was quite looking forward to some controlled, legitimate use of opiates in hospital. My nurse training taught me that analgesia doesn't really make you high if you are in pain. Sure enough my pain was marvellously well controlled by the morphine syringe-driver ; the only other effect seemed to be drowsiness - until the night time.

I found myself in a cinema - at least that was what it appeared to be - the corridor leading from a cinema foyer down to the screens, with wall to ceiling carpet giving the place that muffled feeling, where anything you say seems to be swallowed up six inches from your mouth - a bit like sound-proofed audiology rooms. I could see a number of doors leading, presumably, to the screens, I could smell a fusty carpet smell, I could feel the plush carpet beneath my feet, hear the lack of echo and everything was vividly coloured purple and green.

At some level of consciousness I understood the significance of my dreaming in colour and decided that if the corridor was so vivid the actual screens must, surely, have even better experiences waiting for me. I tried desperately to get through the doors; but each time I reached for the door handle I woke up; having woken I found I could slip back into this corridor-dream at will, but with the same disappointing failure to progress each time.

Perhaps, at heart, I'm that same reluctant teenager; and my subconscious just won't let me take that extra experiential step through the cinema doors.
Feel free to leave comments with amateur dream interpretation theories.

Vegetarians and lovers of cute animals: don't read this

I knew I was on to something with the Great Quorn Scandal. Yesterday the BBC featured the story of German rabbit breeder Karl Szmolinsky. He breeds giant rabbits. The Korean government is going to buy, breed and feed them to the people, thus bringing an end to the North Korean food crisis.

Click here to view the video story; outraged veggies will be shouting "How could they" at their computer screens!

Now how far fetched do my Quorn theories seem?